The road to Wembley was not the most arduous. We beat Norwich in the snow, and overcame Chelsea, Watford and York before Rushie struck twice against Southampton to take us to Anfield South. Being part of the first Merseyside FA Cup final was a special experience. Driving on the bus to Wembley, I saw all the fans walking together, a merry mix of red and blue. I saw a father standing with his two sons, one holding a red scarf and the other lad clutching a blue one. Wonderful. This was the Mersey family on the move and I loved it. I also saw on TV, Scousers climbing through windows, dropping down ropes and pulling each other up, bunking in to the most famous stadium in the world for the oldest football trophy in the world. Nobody on Merseyside wanted to miss this occasion. When Wembley announced the official attendance as 98,000 I just laughed as there must have been at least 110,000 crammed in beneath the Twin Towers. The atmosphere was as magical between the fans as the rivalry between the players was intense. Swelling a lingering resentment over the European ban, Everton were now smarting at missing out on the League to us by two points.
For Liverpool, it didn’t feel like a classic case of after the Lord Mayor’s Show. After our exertions at the Bridge, we still had a full week to recover and prepare, but I could see that, mentally, my players were slightly drained. On the Thursday, Gary Gillespie went down ill so that meant Lawro and Al were the centre-backs. A troublesome knee caused me spasms of discomfort, and eventually kept me out of the World Cup, but I knew I had to start at Wembley.
‘You need to be out of the dressing room ten minutes before kick-off just to reach the top in time,’ I said to Hansen as we gathered at the bottom of the tunnel. Anfield South was a familiar home from home but our legs just couldn’t get going. With every step up that long tunnel, the nerves grew. My hunch that this would be a gruelling afternoon was soon proved correct, and not until the second half did we find our stride. Until then, all Liverpool movement seemed laboured. Everton started far more strongly. Gary Lineker lurked on Al’s shoulder, threatening to run through, and when Al switched off for a second, a rare lapse from one of the greatest central defenders ever, Lineker was away, released by Peter Reid’s pass. Bruce saved the first shot but was unlucky the Everton centre-forward was there to tap in the loose ball. People pointed the finger of blame at Al but really the culpability lay with me. I’d lost possession and Reidy caught Al out with the speed of his pass to Lineker.
Undoubtedly a brilliant striker, Gary was not in the same league as Ian Rush, Liverpool’s poacher supreme. As a predator, Lineker was more one-dimensional in my eyes. He hung around inside the box, waiting for the ball. Rushie offered more variety, more influence in the build-up. Liverpool’s No. 9 was a force outside the box as well as inside. He closed down defenders and tracked back, contributing more for the team than Lineker did. I am such an admirer of thoroughbred attacking talent I could never dispute Lineker’s area of expertise, or his success, but I just felt Rushie gave more and I’d pick him ahead of Lineker every day of the week. Gwladys Street might not appreciate the irony but, without Lineker, Everton won the Cup-Winners’ Cup and the League. With Lineker scoring 38 goals, Everton won nothing.
At half-time, Howard’s team still looked on course for the trophy. I glanced at Al, who’d long felt Liverpool were jinxed in the Cup, not having won it since 1974. Trophy after trophy had fallen into our clutches but not the FA Cup, and I began to think maybe there really was a curse on Liverpool. I looked across at Craig, knowing he needed picking up.
‘There’s forty-five minutes left,’ I said to Craig. ‘Don’t blow it now, son. You’ve worked too hard to let it slip away in just one game. Let’s not come off with anything left in the tank. Anything we’ve got, let’s spend it out there.’
By the time we reached the distant dressing room it was almost time to come back out. The players were quiet. Needing to raise their spirits, I remembered something Old Bob had told me: ‘In times of trouble, the best way to get players’ attention is to speak softly because they have to concentrate on what you’re saying.’ At certain key points during this testing season, I’d raised my voice, shouting when required, but the managers I admired most in this tough profession were those who can go through the gears emotionally. If a player deserved some credit, protection or sympathy, I’d soothe them with praise, which made any angry outbursts more effective.
‘If a manager shouts all the time, it washes over players,’ Bob had said. ‘Pick your moments.’ Half-time in a Cup final with a group of shattered players slumped on chairs in front of me was not the moment for verbal fireworks. Quietly but firmly, echoing Bob’s style, I told my team how close they were to turning a good season into a great one. Liverpool’s tradition was to reach out that bit further, stretching for another trophy when other teams would give up the chase.
