My Liverpool Home (9 page)

He loved the banter. Terry was self-confident, knowing how much he contributed to Liverpool, and those who considered Terry thick were pretty daft themselves. Whatever Bob said, Terry absorbed. One of the favourite stories to be recounted in the dressing room, about Terry Mac’s famous ability to follow Bob’s advice, centred around an incident 10 minutes into the 1977 FA Cup replay against Everton at Maine Road.

‘Their keeper comes off his line,’ Bob said. He was right. David Lawson, who was not to last much longer at Everton, tended to stray a bit. Sure enough, Terry Mac feinted to shoot but checked, exposing Lawson, and confidently chipped him. Terry scored because he’d listened to Bob. In the dressing room, Terry was loved as a great character.

‘I drink at Headquarters,’ he told me the first time we met, as if I knew where Headquarters was. Along with Anfield, Terry’s life revolved around Headquarters, more formally known as the Quarry Green Social Club, a working men’s institution in Kirkby.

‘Very exclusive,’ Terry insisted. ‘We’re going racing. You can’t come. Single boys only.’

Terry’s goal against Benfica helped usher Liverpool into a semi-final with Borussia Moenchengladbach, whom the boys had beaten in the 1977 final. At the Rheinstadion on 29 March, Liverpool were caught out by a blast from Rainer Bonhof and I felt the England lads should really have seen it coming. A month earlier in Munich, the West German international lashed one past Clem. God, he could hit the ball hard. Bonhof just connected and it stayed hit, the ball lifting and lifting like a rocket, flying up over the top of Clem’s shoulder. Poor Clem had no chance and would have risked losing a limb if he’d managed to intercept it. Clem’s blamelessness didn’t stop the lads winding him up at Melwood. Whenever anyone lined up a free-kick or long-ranger at Clem, we all screamed: ‘BONHOF!’ Clem had the good grace to laugh.

We all had the last laugh over Borussia, who were, apparently, ‘petrified’ of Anfield, according to their defender Berti Vogts. If some of Berti’s team-mates were scared at the thought of stepping out in front of the Kop, Borussia also ran into the intimidating Souness, making his first European start and bossing midfield. This unbeatable blend of steel, silk and self-belief arrived just after we’d lost 4–2 to Chelsea in the FA Cup in early January. Bob saw we needed stiffening in midfield and had been given a timely reminder of Souness’s qualities the week before. Playing for Middlesbrough, Graeme kicked me in the arm, and I felt relieved because that was one of his lower tackles. Bob acted decisively, spending £325,000 to bring Souey to Liverpool. It was a match made in heaven, and the rest, as they say in the movies, is history. Liverpool’s pass-and-move style suited Souey, whose touch and toughness fitted us perfectly. Souey was the sort of all-round, all-terrain midfielder that every manager coveted.

Graeme Souness was the most fearless footballer I’ve ever known, a talent I respected from the day I met him as a 15-year-old training at Celtic before he joined Spurs and then Boro. He exuded too arrogant an air for some tastes but never among his team-mates, and particularly never with me, his Liverpool and Scotland room-mate. Souey was fantastic company. If you wanted a satisfaction-guaranteed top night out, the man I christened ‘Champagne Charlie’ wouldn’t disappoint. For one of my birthdays, Charlie gave me a caricature – a picture of me holding a big glass of Champagne, which was tongue in cheek. Much was made of Graeme’s lifestyle but it never impinged on his football. He was a single boy, out enjoying himself, and there was no problem. Charlie prepared himself brilliantly. He trained hard and, at the right time, partied hard. Anyway, Charlie’s often misunderstood. He’s funny and intelligent, right up there as the dream dinner guest, and I’m not surprised to find him such a sought-after television pundit. Graeme doesn’t just fire from the hip, he’s constructive in his comments. Most of the time.

Like Charlie, Ray Kennedy could also pick out my runs. Ray arrived at Anfield in 1974 as a striker, having scored a bundle of goals up front for Arsenal. When Shanks stepped down shortly after that, Old Bob had different ideas, switching Ray to midfield. Since Ray had played in attack, he tended to look forward instantly, so this was heaven for a striker, knowing that if you moved, Ray would find you. Ray also sneaked in and scored a lot of goals himself, including the first in the 3–0 Anfield win over Borussia in 1978 that swept us into the final. The thought of it brought me back to the Sopwell House Hotel, the quiet and classy establishment where we had set up camp.

