My Liverpool Home (2 page)

As I sit in the Main Stand, I think of what Liverpool fans have done for the team. I think about Istanbul with the team trailing 3–0 at half-time and the fans defiantly singing ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’. Down in the dressing room, holding their heads in despair at being outplayed by AC Milan, Stevie, Carra and the boys must have felt the return of hope on hearing the fans. They learned then, as I did, how much Liverpool means to the people. Fans obsess about the club, going to work and talking about Liverpool and then going to the pub and talking about Liverpool. As a professional, it’s humbling to witness how they live and breathe Liverpool FC. It’s helpful for players to understand how much the club means to people. If that dedication and love for Liverpool is matched by the players on the pitch, it will go a long way to bringing success.

When I wore the shirt, the dressing room’s connection with the Kop was incredibly strong. Nowadays, I don’t know if the players are allowed to be in touch with what the club means, especially those coming in from abroad, although Carra and Stevie explain to the foreigners the importance of the Kop, the history of Liverpool, and Fernando Torres, for one, became immersed in the tradition. Now that I’m working at the Academy, I know the Spanish coaches here at Kirkby are adopting the Liverpool philosophy. They’ve gone online, picked up the songs, know about fan culture and have come to understand the Kop. They share my love for the home I found in the Liverpool dressing room.

2

MOVING HOME

W
HEN
I first stepped into the dressing room at my future Liverpool home, none of the players knew who I was and, to be honest, I hardly knew who I was. Only 15, I’d never travelled away from Glasgow before. Suddenly, there I was, blushing as red as the shirts of the players in front of me, asking some of Bill Shankly’s legendary players for their autograph. It was August 1966 and my love affair with Liverpool was under way. When Liverpool’s scout in Scotland spotted me up front for Glasgow United, Bill Shankly invited me down for a trial. Also on the train south was another Scot with a kitbag full of dreams, George Adams, now Ross County’s director of football. Emerging from Lime Street Station, George and I walked across to the YMCA where Liverpool booked us in for 10 nights. In the morning, a car took us to Anfield, making us feel incredibly grown up, particularly when we saw Shanks waiting to greet us.

‘Right lads,’ he said, ‘get changed.’ Liverpool’s training gear was amazing, far removed from the sleek kit Stevie and Carra wear now. Hardly the most strapping of teenagers, I almost got lost pulling this polo-neck jumper over my head, a big, knitted affair better suited to an Aberdeen trawlerman.

‘Now get on the bus,’ Shanks smiled, ‘and I’ll see you at Melwood.’

Climbing the steps, I glanced nervously down the aisle and stretching out in front of me was a
Who’s Who
of British football. George and I nudged each other almost in disbelief. England had just won the World Cup and there was Roger Hunt, so close I could almost reach out and touch him. Nearby sat Ian Callaghan, another of Alf Ramsey’s famous players. Then I saw Ian St John. The Saint! I’d seen the Saint play many times, for Motherwell at Ibrox and for Scotland at Hampden Park, but never this close. For any young Scot, the goalscoring Saint was an idol. My reverential gaze strayed further down the bus, encountering the familiar figure of Willie Stevenson, such a stylish left-half and a particular favourite of my father’s during Willie’s Rangers days. Strong characters left an impression on every seat, real men including Tommy Smith and Ron Yeats, tough centre-halves who could stop a striker with a stare. I felt like I was walking among giants of the game.

‘Sit anywhere, lads,’ Shanks shouted. Anywhere! Stopping our star-gazing, George and I threw ourselves into the nearest available seats. Simply being on the bus felt good enough but then the banter began, jokes flying through the air, coming thick and fast. Rolling down the aisle came the Saint’s laughter. Even now, 44 years on, I always smile on hearing the unmistakable sound of the Saint around Anfield. The years disappear and I’m a teenager again, listening respectfully as a bus full of happy pros set off from Anfield to Melwood. All this chatter made me begin to realise Liverpool’s special nature. Even on retiring, players never fully leave Anfield, many choosing to put down roots locally and always returning for matches, functions and dinners. Attending an old players’ AGM in 2009, I looked around the room and there was Yeatsy, Saint, Cally and Willie. These famous men on the bus to Melwood were responsible for setting down Liverpool’s traditions: camaraderie, banter, hard work and a passion for the shirt. Liverpool’s DNA.

The man inspiring most awe in my impressionable mind was the manager who set Liverpool on the road to greatness. Coming down from Scotland and meeting Shanks, being greeted by this legend, was an emotional experience and I quickly understood why players ran through brick walls for Shanks. Like Jock Stein, whom I would play for at Celtic before coming south, Shanks exuded an unbelievable presence. If I stood in a mobbed room with my back to the door and Shanks walked in, I’d know instantly. Everybody would. ‘Shanks is here.’ An electric charge would shoot through the room and people would move and strain to get a look at the Great Man.

