‘Kenny, I can lose a ball,’ Al insisted. ‘I have lost balls.’
‘Al, if you lose a ball, you really have to lose it. You’ll have hit it in the water, or on the railway line.’ With such a guardian angel looking over him, Al proved a magnificent Double-winning captain for Liverpool, one of the club’s greatest ever. Unfairly, Al never received the credit he deserved because the praise was too often directed my way.
After Phil’s visit to the chairman and announcement to the Press, everybody knew his days at Liverpool were numbered. During the season, I received a call from Bolton Wanderers, whose request was simple.
‘Can we have Phil as player-manager?’ asked Bolton.
‘Of course,’ I replied. Relaying their request to Phil, I told him, ‘It’s in your best interests to go. Bolton’s a great opportunity.’ Liverpool were good to Bolton and helped out when they could. Bolton were short of kit, so Liverpool gave Phil some training gear to take across to Burnden Park. Leaving a great club like Liverpool was a wrench for Phil, but as he shook my hand, I couldn’t detect any animosity.
‘All the best,’ I wished him. Phil nodded and was gone, disappearing from Anfield after 11 magnificent years’ service.
At the same time, I took a call from Willie McFaul, Newcastle United’s manager, enquiring about our other full-back, Alan Kennedy. Jim Beglin was pushing Barney, so this seemed a perfect opportunity to make a permanent change.
‘No problem, Willie,’ I replied. ‘You can talk to him.’ Soon Alan was on his way to St James’ Park, or so I thought until Willie phoned, very agitated.
‘Where is he?’
‘He’s come up to speak to you.’
‘I’ve not seen him.’
‘Honest to God, Willie, he set off to see you. I’ll track the boy down.’ Eventually, after much searching and message-leaving, I got Barney on the phone.
‘Where are you? You should know the bloody way to Newcastle. You played for them.’
‘Gaffer, I’m going to Sunderland.’
‘What?’
I’ve spoken to them.’
‘Listen, Barney, you’re out of order. You need to phone Willie McFaul. He’s really disappointed you never came to speak to him.’ Alan had his way, though, and went to Roker Park, although it hardly worked out for him and he was off after a season.
Barney and Nealy were two fantastic servants who both made huge contributions to the success of Liverpool Football Club. It was sad to watch those famous full-backs go, but Liverpool needed new blood and a manager who craves popularity swiftly discovers a P45 in his pigeonhole. Any regard Liverpool players had for me as a team-mate was forgotten. I had to earn their respect as a manager and sometimes that meant being ruthless. Addressing the players in team meetings, I wondered how they felt about me now. Did they resent my promotion? How did they regard me as a player? A friend? A boss? I confessed my misgivings to Big Al one day.
‘I miss the banter, Al. I know when I come in the room, and you lot are messing about, that it’ll go quiet. I know I’ve got to go back out, leaving you to your little games.’ Belying my public image of being surly and dour, I loved being in the thick of the banter, and I must admit some of the fun went out of football when I became manager.
My captain and I also discussed ways of bonding the team ever more strongly.
‘What about the lunches?’ asked Al, reminding me of the cost-cutting exercise that ended the meals back at Anfield.
‘I’ll get them going again,’ I promised. ‘If we all chip in, the ladies will put soup and something simple on for us.’ The next morning, I called Anfield’s three cleaning ladies, May, Theresa and Ada, into the office.
‘We want to start the lunches up again. If we pay for them, will you cook?’
‘We’ll need to get permission,’ said May.
‘I’ll get you permission, May, don’t you worry about that.’ Next stop PBR’s office.
‘It’s important for the boys to have a laugh and a chuckle after training, Peter.’ He agreed and the lunches were reinstated. May, Theresa and Ada stopped work at 11.30, cooked the meals and then went back to cleaning. For away trips, the girls heated pies and we’d eat them on the bus. The boys loved the three ladies even more now. The players’ lounge became a lively place, particularly after games. It was really just a tea-room with a small area serving as a bar, a very well-stocked bar because a pal of mine worked at Whitbread.
‘We’ll give you three lounge passes and three tickets for the match,’ I offered him.
‘And you can have a keg of beer for the boys and boxes of wine for the wives,’ he replied.
‘Sounds like a fair swap,’ I agreed. I loved this feeling of togetherness after the game, all the players and wives sitting about, enjoying a drink. Even if we’d had a tear-up, the opposition players were always invited in. A few punches and late tackles didn’t matter when the players could make peace over a few beers.
