My Liverpool Home (27 page)

For all the showman streak, Digger was brought up with the right ethos by Watford manager Graham Taylor, and by Colonel Ken Barnes. John’s father was a tall, straight-backed, well-presented man with a hunger for duty, a trait he passed on to his son, who worked his gaudy socks off for Liverpool. Digger was a magnificent athletic specimen, who had the determination to push himself harder and harder. That pre-season, Ronnie Moran had the players lapping Melwood and John kept shouting, ‘When does this training get hard?’ Bugsy grimaced. A week later, on 23 July, Liverpool were 3–0 down at half-time in Dieter Hoeness’s testimonial in Munich’s Olympic Stadium. Bayern were three weeks ahead of us in pre-season, so naturally fitter.

‘Digger, it’s just getting hard,’ smiled Bugsy in the dressing room. John simply moved up another gear, joining Aldo in pulling it back to 3–2. Digger showed against the Germans why we pursued him, bringing variety to Liverpool’s attacking play. We needed an outlet. If we got bogged down with our passing, here was somebody who was unbelievable at going past people, but John was so much more than a dribbling winger. He could pick a pass, playing the ball first time. Above all, John conformed to Liverpool’s long-running theme of flair within a framework. A keen student of the game, John listened, learned, matured and blossomed into one of the most formidable, all-round attacking talents in the world.

Also making his dressing-room bow was Peter Beardsley, whose fashion sense I must admit differed from Digger’s but whose sense of how to create and score was top drawer. I saw Peter as the perfect foil to Aldo, a second striker who linked with midfield. As a character, Peter was reserved, spending time with his head in football magazines. He was an anorak on football, impossible to beat in a quiz on the game. Before Peter arrived, I knew there was discussion in the dressing room about his teetotal tendencies, and I made sure the players were aware how highly management regarded Peter. When the Liverpool lads saw him play at close quarters, appreciating how his touch and vision would enhance the team, Peter was instantly accepted. When Aldo moved, Peter would find him, and his capacity for magnificent goals similarly endeared him to a demanding dressing room. Just before he set foot in this graveyard for weak souls, I marked the new boy’s card.

‘Peter, you know what dressing rooms are like, the lads have a nickname for you – “Quasi”. I’m just forewarning you.’

Fortunately, his skill ensured his popularity and the lads eventually took to calling him ‘Pedro’. Although needing a little time to settle, scoring in his second league game, Peter played his part as our grand new design was launched at Highbury on 15 August 1987. The cynics were watching, sharpening their knives, questioning how Liverpool would survive without Rushie and hoping we’d fail. Sorry to disappoint. Within nine minutes, Aldo scored after Peter and Digger combined brilliantly. Even though Paul Davis equalised, Barnes then crossed for Stevie Nicol’s headed winner and we had the victory and display I craved.

A broken sewer under the Kop meant we stayed on the road for two more games while the repair men went about their unpleasant work. At Highfield Road a fortnight later, we ripped Coventry City apart. Nicol – christened ‘Bumper’ or ‘Chips’, which he loved – scored twice, with Aldo and Beardo also on the mark. Our 4–1 success was praised by defeated manager John Sillett as ‘the best performance I’ve ever seen in the First Division’. That eulogy was much appreciated but I felt John was slightly biased. When I appeared on the television as a pundit for the 1987 FA Cup final, I tipped Coventry to beat Spurs. John clearly hadn’t forgotten and repaid the compliment. After drawing at Upton Park, we finally appeared at Anfield and were given a heroes’ reception by 42,266 punters, whose expectation levels had been heightened by the wait. Anfield came to hail the new boys and they didn’t let the Kop down, both Aldo and Digger scoring against Oxford.

Opposing defences were blinded by the variety and speed of Liverpool’s attacking movement. We came at them from every angle – through the middle and wide, passing and dribbling, scoring from long range and close-up. Rarely one to get carried away in front of the Press, I declared that Barnes’s second in a 4–0 rout of QPR on 17 October was ‘one of the greatest goals I’ve ever seen at Anfield’. This was the type of goal Liverpool never had in their locker before. Nicking the ball off Kevin Brock on the halfway line, John slalomed through QPR’s midfield and defence before slotting the ball past David Seaman.

Aldo also beat Seaman, setting a new Liverpool record by scoring in a tenth consecutive League match. Aldo had an uncanny sense of being in the right position at the right time, but his game was so much more than instinct. An intelligent striker, he played the percentages, targeting the areas of most opportunity, such as the near-post run. So quick to melt away from defenders, Aldo could lose a marker in a phone box. He turned goalscoring into an absolute art-form, creating masterpieces that could have hung in the Walker Art Gallery. Plaudits were bestowed on many Liverpool players that season, and Digger and Beardo were constantly hailed, but neither contributed more than Aldo. Liverpool’s exuberant form in the League could not have been possible without our clinical No. 8.

