My Liverpool Home (25 page)

‘If Kenny does go to the World Cup, what will you do this summer?’ Stuart asked.

‘Easy,’ replied Marina. ‘I’ll be looking for a toy-boy.’

Having shared a plane with Everton, we then shared a tour of the city. Liverpool couldn’t really enjoy that because of our respect for the Everton boys, but I guess it was only fitting Everton did the bus ride. It gave the punters an opportunity to show their appreciation for the colossal effort put in by Howard’s players. Hundreds of thousands lined the streets, filled with pride that the city had the two strongest sides in England. When the Liverpool bus finally came to a halt, I said to Marina, ‘What do we do now?’

‘Let’s go home,’ she said. On the way, we stopped at the chippie. Gary Lineker was outside in the car, waiting for Paul Bracewell.

‘You’re the last person I want to see,’ said Brace.

‘Everybody’s got to eat, Brace.’ The thought of ordering double chips briefly crossed my mind before restraint prevailed.

The next morning, when my head had cleared, I went in to Anfield to see the chairman and PBR. I don’t have a cocky bone in my body but there was a definite spring in my step. A Double was not bad for starters. I was in for a shock. John Smith was in no mood for niceties. After gesturing for me to take a seat, the chairman barked, ‘Why was Bruce Grobbelaar wearing that sweat-band around his neck after the game?’

‘What?’

‘We’re adidas and he was wearing Umbro.’

‘I never even noticed.’

‘He shouldn’t have done it.’ The chairman then shook my hand and said, ‘Oh and by the way, Kenny, well done.’

‘No problem. I don’t think it went too badly, so I’ll carry on.’ That was it. That was the Liverpool way. No basking in the glory, just a brief celebration, quick congratulation and move on.

Injuries prevented me from joining Scotland at the World Cup and Al was also omitted from the squad so we decided to treat ourselves to a break in Puerto Banus with Janet and Marina. The night before we left, captain, manager and wives went for dinner at a Chinese restaurant, which proved a surreal start. The owner had a bottle of ‘1986 FA Cup final Liverpool v Everton’ Champagne behind the counter.

‘Please take it,’ said the owner. ‘And well done.’ As we headed off into the night, Al and I admired the bottle but drank its contents.

‘Let’s have a challenge. The couple who get the most free drinks on holiday wins a bottle of champagne.’

‘You’re on,’ said Al. Janet and Marina were definitely up for the challenge. Heading down to the port, we went into Silks, a restaurant where many an hour can be agreeably passed. We paid for our first drinks then settled back, waiting for the great Dalglish–Hansen challenge to commence. Within 20 minutes, somebody sent over a bottle of Champagne, accompanied by a shout of ‘Congratulations’. The Dalglishs and Hansens began fighting over the bottle.

‘It’s ours,’ insisted Marina. ‘We’re claiming it. We smiled at them first.’

‘No way,’ countered Janet. This happened twice so the score was Dalglishs 1 Hansens 1. As we sat chatting, Marina noticed Freddie Starr entering the restaurant.

‘Go and talk to him, Kenny,’ said Marina, challenging me. She knew how shy I was. On this occasion, my reticence was obliterated by the alcohol, so I stumbled across.

‘Hi Freddie, how are you?’ He looked at me and smiled, shook my hand. I didn’t know what else to say.

‘See you Freddie,’ I muttered eventually, returning to our table.

There’s still an argument to this day as to who won.

At least the bill didn’t leave me speechless, unlike Al the next evening. We were in a pizzeria and it was Al’s turn to pay.

‘Jesus Christ!’ said Al on examining the bill.

‘Alan, what is it?’ asked Janet.

‘It’s bloody expensive.’

‘Alan, don’t make a show, just pay it,’ said Janet. ‘PAY IT.’ Hearing the raised voices at our table, the owner came over, a man we knew well.

‘Kenny, what’s the problem?’

‘I don’t have a problem! Big Al does!’ Al handed the bill over for the owner to scrutinise.

‘That can’t be right,’ he said. ‘They’ve put you down for twenty soups instead of two!’

‘That’s you out of jail, Al!’

The break was good, allowing me to re-wind and reflect on the season. Some critics dismissed my influence, claiming it was Joe’s team, which was utter garbage. We’d changed the captain and the two full-backs, brought Macca in, and used Walshy, Jan and Craig more. We’d worked hard during the year, viewing endless videos, and made tactical variations at certain points, going to three at the back against more physical, aerial sides, such as Millwall and Wimbledon. At times, we played with Jan as a sweeper. The
Echo
lauded us as the ‘Crown Kings of Soccer’ but some columnists continued to criticise, and still do when judging my time as Liverpool manager. Just because we’d won the Double didn’t end the argument in some people’s minds. What mattered to me, though, was that Liverpool continued to employ me as manager. John Smith, PBR and the board made a very brave decision and winning the Double hadn’t vindicated that. I hadn’t earned my spurs, yet – far from it. The Double just whetted my appetite for more trophies.

