Graeme was busy imposing himself on the dressing room. Among those heading out of the building were Speedo, Peter, Macca, Gary Gillespie, Steve Staunton, Gary Ablett and Glenn Hysen. Over the years, a fallacy has spread like poison ivy that Graeme inherited a Dad’s Army squad off me. After I left, some people claimed I jumped ship because the team were ageing. The figures certainly don’t give any credence to such an allegation. Hansen was 36 and he packed it in because of his knee, anyway. The next oldest were Glenn Hysen and Gary Gillespie at 31, an age when many defenders were at their peak. The next group comprised Beardsley, Nicol, Whelan and Rushie who were still the right side of 30. So the balance was good, particularly as I’d stocked up with good kids who were beginning to come through. A production line had long been in place.
The first guy I got in as Director of Youth was Malcolm Cook, a professional with Motherwell, Bradford and Newport County, and coach with a few clubs, including Doncaster Rovers. Malcolm left after two years when I happened to bump into Steve Heighway at a game in 1989. I knew Steve was working in the States.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked.
‘I’m director of coaching at the Clearwater Chargers.’
‘You don’t fancy a job here do you?’ He did.
Steve came back and his strong personality was exactly what Liverpool needed to get the kids coming through. Michael Owen was nurtured by Steve. Jamie Carragher was already in the system. He’d left to have a go at Everton and returned under Steve Heighway’s wing. Carra trained with my son Paul in the evenings at Netherton and I’d go down and join in. Carra’s developed into one of the top centre-halves in Europe but he started as a striker, a good one, with Bootle Boys. I was so committed to signing up these good kids I had the best ones brought to the office. Steve McManaman came in with his dad to speak to me and I convinced them to sign. Robbie Fowler trained at Melwood in the evenings and one day came in with his dad. Again, I persuaded him to commit himself to Liverpool at 16, so no one can question the quality of my legacy.
One day in 1990, I was driving out of Melwood and spotted Robbie, then a 15-year-old beginning to make a name for himself in the youth team. Robbie was standing at a bus-stop with his dad.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Into town,’ Robbie replied. ‘The Dingle.’
‘Jump in.’
‘But you live in Southport, the other way.’
‘It’s not far, Robbie, hop in. I’ll give you a lift.’ Having deposited them in town, I turned round and sped back up to Southport. On seeing Robbie at Melwood the following morning, I asked, ‘Did you get home all right?’
‘Yeah, no problem, but my dad was gutted.’
‘Why? I dropped him off where you wanted.’
‘No, no. Not that. That was great. Ta.’
‘So why was your dad gutted?’
‘None of his mates saw him coming out of your car!’
I went out of my way to recruit good young talent. Jamie Redknapp came up from Bournemouth to train at Melwood when he was 16 and I’d have taken him there and then because he had this great presence. Even at that young age, Jamie took control of games. With Harry as his dad, Jamie’s good breeding showed on the pitch. I pleaded with Harry to sell him but he wouldn’t, arguing that Jamie was too young to leave Bournemouth. We just had to wait until Harry was ready to let Jamie go. Our patience and quiet persistence was rewarded and Liverpool landed a gem in Jamie.
I kept refreshing the squad. Mike Marsh was spotted by Tommo on a public pitch up in Kirkby and he was starting to get involved. I made sure Marshy quickly became familiar with the first team, encouraging him to be on speaking terms with Rushie, Digger and Peter, all of whom he revered, being a Liverpool fan.
‘I know they’re your idols,’ I said to Marshy. ‘But now you are coming to play with them, don’t let yourself down by being overawed. If you make a mistake, it’s how you react. Enjoy yourself. I’m including you because you’re good enough.’
Gentle initiation helped those boys settle in, so it wasn’t too much of a culture shock when they were promoted from the reserves full-time. That was the Liverpool way, building for the future. We brought Nicky Tanner for £20,000 from Bristol Rovers. Nicky played 32 League games the season after I left, so that was a good inheritance for Graeme. Steve Harkness came from Carlisle, having impressed when playing up front against Liverpool in an FA Youth Cup tie at Anfield. Big Don Hutchison came from Hartlepool. They were educated in the art and craft of football and didn’t do too badly.