Comparisons were made between Rushie and Aldo, a newspaper mania that I felt to be lazy journalism. Aldo, Rushie and, more recently, Robbie Fowler, who joined Liverpool as a schoolboy when I was manager, were all different, all equally as effective. Aldo was the ultimate poacher, feeding off scraps and rebounds. He’d stand by the keeper, then suddenly drop off as the cross came in, making a yard for himself to meet the ball unmarked. Rushie’s movement was even better, a touch quicker, running through and finishing left or right foot, and always more creative than Aldo. Robbie had the most skill of the three, conjuring up some magic by nutmegging a defender or dribbling past someone before shooting.

Two days after that QPR game, Liverpool drove to Dundee to play a testimonial for their defender George McGeachie. As we relaxed in our hotel on the eve of the game, I received a call from a photographer at the
Dundee Courier
.

‘Mr Dalglish, would it be possible to take a picture of the Liverpool players eating?’ the snapper asked.

‘I don’t like pictures being taken of the players eating. That’s bad manners. But come in before dinner and take a picture before they eat.’ The picture was duly taken and just before I went to bed, my phone rang again.

‘Mr Dalglish, it’s the
Courier
again. We’ve taken the picture and we don’t know who one of the players is. Dark hair, quite short.’

‘That’ll be Ray Houghton. We’ve just signed him today. I forgot to tell the Press.’

Ray was tough as well as talented, bringing an extra energy to our midfield. When Ray came in, that was as entertaining a side as I’d ever seen at Liverpool.

Shortly after the Dundee game, Liverpool met Everton in a Littlewoods Cup tie at Anfield on 28 October. Even now, 23 years later, I find myself shaking my head at the memory of grown men throwing bananas and racially abusing John Barnes. His colour seemed to have been an issue for many people except those at Liverpool. ‘He’s not a black player,’ I kept reminding the Press. ‘He’s a player.’ We just laughed about this obsession with the colour of John’s skin. In one team meeting at Melwood, I explained a certain tactical shape I wanted by moving figures around a magnetic board. Ten of them were red and one was black. ‘That one’s you, Barnsey.’ Everybody laughed. Digger certainly did.

What happened against Everton was no laughing matter, and some of their fans’ treatment of John Barnes was a disgrace. However strong John was, the vile abuse must have hurt him. He must have felt isolated out there on the pitch, unable to avoid hearing the monkey chants. When Digger arrived at Liverpool, some offensive graffiti appeared on the walls outside Anfield. Everyone within the club suspected the handiwork of Everton supporters, a feeling given greater credence on that shameful day in October. John and I never discussed the racism issue because I knew he had the personality to rise above such pond-life. Digger hardly needed reassurances from me about how fully supportive I was. He knew I was colour blind and interested only in building a good side, regardless of colour, race or creed. I bought him, which said everything to John about my belief in him. He had joined a club where staff still spoke in awe of Howard Gayle’s destruction of Bayern Munich six years on, and he lived in a city with a huge black population. If some Neanderthals lurked among Everton’s support, Digger just needed to lay waste to their defence, punishing them with the ball. Liverpool fans loved him. Once they’d seen him play, it wouldn’t have mattered if Digger was green. One joke doing the rounds highlighted the affection for Barnes. ‘If I caught John Barnes in bed with my wife, I’d cover him with a blanket,’ one punter said to me.

The match with Everton proved a watershed. Even the media behaved responsibly, tackling the racism subject strongly. Radio Merseyside and Radio City were flooded with calls decrying the abuse. Letters poured in to the
Post
and
Echo
, recording similar sentiments. Action was needed fast, because the clubs were due to meet in the League four days later. PBR and Jim Greenwood put their heads together. Everton’s chairman, Sir Philip Carter, sent a message to supporters, appealing for restraint, and when a murmur of abuse began towards John, everybody booed the racists and the insults tailed off. We won again.

I loved watching this team, enjoyed seeing how much pleasure it gave the Liverpool fans. On 16 January, against Arsenal at Anfield, Liverpool scored a goal that even the great Michel Platini, commentating for French TV, raved about. Digger unleashed Macca, who sprinted to keep the ball in play, putting his foot on top of it to stop it running out. The Kop roared. Macca’s momentum kept him going but he used the advertising hoarding as a springboard to push himself back on to the pitch. He shuffled his feet and slipped the ball through to Peter. Another roar. John Lukic got a hand to Peter’s shot but there was Aldo, right man, right place, tapping home. A massive roar. Afterwards, one of the reporters asked me if Platini would get in Liverpool’s team. ‘No chance,’ I laughed. ‘He’s not good enough! If I can’t get into the side, nor will he!’ I still swelled with pride that Platini was so moved to praise my players.

