But my son is. I recorded this poem in his bedroom. It seemed fitting.
My son's 15 now. He goes to football matches with his friends. If we'd each been born 27 years earlier, maybe he'd have gone to Hillsborough. Maybe he'd have died there. Maybe they'd have lied about him, and I'd have spent 27 years, with 96 other families, trying to get them to admit the truth.