Graeme’s time as manager of Liverpool wasn’t a huge success, because, I believe, he made too many changes too quickly. Finishing sixth, Liverpool’s lowest placing since 1965, was a development that never gave me any pleasure. I had too much respect for Graeme and Liverpool to say that I’d recently won the League. Leaving Anfield never stopped me loving Liverpool.
16
EXILE
T
HE
call was a pleasant surprise, a welcome reminder of my Liverpool home. It came through from reception at Ewood Park to inform me that Peter Robinson was at the ground, picking up tickets for the Liverpool game the following day, and he wanted to say ‘hello’. The date was 2 April 1993 and I’d been manager at Blackburn Rovers since October 1991, enjoying the task of rebuilding this famous old Lancashire mill-town club. Driving into Ewood, I saw PBR standing there, and all the Liverpool memories raced back, the European Cups, League titles, open-topped bus rides and non-stop banter.
‘Hop in Peter, I’ll give you a lift back up to the car park,’ I said. When he’d settled in the passenger seat, PBR turned to me and asked, ‘Kenny, when are you coming home?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘When are you coming back to Liverpool, Kenny?’
‘Peter, you just have to ask.’
‘OK,’ he said.
‘It’s up to yourselves,’ I added. ‘You just need to phone.’ PBR nodded, climbed out of the car and walked across to his.
Liverpool never phoned, though, and regret has been my constant companion ever since. My hopes were lifted and dashed. I’d have leapt at the chance to rejoin Liverpool. The people at Blackburn were special, really unassuming, but Anfield was home. Ewood never felt like home. I had total respect for Rovers, and deep admiration for their benefactor, Jack Walker. Jack made the dream possible, supplying the finance, reconstructing the stadium, but I disagreed with Jack after Rovers were promoted in 1992 when he questioned one of the players I wanted to bring in.
‘Convince me, Kenny,’ Jack said about my transfer target.
‘What?’ I replied, my blood beginning to boil.
‘Convince me.’
‘I’ll not convince you and you can stick the job. If it wouldn’t be an embarrassment to me to walk away from you, I’d be off, so forget it.’ My assistant, Ray Harford, was in the meeting and grabbed me outside.
‘Kenny, what are you doing?’
‘I’m not managing like that,’ I told Ray. ‘It’s not irresponsible, the money we’re spending. We’re not indulgent. I’ve always told Jack I’d spend his money as if it were my own, and I have done so far. The boys who’ve come in haven’t been greedy. I shouldn’t have to convince Jack if I feel the player is right for Blackburn Rovers. I never had to convince the board at Liverpool. They trusted my judgement.’
From that day on I was just serving my time at Ewood. I thought of Liverpool, of how PBR and the board always backed my judgement, never putting obstacles in my way. Some people might suggest it was rash to have that defensive train of thought so early at Blackburn. Not for me. I was livid. At least I honoured my contract.
On leaving Liverpool, I’d had a range of offers. The chance to take over Sheffield Wednesday was briefly presented to me but I couldn’t have sat in the dug-out, knowing the Leppings Lane End was to my left. I just couldn’t have looked towards that goal, knowing what I’d seen in 1989. Bernard Tapie called, offering me the Marseille job, and I agreed, but then the agent who’d been involved in the deal phoned, telling me what he required as his commission. Even I know the French for no. ‘Non,’ I told him. I never heard from him or Tapie again.
Believing that Liverpool might not come back in for me, I settled on Rovers. The early days reminded me of when I started out as a player, washing the kit, putting up the goalposts and checking the training ground at Pleasington for dog mess. Melwood it wasn’t. A road ran through the middle of the training pitches towards the crematorium. The club received letters from the council, saying: ‘Will you kindly refrain from shooting when a hearse goes past.’ I tried to instil some of the camaraderie we had at Anfield. Graeme Le Saux was a wee bit different because he read books and was into art, unlike Alan Shearer, Mike Newell, Tim Flowers and David Batty, but, in the main, the lads got on. Graeme and Batts had their scrap in Moscow but that was just frustration over the poor performance spilling over. Otherwise, the team spirit was good and the sound of their laughter took me back to Anfield. Before kick-off the Blackburn lads used to play a game of keepie-uppie in the temporary dressing room we used while the main stand was renovated. I’m sure the chairman wasn’t chuffed because, inevitably, the ball got banged against the ceiling and the sound-proofing tiles came down. I didn’t approve of the damage but it made us strong and I approved of the sort of Liverpool-style togetherness.