Although records never excited me as much as trophies, I must admit to eyeing up the challenge of going through the season unbeaten. Having equalled Leeds United’s record of 29 games, we visited Goodison Park on 20 March. Predictably, Everton were incredibly fired up to prevent Liverpool making history in their back yard. Gwladys Street left Howard’s players in no doubt what was expected of them. When Bruce dropped the ball, Wayne Clarke pounced and that was our unbeaten run up in smoke. Usually restrained in the dug-out, at the end of the game I screamed in anger and kicked a bucket of water. To Goodison’s complete joy, the plastic bucket compressed, sending the water upwards in a jet, soaking me. Water dripped down my face, off the end of my nose, drenching my clothes. I paddled over to congratulate the Everton bench.

‘Well done Howard,’ I spluttered. ‘Well done Colin, well done Terry.’ Howard somehow managed to keep a straight face, unlike Colin Harvey and Terry Darracott, who shook with laughter. Afterwards, I went to Howard’s office for a drink.

‘Take us through what happened with the bucket!’ Howard smiled. He, Colin and Terry were great people, powerful adversaries but respectful, too. I had a drink and a joke with them, but I was seething inside.

Further disappointment followed with the departure of Lawro, victim of the Achilles injury that accelerated his passage into management and then, especially successfully, the television studio. Lawro was a magnificent defender in his prime, brilliant at reading the game and so quick to rescue situations. He was king of the recovery tackle, sliding in to nick the ball back. Lawro was good in the air and composed enough to push up into midfield. Even from centre-back, Lawro would break out, play a one-two, keep going and occasionally score, such as the two against Southampton in 1982. Bob, Joe and I all gave Lawro the licence to go forward – pass, move, carry on the run and in on goal.

Lawro’s exit triggered many deliberations about Liverpool’s greatest centre-halves, and many within the club argued that Lawro and Hansen were the best partnership in the club’s history. Tommo was a superb centre-back, who read the game like a book, and Emlyn Hughes was rightly hailed as a legend of the Liverpool back-four. Tommy Smith and Yeatsy were redoubtable sentries, barring the road to goal, but, for me, Lawro and Hansen were the best.

Highly popular within the dressing room, Lawro even had us laughing after he left. Appointed manager of Oxford United that March, Lawro reported to the
Mirror
offices to see Maxwell. The cameras followed as he strode confidently towards the door. He pushed and pushed but the doors were locked. ‘You can never have got the sack because you never got in!’ I told Lawro later.

Liverpool’s dressing room lost others, too, and Ipswich were interested in taking John Wark back. ‘Look, you’ve been brilliant for us,’ I told Warky. ‘If you want to go and get yourself some money, I’ll not stand in your way.’

Shortly afterwards, PBR came to see me in my office. ‘We need some money, Kenny,’ Peter said. ‘Would you mind if we sold somebody? The work on the Kop has hit us a bit. It’s not desperate but have a think about it.’ Paul Walsh was an obvious candidate, particularly when Spurs offered £500,000. ‘It’s a great opportunity for you,’ I told Walshy, ‘but I know you’ll come back to haunt us.’

The wee man could play but he was never going to get in ahead of Pedro and Aldo. Liverpool were unstoppable and I wasn’t going to meddle as this red wave flooded across the land, sweeping Forest away 5–0 on 13 April in one of the most memorable games ever staged at Anfield. The quantity of goals was staggering enough but what took the breath away was the quality. Ray set the ball rolling, cutting through the middle, playing a one-two with Digger, before firing past Steve Sutton. Beardsley, really flying now, maintained the pressure by lifting a pass over Forest’s defence, ushering Aldo through for a brilliant finish, dinked over Sutton. It rained goals. After a short corner, Gillespie lashed in the third. Digger nutmegged Steve Chettle before setting up Beardo. Poor Chettle. He’d made the mistake a week earlier of claiming in a newspaper that he would have ‘Barnes On Toast’, and Digger kept twisting the dagger. Even as good a side as Cloughie’s had no answer to Liverpool’s precision passing. Nigel Spackman combined with Ronnie Whelan, Aldo sidefooted the fifth and the Kop went wild. Along with the five goals, we hit the woodwork five times and Sutton pulled off at least three world-class saves.