I thought nothing of the glint entering Peter’s eyes. PBR must have realised then that management was a road I wanted to travel down one day. Maybe he thought why not make that journey with Liverpool? That would fit in with the board’s policy of promoting from within – Shankly, Paisley, Fagan, Dalglish? OK, my natural habitat was dressing room rather than Boot Room, but what was a few yards down the corridor among friends? Similar principles shaped both places. One day at Melwood, I missed a pass and Ronnie shouted at me, ‘Play it simple.’
‘It was simple. I just made it difficult.’
‘Oh shut up, Kenny, you’re not the manager yet,’ Ronnie shouted back. Bugsy can’t have known – I didn’t know. That was my state of mind, though. I’d always enjoyed organising teams. Big Al reckons my managerial tendencies first came to the fore with Scotland during the 1982 World Cup. On the eve of a group game with Brazil, Jock Stein staged a practice match, his starting XI against me and the rest of the squad.
‘Kenny, organise them like Brazil,’ Jock shouted. ‘Play five across the middle and one up. Brazil will have Serginho up. Eder, Socrates, Falcao and Zico will come up from deeper positions.’ Fair enough. We had our orders. With that Jock blew the whistle.
‘Leave them with the ball,’ I told my team. ‘Just leave them.’
Jock’s chosen ones passed the ball across the back and we let them, just stayed holding our positions. Jock stopped the game.
‘Hey, Kenny, you’re smart, aren’t you?’
‘What?’
‘I asked you to do something, and you’re trying to mess it up.’
‘I’m not messing it up. Do you think Brazil are going to run way up that high to get the ball? They’ll sit here. You asked us to imitate Brazil’s formation. That’s what we were doing.’
‘You’re a smart arse. Always got an answer.’ I also had a win – the reserves beat Jock’s team 2–0, both goals scored by keepers! But however much I enjoyed pitting my wits against Jock, I wasn’t thinking about becoming a manager.
My voyage towards the dug-out accelerated before Heysel. I was at home in Southport, pottering about, when the phone went.
‘Kenny, it’s Peter. The chairman and I would like to come across and see you.’
‘Yes, no problem.’ After agreeing a suitable time, I was about to put the phone down when PBR added, ‘Kenny, are you not curious what we want to speak about?’
‘OK. What?’
‘We’d like to offer you the manager’s job.’
‘No problem, Peter, you can still come to the house!’ Making a joke was my natural defence mechanism, winning myself time to absorb the immense significance of what was happening. Liverpool Football Club wanted me to become manager, assuming the office of men I revered – Shanks, Bob and Joe. Just writing their names causes me to catch my breath in awe. Now I was being told Liverpool believed I could follow in their famous footsteps. I couldn’t really take it in.
When Peter and John Smith arrived, Marina hurried about, getting tea and sandwiches. Then she left us alone and they made their momentous offer, leaving me overwhelmed, honoured, shocked and moved. As we talked, I could hardly take in the details of what was being said apart from one extraordinary fact. After PBR and John Smith left, Marina rushed into the room.
‘The club want me to be player-manager,’ I told Marina.
‘You’re kidding me on!’
‘No, honestly. They said they want me to be player-manager with Bob working above me.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘First phone my dad. Then phone your dad.’
Dad’s advice was unequivocal. ‘If Liverpool Football Club think you’re good enough to be manager, have a go.’ After Marina’s father endorsed this view, I contacted PBR.
‘OK. I’ll have a go. I’ll keep my player’s contract and try it for a year. If I’m rubbish, I’ll go back to my playing contract. I’ll try my very best, but if it doesn’t work, there’s nothing lost.’
‘Fine,’ replied PBR, who sounded remarkably composed about a job offer that represented an almighty gamble. How could Liverpool’s board possibly know whether their No. 7 could mature into a good manager? Peter and the chairman were putting a major sporting institution into the hands of an apprentice.
‘I’ve not spent the last eight years sitting with Peter having great conversations about football,’ I said to Marina. ‘I talk to Tom during the week but not about management. It’s very flattering they’ve come up with my name. I know Peter was taken by surprise when Bob went. Joe was a wee bit reluctant to take the job but three trophies in his first season was magnificent. The board knew this would be Joe’s last season, so they’ve had time to think about things.’