Glancing across at Stevie Heighway, I was reminded of the quality in Liverpool’s team. Stevie was educated, a graduate with a BSc, but that never bothered me. For me, the only numbers that mattered were 1–11. On the pitch, everyone was equal. The journey each individual made to reach Liverpool’s dressing room was of no interest to me. Stevie was there on merit and as committed to the cause as anyone. Wherever Shanks and then Bob asked him to play, Stevie slotted in willingly. Left wing was his natural habitat but Stevie posed an equal threat through the middle. He was a good crosser of the ball, although I could hardly be called upon as a reliable witness, since heading was never a forte of mine. Stevie was ideal for the big guys because he could race past right-backs and whip in crosses. Even on major occasions like this, when he was starting on the bench, nothing troubled the implacable Heighway. If Bob felt he should be a sub, he accepted it for the good of Liverpool Football Club.

Informing the players of the line-up, Bob named David Fairclough at No. 9. Known in the dressing room as ‘Whip’ because of his shooting action, David scored some vital goals for Liverpool. He was primarily known to punters as ‘Super Sub’ for his uncanny ability to rise from the bench and rescue situations, such as against St Etienne the year before. For all its heroic attributes, the ‘Super Sub’ label is one I’m sure David would have preferred to relinquish. Frustratingly for him, and Liverpool, Whip’s desire to start games was too often tempered by injury. Just as he got a good run, he would turn lame, so others started up front, and when Whip returned from injury, he had to bide his time in the dug-out. For Liverpool, having a sub who could run on, pick up the threads of the match plot immediately and make an impact was a fantastic asset, but I felt Whip should have had more starts. If he was considered good enough to start a European Cup final, he clearly had qualities.

‘I can’t wait to get on the bus,’ I remarked to Stevie, and when we finally did, I was stunned by the number of Liverpool fans heading towards Wembley. Our ticket allocation was supposedly only 20,000, but Liverpool fans always get tickets, always want to be there to show their support. Liverpool supporters needed no road map to find the way to Anfield South. Shanks and then Old Bob gave them plenty of experience in making the journey. Liverpool fans knew all the short-cuts and all the pubs, because Wembley was a second home. I watched them laughing and joking, standing on the pavements, enjoying a pint before striding up to the Twin Towers. I saw them clutching their banners and waving their scarves. I heard them chanting ‘Liverpool’, their voices revealing complete faith in our mission against Bruges.

‘It’d be horrible to lose,’ I said to Stevie, who threw me a look of mild surprise. Clearly, the thought never crossed his mind. That was the Liverpool way, confident but not complacent. Inside the dressing room at Wembley, many emotions were present but I could see they were all positive ones – hunger, belief and impatience for the first whistle. Fear was nowhere to be found. All of the Liverpool players assembling in the tunnel, ready to walk up that incline and out into the noise and lights, trusted each other. Looking up and down the line, seeing Clem, Nealy, Tommo, Big Al, Ray, Emlyn, Jimmy, Whip, Terry Mac and Charlie, I knew we had a chance against Bruges.

The Belgian champions were surprise European Cup finalists, having beaten Juventus in the semis, probably surprising themselves. I was aware that victory came at a cost, suspension and injury depriving Bruges of the creative services of their better players, individuals such as Paul Courant and Raoul Lambert, and their ambition also seemed to be badly missing at Wembley. Bruges were very cautious, I guess understandably, because when they came out and saw Liverpool red everywhere in the 92,000 crowd, it must have felt like an away game. It was certainly never a classic game. Bruges rarely troubled Tommo and Al, who was playing because Smithy had unfortunately incapacitated himself attempting some DIY – a hammer fell on to his foot.

Liverpool kept looking for a way past Birger Jensen, Bruges’ keeper, who did well. Watching Jensen closely, searching for a weakness, I noted he went down early in one-on-one situations. When Terry Mac went through on goal, I clocked Jensen committing himself early and I knew what I had to do. Twenty minutes into the second half, the ball was bouncing around next to the Bruges box. I hooked it over my head but it was cleared to Graeme. The Belgian defence froze, not knowing whether to push out or re-form the barricades. As Bruges pondered their options, Graeme worked the ball through to me. Jensen rushed out, trying to force me to shoot early but I held my nerve for a split-second, waiting until he committed himself before dinking the ball over him. The goal was hailed later as a triumph of instinct but it was all planned. I’d done my homework on Jensen. My thirtieth goal of the season was the most special, worthy of a major celebration, so I took off towards the fans, leaping the hoardings, a smile filling my face. This was why I’d moved from Glasgow. Surely the Celtic fans could understand it now.

