My Liverpool Home (32 page)

As the paper was making its deceitful comments, Liverpool began burying its dead. One of the club’s directors, Noel White, organised a rota to ensure each funeral was attended by a representative of Liverpool Football Club, whether that was me, a player or one of the player’s wives. The boys travelled everywhere, mainly across Merseyside but some went down south. From helping at Anfield every day, most of the players had formed some attachment with different families. Even though those people wanted them at the funerals, the players were very conscious of not wanting to be the focus of attention. We were there to pay our respects and didn’t want publicity. Wherever the families asked us to sit in church we did, whether at the front alongside them or at the back, more discreetly.

The last funeral I attended was as difficult as the first. Familiarity with the service, and the ritual of saying farewell, did not lessen the emotion. As I sat in another church, looking down the aisle towards another coffin, I simply didn’t understand how the relatives had the fortitude to keep going, but they did. They were so strong. The first funeral I went to was for Gary Church, a 19-year-old, in Crosby. John Barnes and Gary Ablett carried a wreath with the message: ‘We brought you back in our hearts’. I listened to John Aldridge read from the scriptures and then the Reverend Ray Hutchinson say some words: ‘The message of caring and of wanting to share your burden has been marred by some distasteful reporting by the media. But on Merseyside, the message is loud, clear and all the stronger as again our city has to show its resilience to yet more pain and suffering.’ Reverend Hutchinson was right. Resilience defined Liverpool, still does. A great community spirit united the city in the aftermath of the Hillsborough tragedy, everybody sticking together and protecting each other. At one service, one of the players looked through the window behind the altar to see a photographer from MacKenzie’s newspaper being chased by four people. That summed up the mood of Liverpool people defending the community.

Every dawn brought preparations for more funerals. Marina and I went to four in one day, needing a police escort to make sure we fulfilled our pledges to each family. At Lee Nichol’s funeral in the cathedral, the service felt particularly poignant, having seen him lying in that Sheffield hospital, not a mark on him. Like most of the services, Lee’s funeral finished with the congregation singing ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ but I was too emotional to do anything more than mouth the words.

Returning to Anfield, I saw the Kop now covered, and flowers spreading towards the halfway line. So many people visited, the queue snaked around the block and down the road, a silent line of people shuffling forward to pay their respects. Some politicians jumped on the bandwagon, coming along to have their pictures taken, but one really impressed me. Neil Kinnock arrived with no warning, no fuss, just queuing, leaving some flowers and then departing. Alerted to his presence on the Kop, I had a brief chat with him and he struck me as genuine, very different from some of the politicians.

Scarcely had I settled back in my office after talking to Kinnock, when there was a knock on the door. A lady I’d never seen before walked in, sat down and introduced herself as a stress counsellor.

‘Oh, listen, do me a favour,’ I told her, ‘go and see Peter Robinson. He might be able to help you.’ So she trooped off and I counted down the time until my phone rang – about 90 seconds.

‘Thanks, Kenny!’ Peter said. ‘I don’t need any counselling.’ I understood.

Acting with extreme sensitivity, PBR quietly gauged the mood of the families over what should be done with the shrine at Anfield. It was agreed there would be one final service before we tried to return Anfield to normal, if such a state were possible after Hillsborough. On the Friday morning, I paid a private visit to the Kop with Paul, Kelly and Marina’s dad, Pat. Walking carefully through the wreaths, scarves, shirts, football boots and scribbled messages of sorrow, I appreciated fully the powerful hold Liverpool exerts on people. ‘Why did it happen to us?’ asked Paul, speaking as a fan, as somebody who understood Liverpool’s place in the hearts of the people. Anfield was their second home, their second place of worship. Until then, I never understood that fans on the Kop always stood in the same place, creating a little community within a community. In remembrance of happier times, somebody left a couple of oranges, recollecting a ritual he’d shared with a friend or relative who went to Hillsborough but never returned. Somebody else left a Twix bar, a reminder of something they shared. Talking to the Press, I remarked that the Kop was ‘the saddest and most beautiful sight I have ever seen’, a comment that drew much discussion. ‘Why beautiful?’ people wondered. Why? Because the tributes came from all over the world, from fans of other clubs and from people who’d never before set foot in Anfield, holding it was against their beliefs. Evertonians entered Anfield for the first time to lay flowers, and to behold that outpouring of love and respect was beautiful. The messages propped against the railings on the Kop were beautiful. To visit early in the morning with Anfield deserted, and to smell the thousands of flowers was the saddest and most beautiful experience.

