‘I’m well paid, Charlie. I’d rather have less money and more happiness. I love the football, we’re winning trophies and the kids are settled. Marina and the kids would probably adapt better than I would to living abroad. And there’s another thing. Marina’s dad hates flying. I can never see him coming out to visit. He was in the toilet once on a plane and locked himself in. He was battering it, sweating. Terrified. They pushed the doors to let him out.’
So I stayed. Apart from Graeme and Kevin Keegan, few players have left Liverpool and gone on to better themselves. Liverpool adapted, survived and carried on.
‘Forget Souness,’ said Joe Fagan, standing in the centre of the room at Melwood with Ronnie and Roy in late July 1984, as Liverpool prepared for the new season. ‘We’ve forgotten Souness,’ Joe added. ‘He’s gone. History. We move on.’ As Joe uttered these words, I couldn’t help thinking that his command to ‘forget Souness’ was a huge compliment to Graeme. To me, the very fact that Joe even mentioned Graeme hinted at a private concern the manager had of the potential impact of his departure. Ronnie then stepped into the middle, holding out a cardboard box to the players.
‘Here are the Championship medals. If you qualified for one, take one.’ As we leant forward and took our medals, Joe took up the talking again.
‘The three trophies we won last season, the European Cup, League Championship and League Cup, are gone. It’s in the past. New season now. We start again. We’re European champions. We have to defend our title. No mistakes.’
10
HEYSEL
H
OW
many mistakes were made by the authorities in a season that ended stained with so much blood? Even before Liverpool arrived in Brussels for the European Cup final of 29 May 1985, our officials pleaded with Uefa to avoid making such a calamitous decision as using the Heysel Stadium. I was aware that Peter Robinson sent endless telexes to Uefa, the FA, the Belgian FA and Belgian police. As we stepped from the bus, even the players could see Heysel’s unsuitability as a venue. Heysel was a disaster that should never have been allowed to happen.
The details of our road to Brussels now seem deeply insignificant, and reflections on the journey are necessarily brief. We began at Lech Poznan on 19 September with the build-up dominated by a declaration from the Poles’ coach, Wojciech Lazarek, that he’d resign if Poznan didn’t defeat Liverpool. During my time trekking around the Continent, I’ve heard some cocky predictions but this boast reeked of folly. Poznan were one of the smaller Polish clubs who had just ended up as champions in 1984. Liverpool were European champions, hugely experienced in bringing good first-leg scorelines back to Anfield. We all felt quietly determined to teach Lazarek a little respect. Stadion Lecha was hardly intimidating and Poznan’s fans certainly weren’t the fiercest on the European circuit. When we walked out of the tunnel, they threw toilet rolls at us, not the type of missiles to instil instant fear. Making a mockery of Lazarek’s prediction, we took the lead through John Wark before you could say the words ‘hostage to fortune’.
Wark had arrived from Ipswich Town in March, and was only now eligible to play in European competition for Liverpool. He was making up for lost time. Being Scottish, Warky immediately joined our clan, and Hansen and I took him under our tender wing. A non-stop giggler, he spoke more with his hands than with his mouth, gesticulating frantically like a tic-tac man. He had long impressed me as a footballer. At Ipswich, Bobby Robson paired Warky and Eric Gates in central midfield and it proved a very successful unit. When I’d played against them, I was struck that Gates was not exactly helpful defensively yet Warky still got a bundle of goals, ending as Europe’s top scorer from midfield in 1981. Warky was a great finisher, hitting a hat-trick against the Poles in the second leg at Anfield. We won the round 5–0 on aggregate. On hearing later in the year that Lazarek had left Lech Poznan, I couldn’t confess to being shocked or sympathetic.
Liverpool’s drive towards Heysel pitted us next against Benfica, a second-round tie effectively decided in the rain at Anfield on 24 October when Rushie was irresistible. Just back from cartilage injury, Tosh had not lost his instinct for humiliating a goalkeeper, even one as good as Manuel Bento. Three times he scored on an evening also notable for Gary Gillespie earning a rare start. A genuinely nice guy, Gary was one of those steady centre-backs, very comfortable on the ball and a natural leader – he captained Falkirk at eighteen – yet, inevitably, he found it hard to dislodge ‘Lawro’ or Al at Liverpool. The only time Gary got the better of them was on the golf course. He played off two and still found Hansen a challenge. That year, Gary probably played more golf than football.
