The growing distance between player and supporter also troubles me. Back in the Seventies and Eighties, punters thought nothing about seeing a player out on the town, having a drink and a meal with mates or girlfriends. Nowadays, jealousy and camera-phones stalk the streets, with punters looking for someone famous to prey on. If an England international is pictured having one beer, he’s automatically painted as bladdered, and the story is embellished. The modern footballer is isolated – placed up on a pedestal that also serves as a coconut shy. Players must be so careful about contact with the public. For all the images of players as prima donnas, I’ve never met one who believes he’s above the law of the land, and he’d be very foolish to, because many a policeman would adore the kudos of arresting a star. The police love sending out a loud message that if an England player can get done for parking on a double-yellow line, anybody can. Players must be responsible, though.
I believe that society is more questioning and less sympathetic than it used to be and, sadly, that prevents footballers living a normal life. Players are easy targets for abuse from some idiot wanting to make a name for himself, who may be embittered anyway. But why shouldn’t players earn millions? If clubs rake in tens of millions of pounds from the Premier League, and more in commercial deals, then Stevie, Fernando, Wayne Rooney and Frank Lampard deserve every penny their agents can get them. Where I fear the game veers down a path marked financial madness is at clubs, such as Portsmouth, who spend money they haven’t got, and everyone involved, barring the fans, deserves to suffer. Average clubs granting long, lucrative contracts to average players soon find themselves on suicide watch. Players are rewarded before delivering and that can deaden ambition. My son Paul was driven to be the very best he could be as a footballer, but when he bought himself a BMW at 21, I bristled.
‘What are you doing, Paul?’
‘Dad, I’m never going to be 21 again. If I can afford it, I’ll have a nice car. It won’t affect my training, my hunger to win. I won’t be custard-pieing it in people’s faces.’ Paul was right, I guess. Why shouldn’t he enjoy himself? I knew it wouldn’t lessen his hunger, but such luxuries must be earned. That’s what I tell the youngsters at Liverpool.
Disciplining players is nearly impossible for a manager nowadays because they don’t fear anything. Fine them? So what? Here’s an exchange I know occurred between a Premier League manager and a star player.
‘Can I take Monday off?’ asked the star player.
‘No, you’re in training. You’ll be fined two weeks’ wages if you don’t turn up,’ replied the manager.
‘OK, here’s the twenty grand. I’ll not be in Monday.’ And he wrote out a cheque!
That was a decade ago. It’s even worse now. The bigger the pay-packets, the greater the player power. Stars control clubs, whispering stories to an awe-struck chairman, undermining the manager. Clubs back in my day were strong. If a player was out of order, he’d be shipped out or not paid. It’s not like that nowadays.
The Bosman ruling was great for players who had genuine problems with a selfish club, but the agreement was abused by people just trying to find the exit. I loathe the Bosman rule because it has bred uncertainty and greed. A player can now negotiate with another club six months from the end of his contract but, in reality, deals are verbally agreed 18 months in advance, and that can affect the player’s commitment. The whole football transfer market needs to operate with greater integrity, and some players should have more pride in their work, showing more support for the manager and more passion for the cause. Football can’t just be about the next Bentley, the next Caribbean holiday, the school fees.
I hate the modern footballer who takes the money and doesn’t bother whether he starts, stays on the bench or has the afternoon off shopping. An offer of 100 grand a week wouldn’t stir me, not if it came without a chance of glory in the major competitions. My wages allowed me to provide for my family and that was all that ever mattered to me. How many cars can you drive at a time? Only one in my experience. As I sit in the Main Stand at Anfield, lost in reminiscence, I actually feel deeply sorry for this 21st Century over-paid under-achiever who will never know the joy I had in winning three European Cups, in playing for a team that was the most dominant in English history, gaining friends and memories for life and bringing such pride to my family.
18
THE FAMILY HOME
M
Y
Liverpool home has been made by my wife Marina, and I look back with tears in my eyes to the time I almost lost her. It was March 2003, and I was sitting in the kitchen at home when Marina came home after seeing her consultant, Lee Martin, a wonderful man who’d just given her the results of a scan.
