Just as Ronnie and Roy were part of the fabric of Liverpool Football Club, so was Bob Paisley. Having spoken to the boys in the Boot Room on that first day, the following week I went to the manager’s office for the first time and found Bob sitting there quietly.
‘Sit down, Kenny,’ said Bob. I sat behind the manager’s desk. This was it. I was now manager. I looked across the vast expanse of the desk. There was nothing there, no paperwork, nothing to read or sign. I heard the clock on the wall ticking. I stared at the phone.
‘Bob, what am I doing in here?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There’s nobody in. There’s nothing to do. Why do I need to be here?’
‘The phone might ring.’
‘Well I’ve got a phone in the house.’
‘Oh, you’ve got to be here just in case anybody calls or anybody comes.’
Eventually, something happened. The manager’s secretary, Sheila Walsh, came in.
‘You can have new furniture, Kenny,’ said Sheila. ‘We have an allowance for changing the office furniture this year. New desk, new chairs, anything you want.’
‘But this was Bob’s desk, so I’ll keep that. This was Shanks’s chair, so why should I change? I’ll tell you what, Sheila. Use the allowance to put a bar right along that wall so I can do some entertaining after matches. And put a desk in there for Old Tom.’ Tom was always by my side. When I began spending less time in the office at Anfield, people wondered how much I consulted Bob. Those critics who surmised Bob was employed simply to give the new regime some old-school authority were just plain wrong. Bob was no token figure. It would have been remiss of me never to draw on all those years of wisdom, all that rich experience of outfoxing opponents, and Bob was really helpful. He came down from his office to talk to me, throw in wee ideas. If Liverpool were interested in a player, Bob might have a quiet word about the target with someone. Having Bob around was wonderful but it was my show and some decisions were required. Some proved very quick to sort out.
‘Rushie needs a new contract sorting. What do you think?’ PBR asked.
‘Keep him,’ I replied. End of discussion.
Another day, Peter asked,‘Craig needs a new contract sorting. What do you think?’
‘Keep him.’
Such decisions were no-brainers. Beyond expressing a desire to retain a player, I never became involved in the finances. Why should I? In PBR, Liverpool had one of the best administrators the football world has ever known. As a manager starting my first job, I could not have had a better person negotiating transfers or wages. PBR never short-changed new signings, who always emerged from his office ready to run through brick walls for Liverpool. PBR had a clever trick during negotiations. After the initial dance with the player of ‘the club can offer this’ and ‘I want that’, Peter left the room and had a quiet word with me.
‘Kenny, this is our top offer. Go and offer it to him. It will be good for your relationship.’ So I’d sit down with the player and give him Liverpool’s offer.
‘That’s your maximum, so it’s a yes or no on that figure.’
‘YES,’ the player invariably replied, being indebted to me for seemingly getting him the best deal, which strengthened our relationship immediately.
PBR was actually very canny with money. Before the end of the tax year, he occasionally called me in.
‘Kenny, we’ve got about £250,000 spare if you want to spend it.’ Peter had done this with previous managers, so May signings were not uncommon. Frank McGarvey came in 1979 and Rushie arrived a year later.
PBR and John Smith made a fantastic partnership at board level, and I trusted them implicitly. Shortly after they appointed me, I chatted to PBR about reports in the papers that another manager was threatening to quit.
‘Why would he be saying that in the papers?
‘He’d be looking for a rise,’ replied PBR without a pause.
‘Peter, if I’m ever looking for a rise, I’ll come and tell you.’ I couldn’t understand how managers could behave like that. I’ve never used a newspaper to air a grievance.
Always ahead of the game, PBR appointed Tom Saunders as Youth Development Officer in 1970 and later authorised Tom to be Liverpool’s European scout, flying off to watch opponents and check on hotels. Back then, travel was a logistical nightmare but PBR sorted it for Tom, who’d spend a week getting to and from some distant Eastern European town, coming back and diligently typing up his report. Under PBR, Liverpool became the first British club to have shirt advertising, yet Peter’s major love wasn’t football. Cricket was his big passion. At Anfield, Peter watched some of the game but then slipped back to his office, catching up on correspondence. When PBR stood down, Liverpool really missed his astuteness, particularly in dealings with Everton. When Peter and Jim Greenwood worked in tandem across Stanley Park, relations were always good. For midweek matches, both clubs preferred to play on Tuesday, so Peter and Jim tossed a coin at the start of the season to see who went first and then alternated. Complete trust existed between Peter and Jim.
