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It was raining in Liverpool. Just rain. Not a storm, with water banging on the windows and wind, swiping raindrops in a whirlwind. No fog, thunders or lightning, to make you feel like in a horror movie. Just heavy, persistent, soaking rain.
Stevie got in his car and drove down to the docks. He didn’t know what’s gotten into him, but there was uneasy, unsettling feeling in his gut. Maybe it was the retirement – first time in so, so long, that he didn’t know what to do with himself. He didn’t have to do anything or be anywhere, and that was confusing him slightly. Or, he still couldn’t shake LA off his mind and the English rain was throwing him off.
He parked his car, pulled up the hood of his jacket and headed to the railing by the river. There were no tourists in sight and the people around were mostly hurrying to get somewhere warm and dry. He felt his jeans soaking, when he leaned against the metal and took in the view.
Albert Docks on the River of Mersey. He’s been here so many times. On sunny days, when the water was calm, reflecting the light, and everything was bright and happy. The storages were standing proud in the sun rays, a reminder of times when the city’s been a trading and cultural center. Weather, perfect for a walk with a loved one, quality family time or simply sitting on a bench, daydreaming. By sunset the sky would change, from clear and blue, to red, orange and even crimson. The river would stop being calm and inviting, and would turn in to a mysterious, darker scene, out of a macabre legend. On the background of the brick buildings, the sky would fill with fire and passion. The kind of view that inspired the musicians to write battle songs and poets – for epic battles. It was truly a remarkable place.
But it was raining now. So the sky, the river, even the buildings, were grey (“The color the skies and sea are supposed to be!” was a running joke amongst the people from Northern Britain). It wasn’t dull or ugly, just suppressed and subtle. It wouldn’t inspire for much. Not many people, anyway. Maybe only the true Liverpudlians – like him, his three girls and his wife – scouse to the marrow of her bone.
Stevie smiled and lifted his face to the raindrops. He was still too used to the Californian sun – scorching hot and blinding, adding few more wrinkles around his eyes, since he always had to keep them half-closed. But he felt the familiar air around him, different from anywhere else in the world. In wasn’t raining that often in England, not as much as the foreigners were saying, but Stevie had grown up here. He knew that rain.
Slowly, his heart settled. He finally acknowledged he had nothing to fear and he should, by no means, feel lost. He was home. There was a new chapter of his family’s life ahead, and this child will grow up on the same streets his sisters did; it was going to have the same thick accent as his parents; and, probably, the same typical English paleness, instead of Hollywood tan. He laughed, because his skin was still bronzer, than he was used to. And his career… Not being a football player anymore, didn’t mean giving up football in general. Carra had re-qualified fast and was doing quite well. And he could always go back to the club, he was Steven Gerrard, after all. He could be ambassador and travel the world with Garcia, or go to the Academy to train the kids… Possibilities were endless and whatever he chose, he was sure it will be OK.
He was home. In his Liverpool.