My Liverpool Home (3 page)

As the shadows began lengthening across the Seventies, the day loomed when I had to leave Scotland. Crystal Palace and Spurs were sniffing around me. Malky Macdonald, Spurs’ scout north of the border, took Bill Nicholson to a Scotland game when I was playing. Malky knew my dad and by chance they ran into each other outside Hampden.

‘Mr Nicholson, this is Kenny Dalglish’s father,’ said Malky.

‘When’s your boy coming down to England?’ asked Nicholson.

‘You’ll need to ask him that,’ Dad replied. The decision was mine. Celtic were great to me and I loved my time there but the desire for a new challenge grew inexorably. Craving a move in 1975 and 1976, I was persuaded to stay. Big Jock could convince anybody that his path was the right one but by the summer of 1977 I was adamant.

‘It’s right to go,’ I told my wife, Marina. ‘It’s the perfect time for us with two wee ones.’ Short of school age, Kelly and Paul could easily be moved to a new area. Marina and I never really mentioned Liverpool but she knew my dream. Memories of 1966, of Shanks and the Saint, stayed strong. Annoyingly, Celtic had other ideas and on 2 May 1977, five days before the Scottish Cup final with Rangers, Jock called me into his office at Celtic Park.

‘Kenny, we want you to sign another contract,’ he announced.

‘I’m not signing, Boss. You know I want to go.’

‘Kenny, if you don’t sign, we have to register it with the SFA. Somebody will leak it to the papers that you’ve not agreed to stay and that will destabilise us before the Cup final.’ Stein was so clever, trying to pull at my heart-strings. He knew I’d never do anything to undermine the team going into such a big match. My respect for my Celtic colleagues was too strong.

‘The last thing I want to do is lose the Cup final,’ I said. ‘OK. Get the contract.’

Having signed under duress, the contract was worthless in my eyes. I was just playing fair by Jock and Celtic, but my plans hadn’t changed simply because of a splash of ink on paper. First thing Monday morning I drove to Celtic Park. We’d beaten Rangers so everybody was in a good mood, but I didn’t share the jollity because I knew the time had come to force the move. Entering Jock’s office, I came straight to the point.

‘I still want to go,’ I said.

‘But Kenny, you’ve signed a contract.’

‘I know I have, and you know why I did. We’ve won the Cup. You’ll no be keeping me. I’ve been loyal to Celtic Football Club. You know I stayed two years ago when you got injured. I wanted away but I stayed.’ Stein knew it was true. In 1975, Jock was hurt in a car crash and Sean Fallon took over while he recuperated. The temperature in the room rose a couple of degrees. Charging into Jock Stein’s office and standing up to such a fearsome man, a manager who had been so good to me, was tough but I had no choice. ‘Life is no rehearsal’ was Dad’s mantra and I could never live with regrets, with thoughts of what might have been. In my mind, my bags were packed, and Stein wasn’t happy.

Leaving the tension behind, I reported for Scotland duty in Chester. The Home Internationals fixture-list pitted us against Wales at Wrexham on Saturday, 28 May, giving us a five-day build-up. On the Tuesday night, relaxing in the hotel, I turned on the television and caught a documentary about Liverpool, who were taking on Borussia Moenchengladbach in the European Cup final in Rome the following night. Eloquently capturing the team’s camaraderie, the film crew were on the bus with the Liverpool players on their way back from Wembley. Even losing the FA Cup final to Manchester United couldn’t diminish the team spirit so clearly bonding Bob Paisley’s players. I knew what I wanted. I wanted to be on that bus, sitting with those Liverpool players again, enjoying the special atmosphere I’d experienced as a 15-year-old. All the players were stars, household names, but they came across as humble, genuine and utterly determined to win the European Cup. The documentary couldn’t have been a better advertisement for the attractions of Liverpool FC if the club had produced it themselves.

I was aware that echoes of Celtic Park could be heard at Anfield. As cities, Liverpool and Glasgow share many similarities, such as the great humour permeating both sprawling conurbations. Driving into Liverpool from Glasgow on one of my first forays south, I noticed somebody had painted a message on a bridge. ‘Free George Davis’ it read, referring to somebody in prison for armed robbery. Some Scouse wag got the paint-pot out and embellished the sign: ‘Free George Davis – with every four gallons of petrol’. I laughed and laughed. I became so curious about it that I asked the chief of police when I met him at Anfield.