Bruges stirred after that and Tommo cleared one off the line, which was as important as me scoring, but that was the limit of the Belgians’ ambition. At the final whistle, Bruges were very magnanimous in defeat. Their left-winger, Jan Sorensen, came round every player, shaking hands and congratulating us. We discovered later that Sorensen was a Liverpool fan, so the day wasn’t a complete disaster for the Dane.

That night, I was introduced to one of Liverpool’s great traditions – partying with the trophy.

‘Make sure you’re on the train in the morning,’ said Bob. ‘Eleven o’clock from Euston.’

We’d moved from Sopwell into town, setting up base-camp at the Holiday Inn at Swiss Cottage, where the wives were. By the time the players arrived, the bar was heaving with Liverpool supporters, and it was a minor miracle supplies of alcohol had not already run dry. A raging thirst was upon us and we soon caught up. From Champagne and white wine, I went through the card, and the cellar, that night. The barman, an honorary Scouser for the evening (and early morning), did not hold back in his largesse with measures. At one point, Al fancied a Canadian Club. Returning from the bar 20 minutes later, clutching his drink, Al looked slightly confused.

‘I asked for a Canadian Club,’ he said. ‘They gave me a whole bottle.’

‘That’s to save you a few journeys,’ I laughed.

Marina and I finally turned in around four in the morning, leaving Charlie to it. Marina was up at nine, nipping downstairs for the papers while I ordered breakfast from room service. When she returned, she looked stunned.

‘I’ve just seen Graeme,’ Marina said, almost disbelievingly.

‘Where?’

‘Heading back from breakfast.’

‘No chance.’

‘He was there, Kenny, I’m telling you. Graeme was up for his breakfast.’

Moments later there was a loud bang at the door. When Marina opened it, Charlie fell into the room. Smashed. Charlie did not have the look of a man who had joined the tables of sober-suited, sober-headed businessmen starting the day with a full English in a well-known London hotel dining room.

‘Charlie, is that you up for breakfast? Marina saw you at breakfast.’

‘No, Kenny, I’m just coming in!’

‘Oh, very good. We’ve just ordered some breakfast. What do you want?’

‘Usual stuff,’ Graeme replied. So I called room service again.

‘Some toast and orange juice please, and a pot of very strong coffee.’ Graeme grabbed the phone.

‘Is the orange juice fresh? Is it squeezed? Yes? Well give us two bottles of Champagne then.’

‘Charlie, leave it. We’ll not drink it.’

‘We will,’ said Charlie, putting down the phone. Amazingly, the hotel somehow found two bottles we hadn’t consumed earlier and delivered them to our room. As the waiter placed the bottles on the table, Charlie looked at them but couldn’t focus. His eyes were rolling.

‘I need to go to my bed.’

‘Charlie, you’ve left us with two bottles of Champagne.’

‘Kenny, how can you even think about drinking at this time of the morning?’ replied Charlie and, lurching out of the door, he stumbled back to his pit. Marina and I sat there with the Champagne.

They didn’t go to waste. I found some plastic bottles, filled them up with bubbly, and passed them round the train. Charlie slept until 10.30 but made Euston in time. Just. After 90 minutes’ kip, Charlie had regained his thirst. Marina and I were sitting quietly in one of those old-fashioned compartments, six seats facing each other, when Charlie piled in and the party began again. We must have had 20 people in the compartment at one point, sitting on laps, lying in luggage racks, swigging Champagne from plastic bottles, and so it went on, all the way to Lime Street.

The open-topped bus tour of the city fulfilled another of my boyhood dreams. Looking out from that bus, it seemed to me that the whole city had turned out to congratulate us. Hundreds of thousands lined the streets. They climbed up trees and on top of bus shelters, waving, smiling and singing. Seeing their happy faces meant so much to me. It was a wonderful feeling, being able to bring pleasure into people’s lives. As I admired the crowds spilling off the pavements, I did feel a shiver of frustration that this could never have been achieved in my home-town. The perfect scenario would have been winning the European Cup with Celtic and then doing a ride through streets I knew and loved. Sadly, the tensions between Celtic and Rangers made that impossible. Divisions ran too deep in Glasgow. Liverpool was different. I appreciated that rivalry defined relations between Anfield and Goodison, but it was never poisonous, and in among the red scarves, I saw dashes of Evertonian blue.