‘Look,’ I said. ‘We’ve come a long way this season. We’ve won the League Championship. The Cup is there for us if we want it bad enough. When we come back in here, I don’t want any regrets. The FA Cup final is not a rehearsal. This is it. Let’s have a right go. Come on.’ With that, we headed out into the fray again, a more confident step in our stride. Marching back up the tunnel, I thought I’d hit the right note with those words. My faith in the players was immense and if you can’t believe in the team who’ve just won the League Championship, who can you believe in? I knew Liverpool were capable of taking away the FA Cup. We just had to get the ball down and play the Liverpool way.
I subsequently learned that Kevin Sheedy thought Everton had Liverpool on the run, a miscalculation of the situation. Barring Lineker’s goal, our defence was never on a state of high alert. Only 12 minutes was required for Liverpool’s improved mood to make Sheedy reconsider his blinkered appraisal of the game’s destiny. When Ronnie intercepted a pass from Gary Stevens, Everton’s high line was always going to be vulnerable to a quick delivery behind it. Molby was beginning to make full use of Wembley’s vast acreage and played the ball through, creating the opening Rushie loved best. One-on-one with Bobby Mimms, there could be only one winner. Rushie. 1–1. Who was on the run now?
Determined to regain the initiative, Howard gestured Everton forward. Alan cleared a cross and was desperately unfortunate the ball fell to Graeme Sharp, whose header brought a spectacular tip-over save from Bruce at his agile best. In television interviews afterwards, Bruce described it as a ‘kangaroo save’ because of the bouncing motion he made in leaping to push Sharp’s header over. The Press feasted on this ‘kangaroo’ morsel from Bruce but it was a wind-up. It was not the first time Bruce flicked the ball over the bar rather than catch it and risk falling over the line. Kangaroo! I always felt Bruce’s imagination knew no bounds.
Midfield now belonged to Jan. For someone lacking in natural athletic grace, Jan didn’t half get up quickly to support Rushie. Just after the hour mark, Jan knocked the ball down the line for Rushie to chase with Derek Mountfield. The Everton centre-back was one of the best defenders in the game at that time, a player rarely beaten for speed or movement, but Rushie was a class apart. Controlling the ball, he looked square for a player and who was there? Jan. What a game Molby was having. He was everywhere. Taking the ball, Jan hammered it across. I missed but, fortunately, Craig had made another lung-breaking run and he rammed the ball past Mimms. 2–1.
Everton were on the run now. Sympathy for our neighbours and ancient rivals never entered my thinking. Ruthlessness has always been a feature of Liverpool’s mind-set and, with six minutes remaining, Jan and Ronnie combined to send Rushie through on another murderous raid. 3–1. A still camera with a motor-drive captured the moment when Rushie’s shot hit the back of the net, dislodging a camera. In the background was my secretary, Sheila, and Kelly and Paul jumping for joy as Liverpool won the Cup.
As we began to climb the 39 steps to collect the trophy, Al paused. ‘Just getting my breath back, Gaffer,’ he panted. So I stopped and Al accelerated past me. He just wanted to beat me up to get the Cup. The cheek! He deserved it, though. Al had contributed another superb season for grateful employers. While Al lifted the Cup, headlines were being prepared in salute of Rushie and Jan. In the dressing room, we all rushed to congratulate Kevin MacDonald, Liverpool’s unsung hero that hot, momentous afternoon in north-west London. He got in among Everton’s midfield, taking the fight to Reidy, reclaiming the ball time after time. Never one of the club’s most celebrated footballers, Kevin Mac will always be remembered fondly for turning the blue tide back at Wembley in May 1986.
Liverpool were champions at celebrating and the party to mark the Double began in the Wembley bath, a big square tank about five feet deep.
‘They must start running this on the Friday,’ Al laughed. At that moment, Jimmy Taylor, a Liverpool fan and friend of the players leapt in with us. He was fully dressed – shirt, jeans, trainers, the works. Somehow he’d sneaked into the dressing room and just wanted to join us. As he surfaced from under the water, he said, ‘If my time is up, I can go happily now. It can’t get any better than this. We’ve done the double. We’ve beaten Everton at Wembley. That’ll do me.’ With that, Jimmy climbed out of the bath and walked away, a smile on his face and soap-suds in his hair. Laughter followed him out of the door.