Anybody from Liverpool or Glasgow also knew the cities had intertwined roots across the water in Ireland. The Potato Famine brought hundreds of thousands to Merseyside and Clydeside in search of work before the two cities’ traditional industries took a hit, forcing them to make the painful change from shipyards to other businesses. As clubs, Liverpool and Celtic are worldwide brands yet have remained entrenched in the local community. Feeling comfortable in my working environment was vital to me and Liverpool, brimming with parallels to Glasgow, just felt right. Anfield’s dressing room had long rung to the sound of Scottish accents, from Billy Liddell and Bill Shankly to Yeatsy and the Saint. Anfield was used to accents like mine. I wanted to move there but Jock was obstructing my path.

After the Wrexham game, Scotland beat England 2–1 at Wembley on 4 June, a victory made even more memorable by my scoring against Clem. The previous year, I’d even nutmegged Clem to score. In the middle of June, my hopes of a transfer sinking, I was touring South America with Scotland when the phone rang in my Rio hotel room.

‘There’s something in the paper about Liverpool and you,’ Marina said.

‘Well, nobody’s spoken to me.’ It was true and I reported back for Celtic training a frustrated man. All the guys were talking about the pre-season tour to Singapore and Sydney, starting on 12 July, and I could see how prestigious the tournament was with games against Arsenal and Red Star Belgrade. More significantly, the clock was ticking down to the start of the English season and I knew, the moment I boarded the plane, that would be the rest of July written off.

‘I’m not going to Australia,’ I told Stein. ‘I want to leave.’

‘If you go to Australia, I’ll make a call to someone who’s interested,’ said Jock.

I came back later and said no.

‘Go home,’ said Jock. ‘Your career’s just taken a backward step.’

I never knew who Jock was going to call but I hoped it would be Liverpool. I knew Jock had talked to Shanks about me before Shanks stepped down as Liverpool manager, and Jock also enjoyed a great relationship with Bob Paisley.

‘We’d like Kenny if you are ever selling him,’ Paisley had told Jock.

‘OK, you can have first hit at him,’ Jock had replied. Now the time had come for Stein to honour his word to Liverpool.

While these discussions were going on, I was sent to train with the reserves. One of our games, ironically, was at Annfield, the home of Stirling Albion. I hoped it was an omen. When Jock returned from the tour of Australia, he came up to me in training.

‘How you doing?’

‘Fine.’

‘Do you still want to go?’

‘Yes.’

I felt this was now getting ridiculous, but Jock kept his word. On 9 August, Paisley came to watch me in a pre-season game at Dunfermline. Stein stripped me of the Celtic captaincy, handing the armband to Danny McGrain, which was pretty humiliating but I bit my lip, knowing the end-game was being played out. Later that evening, Stein rang my father-in-law’s pub, the Dart Inn, where I was having a Coke.

‘Do you still want to leave?’ Stein asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Well, Liverpool want you. Come up to the club.’ First, I phoned home to talk to Marina.

‘We’re going to Liverpool,’ I told Marina. ‘Liverpool’s perfect and if it doesn’t work out, we can come back up here. I’m sure I’ll get a game somewhere.’

‘Not a problem,’ Marina said. ‘It’s your job. Right? If you want to go and play in England, I’ve got to come with you.’ So that discussion was quick and simple. Now for Big Jock.

When I reached Celtic Park at midnight, I found Jock waiting impatiently. Jock knew any final plea was pointless and it quickly became apparent to me that Celtic and Liverpool had done the deal anyway. With Jock was John Smith, the Liverpool chairman.

‘Would you like to come to Liverpool?’ said Smith.

‘Yes.’ I was so keen to join that our meeting lasted scarcely five minutes. After a bit of small talk, John Smith and Bob Paisley got into their car and headed south.

‘Bob and the chairman will meet us in Moffat in the morning,’ Jock explained. To keep reporters off the scent, Paisley and Smith had booked into a hotel in Moffat under the name of the Smith brothers. It seemed a clever plan. As Bob got out of the car outside the hotel, the doorman said, ‘Hello, Mr Paisley, how are you?’ Some secret!