A fortnight later, Gary was back on the bench in the Stadium of Light, a torrid night not helped by Michel Vautrot, a referee even more atrocious than the weather. I was in our half with my back to Benfica’s right-back, Minervino Pietra, and dummied to take the ball left, but then turned right. Pietra came straight through me. No mercy. No attempt to play the ball. Down I went, my ankle hurting bad. Jumping back up, I turned to confront Pietra, to remonstrate with him. I was furious. Never, though, did I consider retaliation. As I stared at him, Pietra looked like he was about to headbutt me. Instinctively, I threw my hands up to protect my face. All I did was try to defend myself, fending off what I thought was coming my way. My legitimate action of raising my hands drew a ludicrous and expensive response from Vautrot – a red card, my first and only dismissal. Four years later, I was amazed to flick on the television to discover Vautrot refereeing the final of Euro ’88.
My anger at the automatic three-match suspension was partly softened by the first game being the European Super Cup, a bauble of little consequence to serious footballers. Liverpool’s schedule was so busy that we’d agreed with Juventus to play the Super Cup over one leg only. So the lads went to Turin on 16 January, suffered a 2–0 defeat at Stadio Communale and nobody grieved. All that mattered was the European Cup and the boys made light work of Austria Vienna in the third round in March. I wasn’t missed. Returning from exile against Panathinaikos in the semi-finals, I was keen to make up for my spell in the stands. We tore the Greeks apart at Anfield on 10 April, Rushie and me setting up Warky. Rushie popped in a couple and, such was Liverpool’s control, the boys generously allowed me a free-kick, usually the domain of Alan Kennedy or Ronnie Whelan. In the past, I tried a couple of free-kicks but most ended up as throw-ins or in the Kop. An air-raid siren almost went off as I approached the still ball. This time, Sammy ran over the ball and I whipped it into the box for Jim Beglin to score. Following this 4–0 win, the match in Athens on 24 April was never going to present a problem. The lads were so relaxed Joe even permitted us a spot of sightseeing.
‘Go and have a look at the Acropolis,’ urged the Boss.
‘But it’s just an old ruin,’ replied one of the players. We still went.
‘It’s falling to bits this place, look,’ said another player. He was right and we never stayed long.
The tourist trail never interested us on European trips. The only souvenir we wanted was victory and Lawro ensured we collected that in Athens. Lawro scored quite a few goals on the quiet, occasionally ghosting forward, exchanging passes and carrying on. He had tremendous pace and if he did make a mistake, he’d invariably be back after it, clearing up quickly. Few defenders read the game as well as Lawro, or were as versatile. He was at home at full-back and in midfield as well as central defence. After his goal in Athens, Brussels awaited.
Even before seeing the appalling state of Heysel, we knew the assignment on the field would test us to the very limit on 29 May. Individuals of profound technical talent could be found throughout the black-and-white-striped ranks of Juventus. The most renowned of their marquee names was Michel Platini. The leader of France’s vintage Euro ’84 winners, Platini was right at the very pinnacle of his game. My admiration for Platini was immense – he could score with shots from range, and from free-kicks, and he could also drive through the middle, creating chances for others with his delicate touch and wonderful vision. Helping Platini sharpen Juventus’s cutting edge was Polish striker Zbigniew Boniek, who was well known from his goalscoring exploits at the 1982 World Cup, and Paolo Rossi presented another class act in attack. Other famous names, including Bonini, Scirea, Cabrini and Tardelli, rolled effortlessly off the tongue when reading out the Juventus teamsheet. As a football match, the 1985 European Cup final was always going to be difficult. Liverpool were up against it. As an event, it was always going to be trouble. More of an athletics than a footballing arena, Heysel was too old and too badly configured for fans to be accommodated safely.
‘It’s not suitable,’ Peter Robinson told me. I know how tirelessly Peter worked behind the scenes, trying to convince Uefa it was the wrong choice for such an emotionally charged event as a European Cup final. Peter worried in particular about the neutral zone Z behind one goal, as Liverpool fans were in pens X and Y to one side.
‘They’re letting anyone in there,’ Peter said. ‘Liverpool fans, Juventus fans, Belgians. It’s supposed to be just for Belgians but everyone’s getting in. It’s dangerous. Liverpool and Juventus should be allocated tickets.’
Fans arriving at the ground without tickets were always going to buy them off Belgians for this neutral zone. A lot of Italians began filing into this section alongside the Liverpool area. Even two hours before kick-off, PBR implored Uefa to tackle the problem in the neutral section before it got out of hand. Uefa didn’t listen and nor did the Belgian authorities.