‘I’ve got breast cancer,’ she said. ‘I need chemotherapy.’
I only remember the two Cs, ‘cancer’ and ‘chemotherapy’. The shock ran through me. A generation earlier and that was you gone, finished, no chance of recovery, but women nowadays are more aware of the threat of breast cancer. The medical people detect it earlier, giving a better chance of survival. Our family coped with that deeply stressful time with resilience and, at times, humour. After Marina underwent a double mastectomy operation, Paul visited her in hospital and was messing about, trying to lift her spirits, as sons do. Paul was tickling her feet, hiding behind the curtain and jumping out, but Marina couldn’t laugh or she’d burst her stitches. Eventually, she just spewed everywhere. The kids and I knew how serious Marina’s plight was but that was how we handled the pressure, with a wee bit of humour. Some people would call it black humour but it worked for us. In private, we could be more serious, but there was no point sitting about being morbid, and Marina would never have tolerated that. The most important thing was that Marina was positive she’d fight off this poison in her body. Fortunately, the doctors caught the cancer early enough.
Mr Martin, an expert in the field of breast surgery, wrote the definitive paper on breast reconstruction for the whole of Britain. He was very mindful of the psychological effects of a mastectomy, and he rebuilt Marina’s breasts. She was so brave and determined. Even when the chemotherapy took her hair, she just bought these great wigs, which the kids loved messing about with.
‘It’s better to have no hair than no life,’ Marina said. Her strength in fighting the cancer gave me strength. If Marina wasn’t stressed, why should I be? I was only driving her to and from hospital for chemotherapy sessions. It wasn’t me getting pumped with drugs, but it was tough. I couldn’t believe this nightmare that had descended on her, but we got on with things. That’s how Marina and I were brought up. Fortunately, we came out at the other end of the tunnel.
‘I’d like to do something to help,’ said Marina when Mr Martin finally gave her the all-clear. That was only right and proper because Marina was cared for fantastically well. Each time I visited the hospitals, whether the Clatterbridge Centre for Oncology or University Hospital, Aintree, where Marina was operated on, I marvelled at the time, patience and love the nurses bestowed on their patients. Marina and I both felt that cancer patients and their families had to do too much travelling, criss-crossing Merseyside. Marina’s chemotherapy was sometimes administered at Aintree and sometimes over the Wirral at Clatterbridge.
‘Some of the facilities leave a wee bit to be desired as well,’ Marina said. In truth, it was remarkable how well the nurses coped.
‘What can we do?’ Marina asked Mr Martin.
‘Well, as you know, the facilities are pretty primitive,’ said Mr Martin. ‘We’d really like a new chemotherapy unit.’
‘OK. I was thinking of a golf day!’ I said.
‘We’ll have a go,’ promised Marina, who was already planning, already determined to make the whole cancer experience less stressful.
She started the Marina Dalglish Appeal, raising money to build a Centre for Oncology on the fifth floor of University Hospital, Aintree. When I first set foot on that floor, it reminded me of the old ward in that television drama,
The Royal
. It required so much work and money, but people’s generosity was staggering and the Appeal soon passed the £2 million mark. Marina’s involvement meant every penny was a prisoner, going only to the charity and not on any overheads. She got free office space from FMG, a financial services company.
The Appeal is still going strong. Marina is helped by a good friend, Diane Whalley, and our daughters all chip in. Lynsey is often in the offices – sometimes they need a younger brain to get the computer going. Kelly is used to public speaking from her TV career, so she makes speeches and presentations. Wee Lauren goes along and makes speeches on behalf of Marina if she’s not there. Lauren’s so young and yet she stands up in front of packed rooms and talks away. I’m so proud of all of them. When Paul’s back from his coaching in the States, he mucks in as well. All the children want to help because it was their mother who suffered and survived.
With the funds in place, they gutted the fifth floor, redesigned it and when the Centre opened on 4 June 2007, it was truly magnificent, like walking into a wood-panelled spa. A curved walkway leads past large fish-tanks and flat-screen tellies, through a nice reception and waiting area, and into the patients’ part. The windows were enlarged to give bigger views over Liverpool. Andrew Collinge, who owns one of the top hairdressing salons in Liverpool, gives the lady patients a pamper day once a week, doing their nails and hair. They come up from the ward downstairs and love it. The nurses are still brilliant and the level of care remains the same but the Centre offers more dignity to those being treated.