At the hotel, Jock shook my hand and cuddled me. ‘Good luck, you wee bastard,’ Jock said affectionately and he meant it. It must have hurt Jock’s pride that I wanted to go, but managers can’t have it both ways. Is the player not hurt when he wants to stay and the manager shows him the door? Jock knew I never let him down in terms of effort for Celtic Football Club. I went through a full year as captain when I was desperate to go and we still won the Double. I conducted myself honourably, bringing trophies to Celtic Park. Europe was a disappointment but we’d gone close, reaching the semis of the European Cup and Cup-Winners’ Cup. Moving to Liverpool, I was convinced, would mean taking a step further, making a final and winning it. My blood boiled when some people in Scotland claimed I was going to Liverpool for the money. Of course, I’d gain financially, but I’ve never been driven by cash, just the glory and the quality of people I work with. My heart and head told me Liverpool, and even if they’d lost the final in Rome, I’d have gone. Even if Kevin Keegan had stayed and held on to the No. 7 shirt, I’d have joined.

On my arrival at Anfield that afternoon, I had a very brief medical, did the official signing and press conference, and then Bob dropped me at my new home, the Holiday Inn in the city centre.

‘Emlyn might call by later,’ said Bob before driving off. I soon had a call to my room.

‘Kenny, it’s Emlyn. I’m in the bar downstairs.’ I hurried down and shook hands with my smiling visitor, Emlyn Hughes, Liverpool’s captain.

‘Do you want a drink?’ Emlyn asked.

‘I’ll have a Coke.’

‘Go on, Kenny, have a drink.’

‘Emlyn, I had a game last night, I travelled up early, just signed, I’m not up for anything. I appreciate you coming to see me but I need to get to my bed and get to work in the morning.’ Emlyn shrugged. He wasn’t disappointed as he quickly found someone else to go out with. As Emlyn headed off into the night, I was just impressed that the Liverpool captain had taken time out to come and welcome me.

The following morning, Liverpool sent a car to drive me to Anfield and I was as nervous as if it were my first day at school. There would be nobody I knew in the dressing room, barring Emlyn and I’d met him only briefly. Fortunately, Emlyn was waiting for me and took me around the players, introducing me. Even after 11 years, I was delighted to discover little had changed in the way Liverpool did things. Get stripped at Anfield, have a laugh and a joke, get on the bus, have a bit more banter and train at Melwood. As we ran out of the pavilion, I noticed some kids sitting up on the wall, pushing the barbed wire to one side.

‘Hey Terry,’ one of the kids shouted at Terry McDermott. ‘That was my sister you pissed on!’ What the hell was going on?

‘What did he say?’ I asked Terry.

‘He said I pissed on his sister.’

‘You’re joking!’

‘When we won the European Cup, we came back to the Town Hall. We were all out on the balcony with the Cup and I needed the toilet.’

‘You didn’t!’

‘I did.’

‘You peed off the balcony?’

‘Yes.’

Terry and some of the players then whispered to me I should wind up Clem over the goal at Hampden in ’76, when I knocked the ball through his legs.

‘You’ve got to mention it,’ Terry Mac said.

‘Give me some time to settle in,’ I told Terry. ‘Wait for tomorrow!’ First, I had a more pressing duty. John Toshack took me to see Shanks. Even in retirement, Shanks still had the same aura I remembered from 1966. After reminiscing about my trial, Shanks said, ‘Look son, I’ve two pieces of advice for you. Don’t over-eat in that hotel and don’t lose your accent.’ I kept one of the promises.

The following morning at Melwood, we finished off our Charity Shield preparations and the boys egged me on again to wind up Clem.

‘Don’t worry about that goal, Clem,’ I told him. ‘You’ve always been weak between your legs!’

As we headed to London, I knew I’d have to deliver at Wembley. Some people questioned whether Liverpool were right to buy me, mentioning other Scots who had come south and not worked out – Joe Harper at Everton, Jim Baxter at Sunderland and Nottingham Forest, and Peter Marinello at Arsenal. I always felt that Marinello was naive, which is probably what made him a half-decent player, but he never settled at Highbury. ‘I’ve come here and I’ll do my very best,’ I told local reporters. ‘If it’s not good enough, I’m sorry, but it won’t be for lack of effort. Hopefully, it will be good enough.’ I couldn’t concern myself about those Scots who’d not really made the adjustment. Anyway, around Anfield there were enough pictures of Scots who
had
done well.

I also realised that I had to tackle the Keegan issue. Although I was an established player, with 47 international caps, I was still following a Kop legend. All the comparisons made in the papers were unfair – seeking to emulate somebody else was not my style. Kevin was quicker than I was, although I smiled when reading Tommy Docherty’s verdict that ‘Kenny’s ten yards faster upstairs’. Kevin was a very effective player but completely different. He ran on to flicks while I went about my work slightly deeper.