Despite my new status, I was determined to stay as unostentatious as possible.
‘What car do you want?’ Peter asked. ‘A Mercedes?’
‘Oh, Peter, I canna take a Merc.’
‘Why not?’
‘It doesn’t seem right. I don’t want to custard-pie the punters.’ As a city, Liverpool was hit by economic strife in the Eighties, bringing hardship to many local people. ‘The fans won’t mind if I have some toys, but not to flaunt it. I’ll have an Audi. People will feel comfortable with me in an Audi. It’s less flash.’
As I drove into the ground on the first day of pre-season, I knew I had to address the players and set the right tone for the season. I stressed we were in this together, that Liverpool’s principles would continue to guide the team.
‘The rules stay the same, in at ten, collar and tie for games,’ I told them. ‘If you want a game of golf, not after a Wednesday. Don’t go out Thursdays or Fridays.’ After the specifics, I told the squad what I expected this season. ‘There will be difficulties throughout the year but I want you to give a hundred per cent for Liverpool. I’ll treat you as I liked to be treated. If you’re not in the team, you’ll know first.’ To keep all the players on their toes, I never announced Liverpool’s line-up until a couple of hours before kick-off. That meant if somebody got injured on the Friday, a fully motivated player stepped up without knowing he was destined for the bench. The players responded by running a sweep on my team selection.
One myth about my relations with the players needs destroying. The claim that Liverpool players couldn’t understand me because of my Scottish accent was rubbish. My pronunciation could be clearer, more refined, but I am what I am – a Glaswegian who refuses to surrender his birthright. The TV commentator Alan Parry once asked me, ‘Don’t you think you’ll have trouble communicating with players because your accent is so difficult to understand?’
‘Pardon?’ I replied, unable to resist the open goal.
The players certainly understood me. When Lawro was late back for pre-season training, I rang his home. His wife Vanessa explained Lawro was over in Dublin, doing some coaching. He was injured and couldn’t have joined in training at Melwood but that wasn’t the point. When Lawro finally called in, I made it totally clear he’d stepped out of line.
Although I was the Boss, I still socialised with players, including Lawro, who was part of the Southport set. We’d go out for a meal after the Saturday game, sharing a bottle of wine if we’d won. When Lawro and Hansen then went into the dressing room, they got dog’s abuse off the others. ‘Teacher’s pet,’ was the usual comment, although such an accusation was never made seriously. All the players knew I’d never talk about them with their colleagues.
The print boys seemed fascinated about how I would fare as Liverpool’s manager, so they asked around. Graeme Souness surprised me with his comment. ‘People are a bit frightened of Kenny,’ said Charlie. ‘He growls at them, makes them jump. These are essential qualities for a manager.’ I never understood what players had to fear in me. If they messed up in training or a game, I bit their heads off, of course. Bollockings helped them improve. Throwing tea-cups was never my style, but my aggressive streak would be on show if somebody fouled up badly.
I certainly wasn’t scared of making decisions. Continuity was important but the Liverpool machine still needed tweaking. The hardest decision I made involved the armband. I knew the conversation with Phil Neal would be short and tense. At 34, he’d played more than 600 games, scored almost 60 goals, won four European Cups and captained Liverpool to famous triumphs. He was Bob’s captain, Joe’s captain, but not mine. After he sat down, I wasted no time explaining my plans.
‘I’m going to change the captaincy,’ I announced. ‘I want a new kid on the block.’ Nealy must have been livid. I wouldn’t have expected such a proud man and hardened competitor not to feel angry. To have ownership of the Liverpool captain’s armband is one of the great honours in sport, but that armband is only on loan. Nobody has a right to it, even a player as decorated as Phil Neal. The armband belongs to Liverpool Football Club. When Ron Yeats had the armband, he wore it proudly, but he knew he was simply the keeper of the flame before the torch was passed on. The same with Tommy Smith, Phil Thompson and Graeme Souness. These were great warriors in the red of Liverpool, supremely worthy captains, and so was Nealy. As manager, I felt the captaincy should go to Alan Hansen, somebody I knew well and trusted completely. Tempers have since cooled, and Phil and I get on fine now, but I understood he was enraged, and I understood why. But a charge of negligence could easily have been levelled against me if I’d not gone through with the decision. Liverpool’s future lay with Alan, not Phil. We had two captains in effect.