Like Big Jock, Shanks was very approachable. No starry airs or graces could be detected in the man on the bus to Melwood in 1966, although I soon appreciated Shanks’s sharp wit. As we boarded the bus one day, Shanks was accosted by a boy in a Rangers scarf.

‘Go on, Mr Shankly, gees us a game, a trial,’ said the lad, juggling a ball. ‘I’m good.’

‘OK,’ said Shanks. ‘There’s a trial on tonight.’ Shanks gave him details and the lad ran off, happy as Larry. The following morning, we were all intrigued to know how he’d done. As Shanks strode towards the bus, the lad appeared out of nowhere.

‘Mr Shankly, how did I do?’

‘Drive on,’ Shanks shouted at the driver. All the players looked at him.

‘How did he do?’ the Saint asked.

‘Him! The next trial he’ll get will be at the Old Bailey.’

A demanding manager, Shanks worked George and me hard. One day, Liverpool’s first team played a closed-door game at Anfield against Wrexham because Shanks was thinking of buying their full-backs, Stuart Mason and Peter Wall. Shanks told George and me to fag balls off the terraces. No fans were watching, so we hared around, collecting any stray shots or passes, mainly from Wrexham, not that they saw much of the ball. Liverpool won 9–0.

I got a chance to play when Shanks put me in against Southport and as I ran on to the pitch, wearing a Liverpool shirt for the first time, I never felt on a mission to impress anyone. I was just me, desperate to win as always. When we were losing 1–0, I had a simple chance to equalise but as I was about to roll the ball into the Southport net with my left foot, a wee guy called Jimmy Bowman nicked it off my toes and bloody missed. The anger that raged through me then I can still feel now. I hated Jimmy Bowman for ruining my chance. I would have scored. I’d a better chance with my weaker foot than Jimmy Bowman did with his stronger foot. Afterwards, I trudged off the Melwood pitch, still seething at the incident and at losing.

On 13 August, I savoured my first taste of a local rivalry that would stoke my competitive fire over many years. It was time to meet Everton, Liverpool’s neighbours and enemies, with the Charity Shield at stake. Adding to the excitement of my first Merseyside Derby was the thrill of jumping on the Soccer Bus, a shuttle service from the city centre, and sitting alongside all the fans heading to Goodison. After the Soccer Bus dropped us off near where the Dixie Dean statue stands now, George and I strode into Goodison, swept along on a tide of local fervour. Liverpool’s line-up remains etched in my memory: Lawrence, Lawler, Byrne, Smith, Yeats, Stevenson, Callaghan, Hunt, St John, Strong, Thompson. When Hunt got the winner, Goodison fell silent, if only temporarily.

At Anfield on Monday, I told George, ‘I’m going back to Glasgow soon and this is my last chance to get Willie Stevenson’s autograph.’ I said, ‘Dad will kill me if I don’t.’ Willie and all the first-team players were in the dressing room, preparing for training. I hesitated outside the door.

‘Go on, get in,’ urged George. Too many of my idols were inside and I hated the thought of making a fool of myself in front of them. Encouraged again by George, I finally plucked up courage, opened the door and inched my way in. Seeing Willie Stevenson, I walked across, clutching a piece of paper and a pen.

‘Will you sign this please, Willie?’

‘No.’ His answer was short and brutal, stunning me. My hero had refused. Just as I turned away, my heart broken, Willie said, ‘Oh, all right!’ Then Hunt, Cally, the Saint and all the players laughed. Their behaviour gave me a glimpse of the Liverpool way. This teasing was how the dressing room worked and how they made people feel at ease. As Willie signed, I felt even more that this could be home. My reverie was disrupted by Shanks beckoning me over.

‘Kenny, we want you to play in a trial on Tuesday.’ I should have been overjoyed but I wasn’t for a very simple reason. Rangers were due to face Celtic that night and I desperately wanted to go to Ibrox with Dad.

‘Sorry, Mr Shankly, but I can’t.’

‘What?’

Thinking quickly, I remembered that there was a trial for Under-16s on the Monday. I could play that and get to Lime Street first thing in the morning.

‘Mr Shankly, can’t I play in the 16s game?’

‘They’re older than you!’

‘Doesn’t bother me.’

