‘You’ve got to sign him now!’ I laughed with Joe, whom I was sitting next to on the bench. ‘If this Molby can do that, fine, sign him, do it at half-time.’ No additional urging was required, yet Joe was never able to coax consistent performances out of the young Dane. Jan was only 21.
‘Jan, we signed you because you’re a good player,’ Joe told him. ‘Just go and play.’ At Ajax maybe more tactical commands were given out. I couldn’t believe such a creative player was languishing in Liverpool reserves and I couldn’t wait to use him. One of the pleasures of my management career was getting Jan running big matches. Jan had unbelievable feet and I defied anybody to state categorically which was the stronger, because either foot could propel the ball at unbelievable speed towards goal. Jan scored against Manchester United in the League Cup with the hardest shot I’ve ever seen. Collecting the ball in our half, Jan strode forward and, as United backed off, Jan straightened and hit it with his left foot from 20 yards. Gary Bailey dived when the ball was coming out from the back of his net. Jan was a talented, versatile player. At Sheffield Wednesday one day, playing centre-back, he made three goals. Latterly, he suffered weight problems and was afflicted with ankle injuries.
With Molby in central midfield, I believed we would boss Arsenal. Putting Beglin on the left raised a few eyebrows but I felt he gave the midfield natural balance. Jim even crossed for Ronnie Whelan to head our first before I set up Stevie Nicol for the second. So there – I could manage and play. Liverpool were up and running. The relief I felt afterwards simply reflected the nerves in the build-up.
I knew the pressure would crank up again and it quickly did. In the opening months of my managerial tenure, Liverpool endured awkward times. Manchester United were flying, racing through their first 10 games unblemished, a fabulous achievement, and then Everton went eight points clear as Liverpool languished in the shadows. After we lost at Newcastle, QPR, Arsenal and Manchester City, one newspaper described us as ‘the worst Liverpool side in 20 years’. Even accepting that some criticism was due, I felt such a comment was unfair, disrespectful and ignorant, but I knew the rules of engagement before stepping into the dug-out. A thick skin was required, a point the Saint made in his
Echo
column. ‘Nobody likes criticism but Kenny will have to get used to it as a manager,’ the Saint wrote. ‘As a player he never received any criticism but as a manager he will be subjected to intense scrutiny, especially as manager of Liverpool. If things go wrong, he will get the blame.’
The Saint was only stating the obvious. I knew that if Liverpool slipped up, I’d be slated, and the barbs duly came my way. When we started improving, people talked about it being ‘Joe’s team’, ignoring the fact that I’d made seven changes. Some players, such as Jan, were already there, just waiting a chance to express themselves. Craig Johnston was another. Having changed next to this charismatic Aussie in the dressing room, I was very aware of his frustration under Joe. ‘He doesn’t trust me, Kenny,’ Craig said. Joe’s caution was slightly understandable, because Craig was his own man, but I liked his energy. Brimming with enthusiasm, Craig had a gift for excelling at anything he turned his hand to. For a while, satellite dishes obsessed him. In the mid-Eighties, satellite dishes were still the province of MI6, but Craig got me one so I could watch Italian, Spanish and Portuguese football.
Another passion of Craig’s was photography. Many of us mess around with cameras but not Craig, who really threw himself into it and had an eye for a brilliant picture. One evening, after Anfield emptied, all the players’ kids were running around in the penalty area. Craig snapped a wonderful picture of my son, Paul, aged about seven, shooting into the Kop goal, and he made a life-sized print of it, which now hangs in a downstairs corridor of my home in Southport. Craig’s love of photography faded for a while and he fell into music. He put a studio in his house and started playing the guitar. I’ve not encountered many individuals with such a diverse range of talents as Craig, who helped design the Predator boot, created a game show and developed mini-bar technology that registered your selection with reception. Craig was unbelievable.
Typical of his Aussie breed, Craig had a huge hunger for seeing the world. One year, Liverpool flew to Khartoum to raise money for underprivileged kids. With help from English donors, the Sudanese managed to build a beautiful hospital, but other parts of Khartoum were pretty bleak. Craig, naturally, went sightseeing, finding the bridge where the Blue Nile and the Red Nile meet. ‘When the two of them join, it’s the White Nile,’ Craig insisted on telling us. Craig was so clever and well travelled that we believed him.
The big problem came when Craig wound up Bruce, whom he called ‘Pally Blue’. Craig posed fictitious questions, so Bruce, who refused to admit to not knowing the answer, just made up a response.