13

CULTURE CLUB

A
T THE
start of each season, Ronnie Moran gathered the players at Melwood for a ritual announcement. ‘Our ambition this year is to get into the Charity Shield,’ said Bugsy. Achieving that aim meant we’d won either the League Championship or the FA Cup. Sadly, the warm glow of the Double didn’t last for long and there can be no glossing over the painful truth that Liverpool’s 1986–87 season was abject. The year was simply a succession of setbacks as we failed to meet Ronnie’s minimum demand, although steps were slowly taken towards a brighter future.

After the 1986 FA Cup final, I went in to see PBR.

‘Peter, I want to bring in Phil Thompson to run the reserves.’ My reasoning was that Tommo would be more assertive than Chris Lawler, who was reserve-team coach. During a career as one of Liverpool’s finest full-backs, Chris was nicknamed ‘the Silent Knight’ by Shanks. I felt Chris’s personality was part of the problem – a nice guy, he was too quiet. Chris won the Central League twice in three years, but so Liverpool should be in contention. Roy Evans won it 11 years in a row. A change of voice might be helpful, I thought, a change of style. Tommo was louder than Chris, more vociferous. Shortly after I’d mentioned my plans to PBR, Chris went up to ask Peter about his annual bonus – bonuses were awarded at the board’s discretion – and to discuss plans for the following season. Before Chris could sit down, Peter said, ‘Chris, haven’t you spoken to Kenny?’ Looking puzzled, Chris immediately came down to my office.

‘I’ve just been to see PBR and he said I had to speak to you.’ Chris must have known something was up.

‘Chris, the first thing I need to do is apologise. I never knew you were going upstairs. I should have been the one to tell you. I’m bringing Tommo in.’ Lawler looked bemused, and argued his corner, but my mind was made up. ‘Look, Chris, why don’t you stay for three months. You’ve got a better chance of getting employment if you’re in employment. It’s much easier for us to give you a glowing reference.’

‘I don’t know, Kenny.’

‘Tommo’s coming in. Think about the offer of staying three months.’ Lawler came in the next day.

‘No, Kenny, I want to go.’

‘Well, OK. You need to go and see PBR. Get your finances sorted out.’ Afterwards, I heard Lawler wanted to punch me, a reaction I understood. He was angry, but if I’d never made that decision, I’d have punched myself.

The disappointments began against Luton Town in the third round of the FA Cup with a 0–0 draw at Kenilworth Road. For a start, Luton refused to admit away fans, so the atmosphere was slanted unfairly in their favour. Luton’s installation of an artificial surface further enhanced their advantage. For daring to suggest ‘the pitch should be ripped up’, as I did in the Press, I was widely castigated as arrogant. A joke did the rounds, mocking my concerns. Question: ‘What’s the difference between Kenny Dalglish and a jumbo jet?’ Answer: ‘A jumbo jet stops whining over Luton.’ Very funny. Anyone with a footballing bone in his body knew that Kenilworth Road’s pitch was a disgrace. If some of Luton’s old players now find their mobility restricted by damaged joints, I’m saddened but not surprised, because artificial pitches took a painful toll. The main problem with Kenilworth Road was the poor base, a contrast to the marvellous fourth-generation pitches nowadays. Laid on concrete, Luton’s carpet lacked shock-absorbing qualities, so the impact of landing reverberated up the legs, battering the joints along the way. Ray Harford, Luton’s assistant manager at the time, with whom I became closely acquainted during my time at Blackburn, confided that when he stood and watched training at Kenilworth Road, his back locked.

We just hoped that when we got Luton back to the green, green grass of Anfield, we’d teach them the error of their artificial ways but, and I still struggle to believe this now, they didn’t turn up. Snow had fallen, and the journey north on the M1 was expected to be difficult, so Luton chartered two planes. Friends in the air business informed me that Luton booked two flight slots but never made them. Privately, I was told one of the Luton players hated flying, so they missed their slots and missed the game. On hearing that Luton would not be fulfilling the fixture, my first reaction was stunned shock. Some poor Luton fans had made it up by road. My second response was anger. How dare they? The third feeling was that Luton must be kicked out of the FA Cup. Sadly for all of us who wanted fair play in football, the FA bottled it. Luton’s chairman, David Evans, was quite a powerful figure within football, as well as being close to Margaret Thatcher. When I learned that Luton had been reprieved by the FA, I felt that what should have been a straightforward football situation had acquired a political dimension. I still don’t know why the FA didn’t want to bring Evans to task.

