BY DAVID CAMPBELL

I hail from Western Pennsylvania, that fertile crescent of gridiron greatness known to Wikipedia as the Cradle of Quarterbacks. Johnny Unitas, Joe Montana, Dan Marino, Joe Namath—the list runs to three dozen and more. There are probably more professional American football players from those few counties than from anywhere else on earth.

I grew up in the era of the Pittsburgh Steelers dynasty of the seventies, when Coach Chuck Noll, Quarterback Terry Bradshaw, Franco Harris, and the Steel Curtain Defence led by Mean Joe Greene ruled the roost. They were the American equivalent of Liverpool FC during those same decades—the Liverpool of Shankly and Paisley, of Keegan and Dalglish, Rush and Souness.

Now here is the surprising thing: for all my travels throughout England, my love for Premier League football was discovered not in a Liverpool pub or a London stadium, but in a sports bar in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. There, a faithful congregation of Liverpool supporters gathered to cheer their team at unholy hours, watching matches beamed across the Atlantic. The brethren took me in and patiently explained the intricacies of the game: the positions and responsibilities of the goalkeeper, the defence, the midfield, and the attack (and yes, a striker and a forward can be the same thing, but do not assume they always are). They taught me it is called a pitch, not a field; a match, not a game; a kit, not a uniform. They reviewed the laws of the game and the endless complexity of tactics—a lifetime’s study, I am discovering. I am amazed by the athleticism of Salah, Haaland, Son, and a host of others.

Instead of twenty-five minutes of actual play spread across three hours, punctuated by choreographed celebrations and extended commercial breaks, I now watch ninety minutes of continuous action, with time added on for stoppages. I was hooked from the first match. I have not watched an American football game since.

Most matches are broadcast in the States the following day, so I make a point of avoiding all scores until I have seen them. Then, when my team wins (less often these days), I get to ring my English friend—who follows Manchester United, poor soul—and gloat terribly.

But my love for football extends beyond the Premier League. I was in Berlin for the 2014 World Cup when Germany beat Brazil 7-1, watching on televisions set up outside every restaurant and bar in the city. Strangers embraced in the streets. I shall never forget it.

I cheered when the Lionesses won the 2022 UEFA Women’s Euro, celebrating enthusiastically as they received their medals and danced behind the commentator’s desk. And in 2025, I celebrated again with Sarina Wiegman’s side, singing along from my American living room.

I follow Liverpool religiously now. I wear my red and black with pride. And I know every word of “You’ll Never Walk Alone”—every single one, from “When you walk through a storm” to “walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart.”

Some things translate perfectly well without any adaptation at all.

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David Campbell is an American who spends a lot of time in Littlehampton, West Sussex.