‘Why is the price of corned beef so high?’ Craig asked. Nobody had a clue. How could anybody know? Bruce had a go.
‘It’s because of the tin mines in South Africa,’ said Bruce. ‘There’s poor production so it costs more to make the tins to put the corned beef in.’
When Bruce and Craig engaged in their mind games, the rest of us backed off, laughing. For all his humour and many interests, Craig’s main passion was football, particularly after Joe left. Training hard, Craig was one of the first players I knew who made it his business to look into healthy eating.
‘Gaffer, you’ve got to get the boys into this diet,’ Craig told me, showing me a list of lentils, rice and bananas.
‘Get lost,’ I replied, knowing Jan, Al and the boys would never surrender their pie on the way to games, and fish and chips on the way home. Yet Craig was ahead of his time. He realised the importance of rehydration and taking in the correct amount of carbs at the right time.
‘What’s macro-biotic?’ Al whispered to me.
‘Not a clue. A dance move?’ We mocked Craig but his diet really helped him, giving him the sharpness he needed.
Sadly, Craig was his own worst enemy. He just didn’t believe in his footballing abilities, and I could see that, when his form deserted him, Craig became depressed and the dark cycle continued. Several times during the season, I had to beat away this black dog of depression chasing Craig.
‘Remember QPR away,’ I told him during one rough period. ‘It wasn’t so much what you did on the ball but what you did off it. You give so much to the team, Craig. The players know it. The fans know it. I know it.’ At least Liverpool had one magnificent season out of Craig Johnston.
If I possessed one particular gift for management, it was empathising with players. I always felt a warm glow when I heard players praise my man-management, because to my mind that’s the greatest quality of all. I learned from the masters, from Jock Stein at Celtic and with Scotland, and Bob Paisley at Liverpool. Tommy Docherty, and eventually Alex Ferguson, with Scotland enhanced my education. Without me realising it, all these shrewd football men instilled beliefs and ideals, particularly in the art of man-management. Although Liverpool’s professionals found me demanding, they appreciated that I treated them as human beings, showing an interest in their families. That was little surprise to those who know me well, since an obsession with the family has always shaped me. A strong work ethic characterised my parents, and their industrious approach to life defined my DNA. Marina’s family hold similarly strong virtues. Coming from a good family background was no guarantee of success, but it instinctively made me want a powerful family ethos in the dressing room. I’ve never seen a successful team that’s not got a good dressing room. My job was made easier by the players sharing the right attitude – all for one, one for all.
Liverpool’s form in my debut season as manager was greatly assisted by the arrival of Steve McMahon from Aston Villa for £350,000 in September, but he almost didn’t join. This combative midfielder wanted to return to the North-west, moving closer to his Merseyside roots. When he eventually turned up at Melwood, ‘Macca’ explained how he nearly got rerouted by Villa’s manager, Graham Turner.
‘I told Graham I wanted to move back up to the north-west,’ said Macca. ‘When he finally agreed, Villa did a swap deal with a player at Manchester United. I told Graham I wasn’t going to Man U and he said, “I thought you wanted to go back to the North-west.” I meant a bit farther west!’
When Macca signed, the newspapers immediately declared Liverpool had finally concluded their hunt to find the successor to Graeme Souness, but I considered such a verdict unfair on Macca. Like Graeme, Macca could create, score, put the foot in and get about the pitch, but comparisons were invidious. Graeme was unique. Besides, others came into the Liverpool side and ably performed parts of Graeme’s old role. Liverpool’s midfield had enough tough characters to give us a physical edge. Kevin MacDonald didn’t make a bad contribution on the field, which was just as well because he was always complaining off it. First nicknamed ‘Stroppy’, Kevin was then dubbed ‘Albert’ after Albert Tatlock, the
Coronation Street
grouch. Albert grumbled about everything from the pitch to the weather and the food. He even moaned about other people moaning! Al and I listened to Albert chuntering away over something utterly insignificant and killed ourselves laughing, but Albert could play as well as whinge, and he was hugely important to Liverpool that season.
So was Ronnie Whelan, a quiet assassin who could put his foot in. No malice followed Vitch’s boot into the challenge, just a wee reminder that Liverpool could show force as well as flair. Nobody really associated this likeable, skilful Irishman with hard tackles, but he often left opponents on the floor. When it came to stopping the other team, I knew Ronnie was the deadliest weapon in Liverpool’s armoury, and he was also one of the most creative, developing an incredible habit of scoring important goals, particularly in finals, as distressed followers of Manchester United and Spurs will acknowledge through their tears.