Clatterbridge then approached us about the Marina Dalglish Appeal helping them build a radiotherapy centre over this side of the Mersey. Clatterbridge had been fantastic to Marina, and it wasn’t their fault they were over the Wirral. I’d talked to all these people making long journeys. ‘It’s too much that people going in for radiotherapy have to go through that tunnel an hour and a half each way every day, assuming they have a car,’ I said to Marina. ‘They go to Clatterbridge, have their treatment, come home, have a sleep and go back again. It’s needed this side of the water.’
Requiring £15 million, Clatterbridge asked us whether we could raise £5 million. ‘I don’t know but we’ll have a go,’ said Marina, who loves a challenge. The Appeal had a few quid left over from Aintree and Marina threw herself again into the money-raising mission. She’s still at it. We’ve had golf days, a ball, a buy a brick campaign that the Liverpool players have been fantastic promoting, and even a couple of matches. It’s a great feeling knowing that every pound generated goes towards this amazing new Radiotherapy Centre, specialising in really innovative surgery. It’s attached to the Walton Neurosurgery Centre, so the kids with brain tumours will not need to take an ambulance over to Sheffield for radiotherapy. They can just be pushed on a trolley down the corridor. It’ll make life so much easier.
Marina’s hard work was recognised by the Queen when she was awarded an MBE in the 2009 New Year Honours List. I know it’s a fantastic accolade but I also know my wife, and Marina wasn’t seeking any public honour when embarking on her charity venture. Marina just wanted to help those suffering the difficult times she endured. She has very strong family values and showing compassion for others runs through her veins. In adversity, the true personality comes out and that’s how Marina dealt with Hillsborough and how she dealt with the cancer. Now she’s driving through this campaign to raise money for Clatterbridge. Marina doesn’t want her name up in lights and, in fact, she wanted Aintree to take her name down, but they said the sign had put too many holes in the wall. Marina’s a very private person, and at the fund-raising ball for the Appeal in March 2010, her speech set a world record for brevity. Here it is in all its glory: ‘This is my first public speech, so thanks very much for coming.’ With that, she sat down. The whole room applauded because people respect Marina’s humility and determination. She’s so wrapped up in the cancer charity, she’s got her teeth into this fund-raising for Clatterbridge and won’t let go until it’s finished.
I am forever in her debt for bringing up our four children so beautifully, teaching them right from wrong, making them understand the importance of discipline. Kelly, Paul, Lynsey and Lauren are all well-balanced, responsible, loyal people, and that’s a tribute to Marina. The kids understood that just because their father was in the public eye didn’t give them any right to put on airs and graces. Imbued with a strong family ethos, each of my children will stand up for me if they hear anyone being critical. They fight my corner. All my life, I’ve protected the kids, keeping them out of the papers. We once did an advert with Kelly, Paul and Lynsey, but I made sure it was with somebody I trusted, Gordon Shaw, who worked for Scottish Farm Dairy Foods, which is now Wiseman Dairies. We made this ad in Glasgow for Fresh and Low Healthy Milk, and the kids were very relaxed about it. They only became excited when I explained what the reward was. ‘You get fish and chips afterwards,’ I told them.
They consider Liverpool home, just as I do. As a family, we put down roots there quickly. From the moment Marina, Paul, Kelly and I arrived from Glasgow in 1977, we were very well looked after by Jack Ferguson at the Holiday Inn. While I was out training, Marina went down for tea and toast with the front-desk staff, who became friends. The chambermaid ended up as babysitter. That’s the Liverpool way, everybody so accommodating. During our eight months of house-hunting, the Holiday Inn really felt like home, and Jack, a genuine character, actually sounded sorry to see us leave.
‘We got Rentokil in when you moved out,’ he told me a couple of months later.
‘Why?’
‘To clean that suede suite in the sitting room! Your kids!’ That poor suite took a battering with a twenty-three-month-old and a six-month-old dribbling all over it.