My Liverpool Home (14 page)

8

RUSHIE

W
HEN
a quiet, rake-thin teenager from Wales shuffled self-consciously into the Anfield dressing room, I noted with quiet pleasure that the lads had just been presented with another target for our relentless banter sessions. I also detected Ian Rush was desperately shy, which was understandable really. Here was this young boy coming from Chester City into a room full of players who’d won European Cups and League Championships. Hailing from Flint, a small mining town, Rushie must have found Anfield a complete culture shock, and Liverpool didn’t make allowances for sensitive types. Mockery came as easily as breathing to us but proved an ordeal for Rushie, who simply didn’t understand that all the banter was to make him feel part of the Liverpool family. It pained me to discover eventually that all this high-speed teasing nearly destroyed Rushie, or ‘Omar’ as we first called him. Rushie tried to grow a moustache but it was a long way short of the bushy class of Omar Sharif.

‘Is that eyebrow pencil?’ I asked him one day.

‘Where?’ Rushie replied nervously.

‘Under your nose, above your lip. It looks like eyebrow pencil.’

His moustache was a rich source of entertainment for the boys. Omar’s fashion sense provided especially powerful ammunition for Al, Souey and me. Anything Rushie wore, he got pilloried for. As he stripped near me, I was afforded a close inspection of his latest outfit, and, one day, he wore corduroy trousers that seemed at half-mast.

‘Is the tide out, Omar?’ I asked.

Embarrassed, he spluttered some reply. He always seemed tongue-tied. When I hear Rushie on the television now, speaking so eloquently, I must confess to a certain surprise. To start with, Rushie’s heading was weak, so we gave him the ironic nickname of ‘Tosh’ after John Toshack, a Liverpool legend famed for his strength in the air. Even now, I still call Rushie ‘Tosh’. In today’s politically correct times, some people might consider our behaviour was bullying, but it wasn’t. It was character-building and this was how Liverpool forged a formidable collective spirit, holding us together in difficult times. This was why we won. We teased each other off the pitch and fought for each other on it. Just as it strengthened me, the banter toughened Tosh mentally, so he could handle the pressure of opponents. There was method in the mockery. And trophies.

As a defence mechanism, Rushie sought the company of a new Irish boy, Ronnie Whelan, or ‘Vitch’ as he became known. Ronnie was first called ‘Dusty’ because he mangled the word ‘just’, making it ‘dust’, but when Liverpool played some East European side whose surnames all ended in ‘vitch’, we tried it on ourselves. ‘Dustyvitch’ stuck for Ronnie and was soon shortened to Vitch. His phone number is still down in my mobile as Vitch. Tosh and Vitch knocked about together, roomed together and slowly became immersed in Liverpool ways by first winding each other up. They practised banter on each other before taking on the big boys. Together, they were the Chuckle Brothers.

In the dressing room, we held a competition for Plank of the Year. Most seasons, it was a two-horse race to claim this prestigious trophy for the most stupid player, and every August Tosh and Vitch were usually installed as joint favourites. Liverpool took every competition seriously and Plank of the Year inspired incredibly competitive behaviour. Ronnie told tales about Rushie, describing the latest daft thing he’d done, just so his rival picked up more votes. I considered Vitch’s allegations very credible because Tosh did come out with stupid statements. He often mixed up words.

‘I was driving along this road near Flint and had to go off on a detail,’ Rushie said one morning. He meant detour. Whenever Rushie made a rick, we leapt on it. So did Ronnie, pointing it out and saying it was surely worth another vote in Plank of the Year honours.

As much as I loved all this banter, I must admit Liverpool were lucky not to lose Rushie. Finding the constant mockery too much, Rushie went in to see Bob, asking for a move. The Boss calmed him down and thank God he did. If this gifted striker had packed his bags, it would have been criminal. Rushie took time to realise the stick being dished out by the rest was a sign of dressing-room acceptance. Promoted from the reserves, Rushie slipped on the No. 7 shirt against Ipswich on 13 December 1980 when my ankle was playing up. Rushie failed to find the net in seven games but I could see he was a special talent. We were all left in no doubt against West Ham in the Milk Cup final replay on 1 April 1981. Bob picked Rushie, so I had a quiet word with him as we gathered in the tunnel at Villa Park.