Just because I understood the culture of Liverpool Football Club didn’t automatically mean I was the right person. Others in the club fitted that bill. Why bypass Ronnie and Roy and go for a player? Why me and not Nealy? So many question marks hung in the air but the major two were answered. Liverpool wanted me and I wanted the job.
‘I’ll have a go for five years and then we can get a break,’ I promised Marina.
So I rang PBR to accept with the understanding that news mustn’t leak out.
‘Agreed,’ said Peter.
On the morning of Heysel, the newspapers were full of talk about Joe’s future. ‘JOE SET TO GO’ screamed the
Mirror
. My name was mentioned as a possible successor but then so were those of Nealy, Bugsy and Chris Lawler. It made for lively reading when the squad gathered for breakfast in our Brussels hotel.
‘Have you seen the papers?’ asked one of the players. ‘Joe’s going after the game.’ I walked away sharpish, keen to avoid engaging in any conversation where I had privileged information. Before such a big match, such stories were a distraction and the newspapers cannot have known for sure. At that time, the Merseyside reporters were very close to PBR. If Liverpool played rubbish, the journalists would reflect that in their articles and the players accepted and respected that. It was on the rare occasions when they strayed into speculation that resentment seeped from under the dressing-room door. Peter wouldn’t have briefed the reporters on this story. The supreme professional, and a man with great respect for Joe, PBR would never have done anything to disrupt the team’s focus before the climax of the season. Only one player in that Heysel dressing room knew the identity of Joe’s successor. Well, two actually, because I couldn’t resist telling Al. Before Heysel, Marina and I went for dinner with Al and his wife Janet in Southport. At the end of the evening, I mentioned I’d be manager.
‘Right, Janet, get your coat,’ said Al. ‘We’re off. The friendship’s over!’ I laughed. I knew one thing for sure and that was our friendship will never be over.
As we got on the plane to leave Brussels, the chairman called me over.
‘Kenny, we’re having to make the announcement today. I know we said tomorrow but what happened back there has changed all that. We’ll do it when we get back to Anfield at four.’
‘Chairman, I’ve no suit,’ I replied, standing there in my tracksuit, Liverpool’s usual travelling wear. ‘I need a collar and tie for the Press conference.’
‘You’ll be all right,’ insisted the chairman, clearly not in a mood for a fashion debate at a time when his club was being battered. ‘Just go in your tracksuit.’
Sitting in front of Marina and me on the plane was Ronnie Whelan.
‘Kenny, you’ll know. Who’s replacing Joe?’ asked Vitch.
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Go on, you must know. Tell me.’
‘OK, it’s me.’
‘Piss off.’
‘It is!’
‘Seriously, Kenny, who is it?’
‘It is me! Honest.’
‘Yes! Brilliant! Can I be captain!’
That was a rare moment of laughter on that cheerless flight to Speke Airport. Most of the players were lost in thought about the previous night. I looked forward, contemplating my new venture. I thought about other players who’d stepped into management. The job never really worked out for Billy Bremner at Doncaster Rovers or Bobby Moore at Southend United, but they never had the quality of coaching or playing staff gathered around them that I did. I was blessed. Not many people enjoy their first shot at management with a group of players who had been in two successive European Cup finals. I was more concerned about damaging Liverpool’s reputation than my own. I thought about Joe, who was in tears, talking to the players, explaining this was it, goodbye, game over.
‘I love this club and I love football,’ Joe said, ‘but I feel if I carry on any longer, people might not love me any more.’
As Joe spoke, the succession plans were being enacted. Roy and Ronnie were called over by John Smith and informed about me. The chairman stood up and said a few words over the mike, thanking Joe for all he’d done during his time as manager. So did Nealy. On landing at Speke, the world’s media lay in wait, getting their cables in a twist in the frantic rush to interrogate poor Joe about Heysel while I headed off to Anfield. For somebody as extremely private as I am, facing the Press was an ordeal at the best of times. Even when flanked by Bob and the chairman, I still felt exposed. The chairman began proceedings by announcing my appointment.