At least Luton’s absenteeism provided me with an opportunity for a wind-up. One of the players on the fringe of the Liverpool squad was a tall Scottish striker, Alan Irvine, a good guy who’d been on the bench at Kenilworth Road. We were in the Holiday Inn, and Alan didn’t know the game had been called off. He came down in his suit and got on the bus not noticing the rest of the boys were in tracksuits.

‘He thinks the game’s on,’ Hansen said.

‘Let’s have a wee bit of fun here,’ I said and shouted down the bus for Alan Irvine to come up for a word. ‘Look, we’ve got a problem,’ I told Alan. ‘We’ve got some injuries. How would you feel about playing centre-back?’

‘I don’t know about that.’

‘Look, Alan. It’s just like playing up front but you do the opposite.’

‘I’m not sure, Gaffer.’

‘Would you be more comfortable in midfield?’

‘OK.’

‘Just don’t tell anybody you’re playing,’ I said. Alan was chuffed. He’d never started a game for Liverpool and he began preparing himself mentally. In the meantime Alan Hansen had told everyone about the wind-up. At Anfield we went as normal into the dressing room. The players sat down waiting for me to announce the team and have a chat about the game, but as Alan had no tickets I told them to go and sort their tickets out, leaving Alan alone. Alan was wandering around the dressing room in his collar and tie, waiting for them to come back.

‘Game’s off, Alan,’ I finally said.

‘I know,’ he said.

Eventually, Luton made it north. I couldn’t believe it when sod’s law prevailed and another stalemate ensued, requiring another replay. Liverpool managed to make it south on schedule, but Luton had decent players, such as Brian Stein, Mick Harford and Mike Newell, and, unfortunately, we lost 3–0.

During that three-match exercise in exasperation, Liverpool endured another grievous blow with the loss of Jim Beglin at Goodison Park on 21 January. The challenge that broke Jim’s leg came from Everton’s right-back, Gary Stevens, and I felt it was a hard one. Only one person knew whether it was an accident and that was Stevens. Jim’s injury was so horrific I almost retched when I saw the mangled state of his leg. Jim never played for Liverpool again. He somehow managed a few games for Leeds United but really that was him over and done. That really saddened me because Jim was a very good player for Liverpool as well as an incredibly popular, gentle guy. Football’s capacity for cruelty never ceased to disturb me.

A fortnight later, Liverpool was at Southampton, chasing a first-leg advantage in the semi-finals of the Littlewoods Cup, as the League Cup was now known. The 0–0 draw was notable for some disgraceful behaviour by Kevin Bond, and the intemperate reaction of his father, John. When Kevin spat at Walshy, our striker responded with a right hook and was promptly sent off.

Talking to the Press, I commented, ‘I don’t condone what Paul did but I can understand it. If somebody spits at you, it’s hard not to retaliate.’ Having referred to me as ‘the moaningest Minnie I have ever known,’ John Bond reacted by informing the papers that ‘if Dalglish brought his kids up as well as I brought my kids up, he would be a happy man’. Well brought up? What was John Bond on about? His son showered a fellow professional in phlegm. Verbal abuse was one thing but spitting was a worse crime and the photographic evidence was graphic. With Walshy suspended, I took particular pleasure in scoring at Anfield as Liverpool reached Wembley.

We needed to beat Arsenal to prevent the season from being totally humiliating. Bad form dogged us in the League and Wembley offered our only salvation. When Rushie turned in Macca’s pass midway through the first half, Liverpool’s passionate support must have expected more incoming silverware. For seven years, Liverpool had never lost a game in which Rushie scored, so we seemed to be sitting pretty. Unbelievably, Charlie Nicholas rearranged the record book and the scoreline, although the identity of Liverpool’s nemesis came as no particularly great surprise to me, since I’d observed his qualities on international trips. Charlie was arguably the most naturally talented footballer ever to emerge from Scotland. Jimmy Johnstone was a magical winger but moving past his prime when joining Sheffield United aged 31. Charlie looked the real deal, young enough at 21 to blossom further. In 1983, having learned of Arsenal’s interest in the Celtic youngster, Graeme Souness and I sat either side of Charlie on a Scotland flight.