When we emerged, it was less easy to celebrate. Liverpool had too much respect for Everton to gloat. The relationship between Howard and myself was fantastic. I knew he’d never have a pop at Liverpool and I certainly wouldn’t at Everton. Howard was a superb manager for Everton, always close to his players, always wanting them to speak their minds so they’d do everything for him. Everton players had a strong bond with Howard and with each other, and with Liverpool in a strange way. We still see Andy Gray, Peter Reid, Derek Mountfield, Graeme Sharp and Kevin Ratcliffe for a chat and a drink. Back then, the hurt filling their hearts must have been so great. Everton lost the League to Liverpool after being favourites, and lost the FA Cup final after taking the lead, so this was a double whammy in every sense. That’s why we kept the noise down in Everton’s earshot.
Anybody who joined Liverpool was immediately taught the importance of being a good winner, of being sensitive to the anguish of vanquished opponents. I always believed this dignity in victory ensured that a lot of people outside Anfield didn’t mind us winning. That tradition had begun during Shankly’s distinguished era and been passed down the generations, so there was something wonderfully uplifting and appropriate to hear Liverpool fans chanting ‘Shankly’ at the final whistle. He started it all. Each Liverpool manager has carried the torch lit by Shanks. I never stopped to consider what winning the Double meant. Some of the papers compared Liverpool’s feat to Spurs in 1961 and Arsenal in 1971. At no stage did I consider comparing myself with Bill Nicholson or Bertie Mee, and certainly not with a long night now in prospect. There was a Double to toast.
Liverpool stayed at the Mountbatten, a quietly elegant hotel on Seven Dials in Covent Garden. Heading down to the bar for some preparatory work before the night on the town, Craig and I got trapped in the lift.
‘It doesn’t get any better than this,’ I remarked to Craig, putting my arm around his shoulder.
‘What, Gaffer. Stuck in a lift with you?’
‘No! Two trophies. Make the most of it, son.’
We did that evening. After laying the groundwork in the Mountbatten bar, I grabbed the FA Cup and announced, ‘Come on, let’s go down to Trafalgar Square. All the punters will be there.’
‘No you’re not, Kenny,’ came a familiarly stern voice.
‘Why not? The punters will all be there.’
‘Exactly. Somebody might nick it. You spent all season trying to win the Cup. I’m not having you losing it now.’ With that, Marina took the Cup off me. A shot of disappointment mingled with the alcohol in my bloodstream as my great dream of being in with the fans, savouring a trophy from their passionate perspective, faded. Professionals loved the occasion but supporters seemed to have more fun for longer. Punters could enjoy the build-up, the anticipation, the game itself and the party afterwards.
‘Well, what about Stringfellows then?’ I asked Marina, hoping for a compromise. Marina nodded, so the players, wives and girlfriends sauntered down the road to this celebrated nightclub, passing the Cup between us and waving to the punters. I looked proudly at my players, thinking what a band of brothers they were, strong men who watched each other’s backs off the pitch and on. No cliques damaged dressing-room unity. For geographic reasons only, Liverpool’s players split up when going for a drink back home. Southport boys, such as Lawro, Al, Vic, Macca and Albert, went out as a team. Over the Wirral, Rushie and Jan formed a good axis. But nothing could divide us as a team.
Arriving at Stringfellows, the players swiftly learned that the wives had been in the night before. The women were unbelievable. They all got on, all loved a night out, all seemed to share the belief that the game itself was an unnecessary interruption to the weekend’s socialising. The wives attended the final but we were left in no doubt that it was a heavy burden for our nearest and dearest. They demanded we got to the final, of course. Every August, Marina warned me, ‘If you don’t go to Wembley, you’re in trouble.’ Professional pride at reaching a final with Liverpool was complemented by the personal relief that the dog-house remained boarded up for a welcome few months.
Having half-recovered from a night at Stringfellows, we turned up at the airport with throbbing heads. Howard and his squad were seated in the front, so we had a slightly awkward walk to our seats at the back, particularly as Hansen was holding the Cup. Stuart Hall interviewed us, and as the television presenter asked me questions, Marina kidded around, pouring Champagne over me. Stuart turned his microphone to her.