With the midfield stiffened, we set about chasing the Double, but lost to Everton on 22 February. Bruce let one from Kevin Ratcliffe trundle under his body, presenting our neighbours with a victory even their most ardent supporters must have agreed was fortuitous.
‘The next time we play Everton we’ll beat them,’ I promised Marina afterwards. As Howard Kendall’s team led the League, it was a doubly damaging loss, not to mention the surrender of local bragging rights. Those three points to Everton became a turning point for Liverpool. I decided to push Jan just off Rushie as a shadow striker, using his accuracy to play in Rushie. Moving up the pitch, Jan stepped up a gear. He rattled in one goal at a frosty White Hart Lane, Rushie got the other, and that 2–1 win in March set us off on an amazing run. Until the end of the season, Liverpool dropped just one point, away to Sheffield Wednesday. That slip-up aside, our only other disappointment came in the semi-final of the Milk Cup when QPR got the better of us.
Craig brought energy and Paul Walsh scored a bundle of goals. When we got the ball in to his feet, Walshy danced around defenders. I was well aware that many centre-halves, particularly the old-school tall ones, found it tricky dealing with small strikers such as Walshy. He buzzed around as they swatted away at him ineffectually. They also discovered to their surprise, and cost, that Walshy could climb into the air, hang there and head the ball.
Initially, I struggled with the player-manager balance, being tougher on myself as a player than I should have been.
‘Play yourself, Kenny,’ urged Tom.
‘But Walshy’s doing brilliantly,’ I replied, and he was, scoring 18 that season.
‘It’s difficult being a sub,’ I told Tom. ‘When I’m on the bench, watching, I get so tense and feel my legs tightening up. Then when I go out and warm up, I can’t really focus on my exercises. I keep watching the game. It’s better I stop coming on.’ That decision made, I called in Ronnie and Roy for a meeting.
‘Putting myself on is too difficult. If I’m going to be involved, it’s best I start. Then if I’m crap, I can come off.’ Ronnie and Roy agreed. When Walshy broke his wrist, I returned, playing the last nine games of the season as we accelerated towards the finishing line. The final hurdle was Chelsea at the Bridge on 3 May, a considerable challenge that was eased after 23 minutes when I managed to score what people consider one of my greatest goals. When Chelsea’s keeper, Tony Godden, saved from Gary Gillespie, Rushie and Craig organised a short-corner routine. Chelsea managed to clear but Ronnie knocked the ball back in and Jim Beglin flicked it to me. Taking the ball on my chest, I let it drop and then caught it full on the volley. It could easily have gone in the enclosure but fortunately it flew past Godden. Those columnists who accused me of being awkward and unemotional might have rethought their views after my wild celebration.
‘How did you score that?’ asked some TV reporter.
‘I closed my eyes and hit it.’
‘You closed your eyes and hit it?’
‘Is there an echo in here?’ I laughed and walked off.
The title secured, we had other work to attend to – the FA Cup final against Everton at Wembley. On the eve of the game, another TV reporter asked my prediction for Cup final day.
‘It’ll be hot and sunny,’ I replied. Some critics slammed me for what they perceived as flippancy, but it was my way of not giving anything away. Why should I reveal my thoughts on the Cup final, handing ammunition to Everton? I discussed the problem with PBR.
‘Some TV people really wind me up, Peter. Some of them strap me up, landing me in trouble. I just think sod it, I might as well be sarcastic.’ Anyway, that Cup final day
was
hot and sunny. Before the game, yet another TV reporter cornered me.
‘Mr Dalglish, people call you monosyllabic.’
‘What?’ I replied, and walked off again.
By that tense stage of a marathon season, I was just hitting back with dismissive remarks. I knew it wasn’t very informative, or even clever, but I tired of the attention. Putting on a show for the Press was not my style. Even those managers perceived as naturally flamboyant act up for the cameras. When the microphones came out, Cloughie was incredibly opinionated, but he may have gone home and been as quiet as a dormouse in front of his wife. People bang on about Jose Mourinho, calling him outrageous, controversial and colourful in public. In private, I hear, Jose’s very sensitive. The Press perception of Fergie is not the real him, nor Rafa. Press conferences are deceptive. Having been stereotyped as dour and uncommunicative, I just couldn’t be bothered to challenge that myth. I was too busy trying to win trophies.