As we strolled around the ground before kick-off, the atmosphere seemed fine. I noticed a lot of people in the neutral part of the terracing but the mood appeared good. One of the Liverpool fans threw a ball over the fence, the boys were keeping it up and then knocking it back to the supporters. Liverpool’s punters loved that, so we had this wee game going, volleying the ball back and forth with banter being swapped as fast as the ball. As I returned to the dressing room, I can honestly say I saw nothing untoward going on. But, tragically, Peter’s nightmare started to come true, and as we got stripped, a catastrophe unfolded outside. Struggling with a cold, I was laid out on the treatment table, dosing up on some legal medicine, dozing intermittently, but I listened for anybody coming through the door with any updates on events on the terraces.
‘We need you and the captain to make an announcement,’ I heard somebody from Uefa telling Joe. ‘We need an appeal for calm.’ So Joe headed off, followed by Nealy. By all accounts, their appeal to Liverpool fans to ‘behave’ helped.
‘Don’t go outside,’ ordered Joe on their return. The Boss was clearly distressed by what he’d seen, and the abuse he’d been subjected to by Juventus fans. For Nealy, wearing a Liverpool tracksuit guaranteed instant derision and a stream of Italian spit.
‘What’s going on out there?’ I asked. I just didn’t know. Joe wouldn’t tell us. Nealy certainly didn’t. High up on the dressing-room wall facing the pitch was a skylight with frosted glass so people couldn’t see in. Some of the boys managed to force it open but still couldn’t work out what was happening. Confusion reigned. Uefa were all over the shop.
‘The game’s off,’ came the word. ‘The game’s on,’ came the update. Reliable information was at a premium. After a 90-minute delay, the green light came from Uefa. Oblivious to the extent of the carnage in zone Z, we headed along the tunnel. I knew there had been an incident, clearly a serious one, but the magnitude? Damage to man or property? Nealy claimed in his book that Liverpool’s players knew there had been fatalities. I didn’t. Nealy had been outside, talking to the authorities when he appealed for restraint by Liverpool fans, so maybe he knew, but the rest of us were in the dark. What had gone on? Sensing the fraught mood, I guessed the final would be over in 90 minutes. No extra time or shoot-out would be allowed to extend the hostility. To my knowledge, nobody at Uefa had a word with the referee, Andre Daina, about the importance of finishing this as quickly as possible, but then they didn’t need to. Everybody understood that everything had to be done to avoid the tension rising higher. Juventus fans seemed to be threatening a riot. Police horses dashed about. Glancing around, I noticed huge spaces on the terraces. Thousands of people had left Heysel. I had no idea that 39 spectators had perished. Even without knowing the facts, my intuition that this final was a farce, and as an event utterly bankrupt of any sporting integrity, was confirmed when Juventus were awarded a penalty 14 minutes after half-time. What a joke that was. Gillespie’s trip on Boniek was certainly outside the box but it looked like Daina couldn’t wait to give the penalty to Juventus.
‘There’s no way that was a penalty,’ I remarked to a Uefa official a few years later.
‘Some of us know that,’ he replied.
Uefa must have known it wasn’t a penalty. They must have seen it occurred outside the box. No doubt they also understood keenly they had to get the game over. Making the most of Daina’s generosity, Platini tucked away the kick. Conceding goals, particularly unjust ones, normally stirred me to anger, and determination. I’d dash through the gears as quickly as possible, looking for a goal back, for revenge, for justice. Not this time. Even when we were denied a blatant penalty when Bonini brought down Ronnie Whelan a yard inside Juventus’s area, my mind and body were stuck in neutral, unwilling to become engaged. The 1985 final of the European Cup passed me by. Despite the mood of barbarism between the fans, no such tension existed between the players. Juventus players must have felt bad. It didn’t matter whose fans lost their lives because both teams were hit by Heysel. Liverpool were affected because of the horrible atmosphere and nightmarish situation in which the club found themselves. Trauma engulfed everybody inside Heysel. When Daina signalled full-time, I was so numb and detached I never went up for my medal. That was me straight off, down the tunnel, no looking back, racing to reach the hushed dressing room. Each player was lost in his own thoughts. As I stared around, my heart went out to old Joe. This was his last game in charge, and it bequeathed him countless sleepless nights. Joe looked haunted, his body suffering waves of stress.