As well as with Whitbread, I got the players a good deal going with Candy, the club sponsors, who made household appliances. A mate of mine from Glasgow, Jim McSorley, ran an incentive business. The idea was that people earned points and got rewards. With my backing, Jim took the concept to Candy, offering players for points in what was to be one of the most unusual and productive arrangements in Liverpool’s commercial history. As part of their contract with Liverpool, Candy got a lounge at Anfield. Jim negotiated a system with Colin Darwin and Ken Rutland from Candy whereby they’d vote for Man of the Match, the winner went into the Candy lounge and automatically received 200 points. As well as Man of the Match, we rotated players to visit the lounge. If a player popped in for 10 minutes, chatted, signed some autographs, it was worth 100 points, redeemable against Candy products.
‘What do points make?’ Lawro or Al shouted.
‘Points make prizes!’ everybody replied. The players soon expanded the points system. On one Liverpool flight, Al found himself sitting next to Colin from Candy.
‘I’m not sitting here without 200 points,’ insisted Al, only half tongue in cheek. ‘You’ll have to move otherwise.’ A washing machine was worth 400 points, so a return flight next to Colin earned the family a new machine. The agreement worked an absolute treat. As one of the players said, it was like taking candy from, well, Candy. If any of my relatives needed a washing machine or tumble dryer, Colin or Ken sent it over from their Wirral factory when I’d racked up sufficient points. One day, I’d accumulated enough points for a real gem.
‘It’s the Candy washing machine deluxe,’ I explained to Marina.
‘What’s the deluxe part?’ she inquired sceptically.
‘It comes complete with a plank of wood.’
‘What?’
‘You have to jam the wood between the washing-machine door and the wall, otherwise the water comes gushing out!’
When the machine was delivered to our house in Southport, I inspected it closely.
‘This is not the deluxe,’ I told Colin. ‘You forgot the wood. I need the wood to keep the door shut!’ Colin and Ken loved all that banter.
The Candy people were good as gold and slightly mad with it. On our golf days, after food and drink when it was getting dark, they’d park their cars right on the first hole and point the headlights up the fairway. After belittling each other’s golfing prowess, a dozen of us would play up the first hole, all scores to count.
The boys from Candy liked a wind-up as much as a sporting challenge, and a particular target was the guy from Manweb electricity, Peter Hopkins, who worked with them. I got to know him really well when I moved to Blackburn. ‘Hoppy’, as he was inevitably called, wore a straw boater hat, which the Candy lads took great pleasure in setting alight at every possible opportunity. Hoppy would be standing there at the game, talking about the quality of electricity in the North-west region with smoke rising from his boater. Hoppy’s great love was Leeds United, and on their visits there’d always be some bets flying around.
‘A bottle of Champagne says we’ll win,’ Jim McSorley wagered. If we won, which we usually did, Hoppy would come in the office to settle up.
‘I’ll have a pint,’ Hoppy would say. As Jim distracted Hoppy with an intricate question about Leeds’ midfield, he lifted his tie and dipped it in his pint.
‘Look your pint’s ruined. Come on, have a glass of Champagne.’
‘Oh, all right,’ Hoppy replied. So Jim would hand him a glass that they’d drilled a hole in.
‘Hold that,’ Jim said, making sure the hole pointed towards Hoppy. Then Jim would pour the Champagne, which quickly fizzed out of the hole all over Hoppy’s shirt. He never seemed to mind. Hoppy was used to the crazy ways of the Candy boys. When they hired a limo to get to and from the game, Jim insisted all passengers took off their shoes, and for some reason I never comprehended, Hoppy fell for this ruse. Every time Hoppy removed his shoes, Jim quickly rolled down the window and chucked one of them out. Hoppy would live up to his nickname by hopping into the pub, or wherever they were going, with one shoe on and the other in a field somewhere.