After the Under-16s game, Shanks offered me a lift back into Liverpool. He could have chosen any of the 11 players but picked me, so I knew this was an honour. His kindness stayed with me. So did his words that day. As his assistant Reuben Bennett drove us to the YMCA, Shanks sat in the back with me. After chatting about Rangers, Shanks suddenly said, ‘Kenny, we like you. We think you’ll make a good player at Liverpool. We’d like to sign you. We’ll send our Scottish representative to see your mum and dad.’ Here was my chance.

‘Thank you,’ I muttered. ‘Thank you for the lift and thank you for the trial.’ On the train north, I thought over Liverpool’s offer but knew I was really too young to leave my parents, and I loved my football at my wee club, Glasgow United. Signing for Liverpool would mean missing watching Rangers every week, and I struggled to imagine a world without visits to Ibrox. Maybe Rangers might even want to sign me, although they’d shown no interest. Rangers were my team and when they got beaten that Tuesday night by Celtic, it hurt bad. The following morning, Shanks’s scout came to the house and explained Liverpool’s interest. The conversation proved a brief one as my parents and I had already made up our minds.

‘Kenny’s too young to leave home,’ said Dad.

I was also chased by West Ham. A fortnight after my Liverpool trip, I flew down to London and was put up in a bed and breakfast near Upton Park, rooming with Jimmy Mullen, who came down from Scotland with me. Another Glaswegian, Jimmy Lindsay, a pro at West Ham who went on to Watford, met us and took us to the B & B. Yet another Glaswegian, George Andrew, a centre-half who eventually moved to Crystal Palace, was there as well. A real buzz surrounded West Ham because of the World Cup, and even as a Scot, I appreciated that Bobby Moore, Martin Peters and Geoff Hurst were gods in claret and blue. West Ham’s manager, Ron Greenwood, was very welcoming, even inviting us to his house.

‘That’s a touch of class,’ I said to Jimmy Lindsay after Greenwood talked passionately about what a great club West Ham were and how well I’d fit in.

‘Go see the kit man and get yourself a pair of boots,’ Greenwood told me at the end of the week. For a young player who’d never worn boots from a recognised manufacturer before, to own a pair of Pumas felt like a rite of passage. I’d always worn copies of the main brands. The Co-op did a version of Puma boots with the stripe going from ankle to instep – the real one went ankle to toes. Timpsons, the shoemakers, did a boot with four stripes instead of the adidas three. To receive a pair of real boots, which I cleaned with a religious zeal after each game, was a truly special moment in my coming of age as a footballer.

The generosity of Ron Greenwood, one of football’s gentlemen, extended to my stomach as well as my feet. After we’d spent Friday morning doing sprints by the side of the Upton Park pitch, the players were handed luncheon vouchers for the greasy spoon around the corner. A stranger to East End customs, I carefully avoided the jellied eels. Greenwood also gave me tickets for West Ham’s home match the next day, 3 September. As I walked up the tunnel before kick-off, I realised to my horror the identity of the visitors. Liverpool. Oh God! Turning into the dressing-room corridor, I spotted Shanks and his players marching towards me and I was gripped with embarrassment. What would Shanks think if he saw me at West Ham? I didn’t want Liverpool’s great manager to feel I’d betrayed him. I had too much respect for him. So I kept my head down, hoping Shanks and the players wouldn’t spot me. As I flattened myself against the wall, the players came past, familiar faces I’d spent time with a fortnight before, including my idols Willie, Cally and the Saint.

‘Kenny!’ shouted Shanks. I kept walking, too scared to acknowledge him, praying he’d think he was mistaken. Escaping into the crowd, I breathed a sigh of relief.

Liverpool never forgot me and I never forgot them. Even during my working days in Glasgow, packing goods in a warehouse, toiling as a van-boy and then an apprentice joiner, an image of the boys on the bus to Melwood floated before my eyes. My parents were right, though; 15 was no age to leave home. So my footballing education took place at Celtic, mainly because they came in for me and Rangers, disappointingly, showed no interest, but Liverpool remained in my thoughts. I was given a refresher course on their quality when Liverpool visited Celtic Park for Billy McNeill’s testimonial on 12 August, 1974. Shanks had just announced he was standing down and the Celtic fans gave him a wonderful reception. Celtic Park also appreciated that Shanks brought a fine team to town: Clemence, Lindsay, Smith, Thompson, Hughes, Heighway, Hall, Callaghan, Cormack, Toshack, Keegan. We held them 1–1 but Liverpool were really a class apart. Playing up front on my own, I just couldn’t get near Tommo and Emlyn, who were passing the ball around the back, playing it into midfield, showing the style that was to become Liverpool’s hallmark. Only a philistine would have failed to be impressed.