Phil also harboured managerial ambitions, and must have been disappointed not to be offered the Liverpool job. Whether the board led him to believe he was a contender was neither clear to me nor mattered. Some people whispered that Nealy felt resentment towards me, but why? I didn’t go looking for the job. I didn’t elbow Nealy out of the way in a rush to throw myself in front of John Smith and PBR. Liverpool came to me. Nealy should have reserved any resentment for the board.
‘The next time you talk to me – if you want to talk to me – make sure you call me Gaffer,’ I told him.
‘OK,’ said Nealy. Sometimes the players forgot, saying ‘Kenny . . . I mean Gaffer.’ Who knows if Nealy’s was an accident or not, but it was essential that I reminded him, as the situation could have festered.
Nealy’s disappointment never showed on the pitch but after his testimonial, against Everton on 12 August, Nealy went to see the chairman, emerging from Anfield to tell the press he felt he had ‘no future’ at Liverpool. I never understood that because I felt he did have a future. I’d never let anything personal affect my match-day judgement. If Nealy had been made manager, I’d have carried on playing happily under him. But I was the boss, I wanted a new captain and Alan was the best option.
Even though we were close, Alan was never a spy. Smuggling stories out of the dressing room wasn’t his style, and I never asked him to sneak on the players, anyway. Al deserved to be captain. He held the respect of the dressing room, and everybody wanted to be friends with him. He was incredibly popular. I never envied him . . . well, maybe his pace. His many admirers marvelled at his calm as a footballer but I knew Al’s stomach would be churning. This great central defender for Liverpool and Scotland was not immune to nerves.
Al certainly had a nervous start to his Liverpool career. Signing in May 1977, Alan decided to take his summer holidays locally. Blackpool! He can’t even swim, stupid idiot, so the sea was off-limits. Messing around on the beach one evening, Al managed to get done for streaking! He reported for pre-season training as if nothing had happened but he was met by John Smith, and must have thought he was for the high-jump. Liverpool’s chairman looked at Al and said, ‘As long as you can play, son.’ He could certainly play. Bob hailed Al as ‘quite simply the most skilful centre-half I’ve ever seen in the game’ and I never considered such praise excessive. Al was elegance on long legs, and bright with it. He was a walking, talking record book, spouting stats and facts, so I nicknamed him ‘Norris’ after Norris McWhirter, the facts and stats man.
‘Norris, you’ve got an answer for everything,’ I said. Al could remember the minutes when we scored or gave away goals, and was always setting quizzes.
‘In the year Liverpool lost only sixteen goals,’ he asked one day, ‘who finished as top opposition goalscorer?’ The answer was ‘own goal’, three of them. As the seasons wore on, Al became cockier and his quizzes more fraudulent. Shamelessly, he’d make up facts, and if we caught him out, Al would always hit back with a question. Early on, Al and Terry Mac would have arguments, ending up with Terry asking, ‘How many games have you played?’
‘How many minutes have you played?’ Al would reply. Not games. Minutes. Just to put us on the back-foot. The players just laughed. This was classic Al, brilliant on the defensive.
Big Al presented many credentials for captaincy. It was not just the looks, the grace as a central defender or the ready humour. What set Al apart was that Lady Luck had a serious crush on Liverpool’s No. 6. Never in my life have I encountered somebody so frequently blessed with good fortune as Alan Hansen. If two people were sitting on 17 at blackjack, I’d put substantial sums on Al getting a four more often than the other person. No science explains why the sun always smiled on Al. No logic. It just happened. If he walked down the street, Al would spot a fiver on the pavement. At golf, Lady Luck caddied for him, a source of constant frustration to me. If we both hit balls into the rough, I won’t find mine but Al will find his. His ball will be sitting up, winking at him, shouting, ‘I’m over here.’ It became a running joke between the pair of us.