This Place Is Called Anfield

April 13, 6:00 p.m., Liverpool local time.

The sun slowly sank between the low buildings on the far bank of the Mersey River, its orange-red glow spilling across Liverpool's old city.

The evening breeze off the Mersey carried its distinctive salty dampness, traveling east from Albert Dock through red-brick warehouses and Georgian terraces before finally blending into the crowds on the streets.

The streets had long since filled with a tide of fans.

Striking flashes of red surged and mingled, while chants rolled through the streets and alleys toward Anfield.

From above, the city's northeastern corner looked as though it had been set ablaze.

A red current flowed along every street and every alley, converging in the same direction.

Scott Road stretched north from the city center. At this moment, it was no longer a street, but a red river.

Some came from Walton Breck Road, some from West Derby Road, and others slipped out through narrow alleys from the residential areas near Everton Park.

Men, women, children, and the elderly, Liver birds printed on their chests, red-and-white scarves around their necks, beer cups or paper bags of hot dogs clutched in their hands.

Their footsteps blended together like war drums beating across the entire city.

A gray-haired old man sat on the steps outside his home, a fat ginger cat lying at his feet.

Holding a cup of tea, he watched the crowd pass before him, occasionally nodding at a familiar neighbor.

A hand-painted wooden sign hung from his porch, with a crooked line of writing on it:

"Anfield parking, Liverpool fans only."

There was even an arrow drawn beside it.

The old man took a sip of tea and looked down at the cat by his feet.

"With all this fuss, don't lose tonight," he said to the