If the Candy boys were my light relief, Old Tom Saunders provided constant, valued support. When I became manager, Tom was indispensable and we travelled all over, watching games together. In January 1989, we watched four in one day. First up were Bristol City, then we drove up to Wolves, stopped off at the Post House Hotel in Stoke, caught a game there on the telly, and then nipped to Crewe v. Carlisle – Liverpool were soon playing Carlisle in the Cup. Then we went home. Old Tom was never boring company. He’d experienced life, been in the Army, worked outside football and had stories to tell. A former teacher, he had been the youngest headmaster at Liverpool West Derby Comprehensive, and he understood how to bring the best out of people. If I was about to make a rash decision, Tom quietly voiced a constructive opinion, saving me from my mistake. ‘It’s my opinion but your decision,’ he always told me. I valued the people who, like Tom, knew Liverpool Football Club and saw issues from a different perspective but always backed me. I was never afraid of people who questioned me.
Old Tom was always smartly dressed, suited and shoes polished, as if he was heading to church. He hailed from that generation who felt almost naked without a tie. His education was put to good use, helping me with
The Times
concise crossword. I had no chance with the main one – I always felt Poirot couldn’t have solved those clues – but as I drove us between Anfield and Melwood, Tom read out the concise clues, asking me for the answers, even when he knew. Tom loved testing me.
His erratic map-reading certainly tested my patience. In the Eighties, retail parks were springing up outside towns, and we often ended up there because Tom thought the bright lights and pylons were floodlights. We really struggled in daylight.
‘Is that it?’ I’d ask, trying to read the signposts.
‘I’ll change my glasses. No, we’ve missed it. Turn round. Sorry.’ Tom must have said that a hundred times.
‘Kenny, you might not believe this but when I did National Service, I was put in charge of map-reading,’ Tom announced one day. When I’d finished laughing, Tom continued, ‘You’ll probably believe this. One day, I led a convoy of a hundred Army trucks up a lane. Three miles we went. I was sure it was the right route but then we hit a dead end. All the trucks had to reverse out.’
‘You’ve never got any better!’
I tried to be as well dressed as Tom. Many players who go into management prefer to wear a suit in the dug-out because it signals their new role. Being frustrated I wasn’t playing any more, I just wore a coat. By the end of my first season as manager, any new suit would have to be double-breasted.
12
THE DOUBLE
I
N THE
wake of Heysel, the backlash against Liverpool guaranteed a closing of ranks at Anfield, bringing a real mood of defiance on the opening day of the 1985–86 season. Walking out against Arsenal on 17 August, I was strongly aware of the number of people on my side, wanting me to do well. The Kop were brilliant, and the staff were equally staunch. From the stands to the boardroom, I was reassured that everyone at Liverpool would give me time to make my mark as a manager, because of my status as a player and because of the painful situation Liverpool found themselves in. After Heysel, everybody craved peace and stability, and to focus only on events on the pitch.
For me, the build-up to this League fixture was a period of unremitting tension. Everybody seemed to have an opinion on Kenny Dalglish the manager. Good appointment? Bad appointment? One night, Marina and I discussed this national fascination with me.
‘I keep hearing people are watching to see how I do, but why?’ I asked. ‘There’s nobody takes greater pride in their job than I do. I want to be successful more than anybody else. Why wouldn’t I be doing everything in my power?’
I had to succeed. I understood how much I must build on the work of Shanks, Bob and Joe. Ever thoughtful, Joe dropped me a kind letter. I wrote back, inviting him to the Arsenal game, and before kick-off, Joe sought me out, shaking my hand. ‘All the best, Kenny,’ he said. What class. Still haunted by Heysel, Joe didn’t want to come to the game but he wanted to wish me well.
‘Thanks, Joe, good to see you,’ I replied. ‘You know you’re always welcome here.’ But I scarcely saw Joe again. He left his love for football in a mortuary in Brussels. Joe also didn’t want to be seen to interfere. An innately modest man, Joe hated feeling he was in anybody’s way, particularly his successor, so he stayed out the road. That saddened me, because Anfield should always feel like home for those who brought Liverpool success and made such a huge contribution to the club.
With so many eyes on me, even kindly ones like Joe’s, beating Arsenal was crucial. The team I picked was experienced but with a couple of surprises. Grobbelaar was in goal, Nealy and Kennedy flanked Hansen and Lawro. In midfield, Nicol, Whelan, Molby and Beglin lined up, with me behind Rushie. Everybody focused on my decision to start Jan Molby, who’d never really settled since joining from Ajax a year earlier. My reasoning was shaped by the memory of watching Jan for the first time, trialling for Liverpool at Tolka Park on 20 August 1984. Standing on the edge of the Home Farm box, Jan took a cross on his chest, kneed the ball up over the defender’s head and volleyed it into the net.