‘Kenny is entering the managerial side for the first time and we have every reason to believe he will have a successful period in office,’ I heard him say. This was it. No turning back. The secret was out. ‘We feel we have a man of great ability on the field who has an old head on young shoulders,’ added John.
I stared out at the assembled press corps and familiar faces looked back, reporters I trusted, such as John Keith of the
Daily Express
, but to be honest the whole process was torture. My last experience of attending a press conference was eight years earlier, when I signed from Celtic. Even without the dark cloud of Heysel hanging over any Liverpool employee, this was an intimidating event, and I felt so far out of my comfort zone. My character means I’m more nervous playing golf in front of six people than playing football in front of 60,000.
I placed on record my feeling of great honour at being asked to become Liverpool manager. My ability to handle the Press was never a noted strength of my managerial career, and my unease riddled a first exchange with Ian Hargreaves, the respected football reporter from the
Liverpool Echo
. ‘You know nothing about football and I know nothing about journalism, so we should get on well,’ I told Ian. Looking back, I regret my attitude and I should have had a better relationship with the
Echo
. Ian and later Ric George were really important as the channel for me to impart information to Liverpool supporters. I should have been more cooperative. I showed a lack of understanding of what the local Press boys needed. Fortunately, PBR was close to the papers.
Having survived the Press inquisition, I escaped downstairs to find Ronnie and Roy, who were sorting things out in the Boot Room. They looked at me with questions in their eyes. I was the new man, the Gaffer, not just a player any more. They couldn’t shout at me. Sensing their concerns, I said to Bugsy, ‘You’re going to stay aren’t you?’ Turning to Roy, I added, ‘You’re not going away?’ Both shook their heads. Anfield was their world.
‘Good that’s sorted then. I need you to stay.’
‘We just want a job,’ said Ronnie. Roy nodded.
‘You’ll always have a job, the two of you, while I’m manager,’ I said.
Over the years, many hurtful claims have circulated that I abandoned the Boot Room. On the contrary, embracing the inhabitants and philosophy of the Boot Room was at the heart of my approach to managing Liverpool. Far from being a threat, the Boot Room was an ally. Settled in their successful routine, Ronnie and Roy needed a centre for their planning and discussions about training, and for their wee drinks after matches. As a player, I rarely went in. As a manager, I never went in after games, because I wasn’t clever enough. Blessed with the sharpest minds, Ronnie and Roy set their traps to extract information from members of the opposing coaching staff. It would have been the height of stupidity for me to burst into the room and mess up this great Liverpool fact-finding tradition. After saying a few words to the Press, preferably as few as possible, I’d invite the other manager back to my office. Ronnie and Roy would be along the corridor, entertaining and working over visiting coaches and, sometimes, the opposition manager would pop in there en route to my office, giving the boys another opportunity to acquire knowledge.
Even though I made all the decisions, the Boot Room was a source of much sound advice and no manager could have had better support. I trusted Ronnie and Roy implicitly. They were totally honest, loyal men who’d never be stool-pigeons in the dressing room. When Liverpool stayed in hotels before matches, Ronnie, Roy and Old Tom gathered in my room after dinner. Those three would enjoy a tipple and I’d have a glass of sparkling water, just in case I was playing. We’d chat about the team, the opposition, tactics and potential signings. Friday night conversations were my Boot Room. For me, the Boot Room was as much about the people as the four walls within Anfield. The room itself went during redevelopment in Graeme Souness’s time as manager, and even Roy never complained, believing there were ‘too many ghosts’.
Tradition never intimidated me, anyway. Some managers – Cloughie at Leeds United springs to mind – marched into a new place and ordered the removal of photographs that saluted past triumphs. Cloughie’s attitude was different from mine. Why be embarrassed about history? Why take down pictures? Don Revie helped make Leeds a great name, one Cloughie considered managing, so why run from that? History inspires. The challenge bequeathed by Shanks, Bob and Joe, and all their support staff in the Boot Room, was one I relished. I was still alive to the fact that some players shrank when walking down a corridor covered with pictures of famous successes. When assessing the merits of any transfer target, I tried to ensure they were made of the right stuff. Beginning with Steve McMahon in my first season as manager, every incoming player possessed the strength of personality to handle Liverpool’s illustrious heritage, and Macca certainly did.