The mood on the bus echoed Liverpool. At the back of the bus on the way to away matches, the players had a game with the emergency exit, which they took in turns to tap with a hammer. One day, they actually smashed the window, so I came storming down the aisle.
‘What’s that? Have some of those idiot kids been throwing bricks?’
‘Oh, yes, Gaffer, must have been,’ said the players. ‘Terrible.’
I discovered about the emergency exit game later from reading Batty’s book. Inwardly, I loved their comradeship because it reminded me of Liverpool.
On 15 September 1992, I returned to Anfield, a strange experience akin to finding people had moved into my home while I’d popped out to the shops. Everybody was very welcoming and there were familiar faces everywhere. Karen was in reception. ‘Hello, JR,’ she said. Karen always called me JR because she felt our house in Southport resembled Southfork. Fred was still on the door of the players’ entrance, the stewards were the same, cleaning ladies the same. Anfield felt as homely and special as ever.
I wasn’t going back for a party, though, I was going for three points with Blackburn. Walking into the away dressing room felt very odd, although I’d been quartered there when Scotland played Wales. Coming out of the tunnel, I leaned across to shake hands with Ronnie and Roy. Bugsy took my hand and kept hold, trying to pull me into their dug-out, my old Liverpool home. I laughed away, perhaps hiding some of the emotion inside. All the triumphs, all the reminiscences of the great nights, came rolling back. Even though I was annoyed by our 2–1 defeat, at least I took away the uplifting memory of the Kop reminding me how good my time at Liverpool Football Cub had been. I wouldn’t have disagreed with them.
Fate kept me in contact with Liverpool in the shape of David Moores, who’d become chairman in September 1991. The following summer I bumped into him in Marbella, and we went for a Chinese meal. The next year, I’d taken a break on the Orient Express with Marina, and David was down the dining carriage. He sent a wee box containing an orchid for Marina. I scribbled a note back.
‘Don’t try to chat up my missus,’ I wrote. ‘And when are you going to use joined-up writing?’
‘Didn’t Marina like the flowers?’ came the message back from David.
‘The last time my wife asked me for flowers, I spent two million quid,’ I wrote.
David never replied. Rovers had beaten Liverpool to the signature of Tim Flowers from Southampton. I knew Tim wanted to come to Rovers because of his friendship with Alan Shearer. When I heard Liverpool were in for Tim, I told him, ‘Tim, if you want to speak to Graeme Souness, you’re only going to tell him you’ve no interest in going to Liverpool. I think you should treat Graeme with respect and get your manager to tell him you don’t want to go there.’
Before the start of the 1994–95 season, a year that was to climax so gloriously for Rovers with the Premier League title, the chairman, Robert Coar, called me into his office.
‘We want to give you a new contract, Kenny,’ Robert said, pointing out that my current deal expired in October 1994.
‘No, I’m not signing.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ll honour my contract to October, but I’m not staying.’
‘OK,’ said chairman. ‘You can take some gardening leave until October.’ I felt he was challenging me, not believing I’d stand down.
‘Aye, no problem,’ I said and walked out. My time at Blackburn looked over. The next thing I knew, Ray Harford was on the phone, sounding nervous.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Well, Ray, my contract is up in October and the board have asked me to sign a new one. I told them I’ll honour the contract I’ve got but I’m going no further.’
‘You can’t do that,’ said Ray, shocked.
‘I told them I’ll honour the contract, Ray. Just leave it.’
My hope was that Liverpool would come in for me. They’d have to move quickly, getting me in for pre-season and paying Rovers compensation to October. When I was on holiday, I got a phone-call from Liverpool.
‘Will you come and speak to us?’ PBR asked.
‘Of course.’
‘We just want to know whether you would be interested in coming back to the club,’ Peter said.
‘Of course I’m interested.’
I couldn’t pack fast enough, jumping on a plane and, once back in England, hurtling up to David Moores’ house. PBR, Roy Evans, Tom Saunders and David were already there. Scarcely had I sat down when Peter announced, ‘We don’t think the time’s right for you to come home.’ I was taken aback.
‘What?’ I said.