‘You move and we’ll find you,’ I reassured him. ‘Don’t worry, don’t delay, do what you think to be right. And it will be all right.’ It was. Rushie terrorised West Ham, doing everything apart from score, but he showed his class and enjoyed the celebration of our 2–1 victory. He just needed a goal. Two nights later, Vitch made his debut against Stoke and scored past Peter Fox. Ronnie was up and running but Rushie took longer to settle. I think he needed more self-belief before being able to express himself on the pitch. I forgot he was only 19. At that age, if somebody said hello to me I went bright red. As senior players, we should have realised Rushie was a kid, but because he was in our dressing room, we treated him as an equal, an adult, and therefore fair game for our jokes.

Maybe I should have taken a step back and seen the effect on him. If I’d known how distressed he’d become, I wouldn’t have been that harsh. Fortunately for Rushie, Stevie Nicol arrived in the dressing room in 1981, and this daft soul offered more tempting material for ripping into than Rushie did. Nico saved Rushie’s life. Even Rushie hammered him and it made me smile to see the poacher turn gamekeeper. Of course, we still carried on winding up Rushie but he changed, not us. He became more confident.

In later years, Rushie remarked that I took him under my wing but I never did. A big fixture against heavyweight opposition was no time or place for educating apprentices. It was sink or swim, deliver or be damned, and Rushie needed to grow up fast. Included by Bob for the League Cup tie against Exeter on 28 October 1981, Rushie scored in the 5–0 thrashing and never looked back. By the end of the season, he’d netted 17 times in 32 League games and a star was born. He was beginning to bite back in the banter, a sign of growing confidence. Towards the end of that 1981–82 season, we travelled to Middlesbrough for a game at Ayresome Park. The League title was already secured, so Souey suggested a small libation on the afternoon of the match.

‘Up to your rooms now,’ came the usual command from Bob, sending us off for our pre-match nap in the hotel. The moment we got upstairs, Souey said, ‘Come on, there’s a great pub round the corner. Everyone follow me.’ With that, Charlie headed for the door. Standing reluctantly on the landing was John McGregor, a Glaswegian who’d come to sign that day.

‘Come on, John, we’re going for a walk,’ I told him.

‘I can’t,’ replied McGregor, fearful of Bob finding out. So we left him and walked to this smashing pub. We must have been in there a good hour. As the boys ordered beers, my view of the bar was suddenly blocked out by a large glass of wine placed in front of me by a smiling Souey.

‘There you go, Dugs,’ said Souey.

‘Charlie, it’s massive. Do I drink it or swim in it?’ My head was certainly swimming by the time we returned to the hotel. Sleep was brief before the call came to board the coach to Ayresome Park. Graeme, blessed with a unique metabolism, typically showed no after-effects of the afternoon session. I was OK.

‘Tosh,’ I shouted midway through the first half.

‘What?’

‘Careful.’

‘What do you mean, Kenny?’

‘You’re going to get a kick in a minute!’ It was true. Rushie hardly had a touch.

‘Oh, you’re playing well, aren’t you?’ Rushie shouted back. Good. The introvert from Flint was answering back. His mettle had been forged in the fire of a demanding dressing room and I knew then that Liverpool had a real diamond.

For all our unorthodox build-up, I was impressed that we still managed to come away from Middlesbrough with a point. The trust between Liverpool’s players and Bob was immense, and we betrayed it a wee bit on that occasion, although I must stress that we’d never, ever have done anything that unprofessional if anything had been riding on the game. Little adventures like that simply added to our unbreakable team spirit and I find it sad that such team outings wouldn’t happen in the modern game. Some players aren’t interested, most managers wouldn’t tolerate it, and there’s always some punter about with a camera-phone. Thank God there weren’t camera-phones back then.

Trips to Middlesbrough were often eventful for Liverpool. On one occasion, Souey got the boys along to help open a sports shop owned by his mate, Willie Maddren. The lads were all standing there and, BANG, the floor caved in. It was probably the only time Rushie lost his balance.

Tosh seemed to derive particular pleasure in punishing Everton. Season after season, he inflicted pain on our neighbours’ defence and I often wondered whether it was personal. I knew all the Merseyside folklore about Rushie supporting Everton when growing up. As the club he loved as a child never signed him, maybe Rushie had something to prove. Not a man with a vindictive streak, he certainly had a scoring streak against Everton. Game after game, time after time, Rushie pummelled them.

In particular, 6 November 1982 should be a date scarred in Gwladys Street memory as the fireworks kept coming. Everton fans will want to forget what happened but it must surely still haunt them as this was the stuff of the darkest nightmares. I really admired Howard Kendall’s Everton side, with a top keeper in Neville Southall, respected midfielders in Steve McMahon and Kevin Sheedy and attackers of the quality of Adrian Heath and Graeme Sharp. Sadly for Howard, an injury to Kevin Ratcliffe meant his defence was badly weakened. Howard gambled with a loan signing, Glenn Keeley, alongside Billy Wright in an inexperienced back line. Keeley must hold the record for making two appearances for Everton on one day – his first and last.

Rushie and I immediately set to work dismantling this makeshift defence. Rushie hit the bar and I was denied a totally legitimate header for some phantom offence early on. Nobody saw it. We’d all lined up on the halfway line for a re-start when the linesman began signalling. This injustice spurred Liverpool even more. Intercepting the ball in the middle of the pitch, Al roamed forward and slid the ball through for Rushie to score. Keeley pulled me back and was dismissed. God knows why he tugged my shirt – he’d have caught me anyway. Everton, now depleted, were there for the taking. Rushie beat Neville with a shot from the edge of the area and Lawro added the third. The game finished with a demonstration of Rushie’s phenomenal ability to time his runs and elude a keeper. Twice he raced from halfway to beat Southall, finishing up with four. Afterwards, Rushie sat in the Goodison dressing room holding the match-ball.

‘You deserve the town-hall clock!’ I told him.

My respect for Rushie was now colossal. Our success was based on an understanding of each other’s strengths – I got the ball, Rushie moved, I passed, he scored. Nothing complicated. Creating goals always gave me as much satisfaction as scoring them. I found it curious that newspapers occasionally described Rush as ‘a creature of instinct’, as if he’d wandered into football from some wildlife programme. Creature of instinct? What did that mean? That he never analysed his own game? Rubbish. Rushie certainly did that. If newspapers had called him a ‘creature of intelligence’, I’d have understood. At Melwood, he educated himself in the art and science of timing runs, learning how to play off and with people, and how to stay onside. He examined the strengths of the Liverpool players, so he knew what was coming. At the beginning, sometimes I’d play the ball in there when he wasn’t expecting it. At 19, Rushie still required time and experience to tune in to Liverpool’s wavelength, and vice versa. Slowly, he assimilated Liverpool’s culture of pass and move. Anyone standing still was in trouble, so Rushie knew he had to move.

‘Don’t go running and standing in the space,’ I told him. ‘Just leave a space, Tosh. The ball will be there for you. Time it.’

Many strikers possess pace in abundance but only the special few, like Rushie, have brain in sync with flying feet. When I had possession slightly deep, Rushie knew the ball was coming and he needn’t be anxious. He could see there were acres in front of him to work with, particularly if the opposition played as high a line as Everton. When Kevin Ratcliffe was around, the style suited Everton because he could shift, but only the quickest of defenders or slickest of offside traps could catch Rushie. He waited and waited, biding his time until the optimum moment came to strike. When I pushed the ball into space, Rushie would be off and running like a greyhound, darting through, using the timing and speed of his run to destroy defenders. He’d either sprint round the keeper and roll the ball into the net or lash it from the edge of the box. When one-on-one with the keeper, Rushie was utterly ruthless. Sometimes I felt as if the keeper needed putting out of his misery as I’d back Rush to score one-on-one with anybody. Even as good a keeper as Neville Southall got battered that day when Rushie scored four. Having trained with him regularly for Wales, Neville would have had a close understanding of Rushie’s game yet still had no chance.

I was pleased that Rushie’s homework was rewarded. Opposing centre-halves were scrutinised for failings he could prey on. He watched them like a hawk, picking up any flaw, such as a tendency to react slowly to passes down the channel. He would lurk on the shoulder of the last defender. Pass, control, goal. Rushie was so much more than a brilliant run-through striker. Not only could he see a pass, he could ping the ball with either foot. His touch was so good I even thought in later years that he would drop back and play as a second striker. The only reason he didn’t was because he was still capable of such damage up front.