Moving sights were everywhere on Merseyside. On Saturday, 22 April, scarves were tied between Goodison and Anfield, the last two being joined up by Peter Beardsley and Ian Snodin, symbolising the connection between the clubs. I drove to Tranmere Rovers’ ground, Prenton Park, for a service there, everybody standing in silence at 3.06 p.m. The players stayed at Anfield for the service there, some of them, including Stevie Nicol, standing on the Kop. Anfield then closed the gates after an estimated two million people had passed through, showing what a fantastic idea it had been from PBR.

Many of the players were due to report for international duty but some simply couldn’t stomach the idea of playing football. John Barnes withdrew from England, Stevie Nicol from Scotland and Ronnie Whelan and John Aldridge from the Republic of Ireland. All their countries showed real compassion, never complaining about some of their best players not turning up, although the FA were still on to us about playing again. On Tuesday, 25 April, the FA chairman, Bert Millichip, mentioned it again, but it could never be their decision. Only the Hillsborough families could decide. Talking to them, PBR and I found the relatives keen for the Liverpool players to get their boots on again. So, with the families’ approval, we returned to Melwood for the first training in a fortnight and I couldn’t believe the ferocity of the tackling, as if some players wanted to purge the anger and frustration. The lads needed the work-out. We’d organised a tribute match with Celtic to raise money for the Hillsborough families on the Sunday. Before we set out, I made a worrying discovery – we’d no strip. All the Liverpool first-team kit had been given away to the families, so the manufacturers rushed some more over.

Celtic Park has a special place in my heart and never more so than on Sunday, 30 April 1989. The place was packed, all the fans holding aloft green-and-white and red scarves as they sang ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ before that wonderful moment when Celtic supporters chanted ‘Liverpool, Liverpool’. For the players, the game was part of the healing process. Aldo, who’d been painfully affected by the tragedy that hit his city, didn’t want to play, so I put him on the bench and sent him on for the second half. Privately, I knew Aldo was considering jacking it all in. Finding the enthusiasm to kick a ball was beyond him, it all felt so meaningless and I understood his despair. Even when he scored twice at Celtic Park, John never celebrated, just turned away and headed back to the halfway line. Knowing John, I’m sure he was just thinking about the Hillsborough victims. I’m sure, in the end, John played on because he knew that was what the families wanted.

After the match, we went to a great restaurant, The Rotunda, for a private party for players and wives, giving everybody a chance to let off some steam. While making sure we weren’t being disrespectful to the families, I felt the players needed to let rip after so much strain and stress, helping them on the road back to normality. We were joined by Marti Pellow from Wet Wet Wet. In the restaurant, there was this wee guy playing very sombre songs on an electric organ.

‘It’s like being back at the funerals,’ I whispered to Marina.

‘Have a word, Kenny,’ Marina said. So I went over to the organist.

‘Excuse me, thanks very much, take the rest of the night off, there you are,’ I said, slipping him a few quid.

Marti took the microphone, and as he sang the mood started to lighten. An almighty singsong broke out, everybody joining in. Back at the hotel, the fire alarm went off. By that stage of the evening, I was struggling to focus straight and my last memory was of seeing a fire engine.

‘You were embarrassing last night,’ Marina said in the morning.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You asked the fireman if you could ring the bell.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Well, what’s that then?’ said Marina, pointing to a fireman’s helmet by the side of the bed.

Marina had had a lively night as well, intervening in a tiff between Aldo and his wife Joan, which culminated in John telling Marina to ‘fuck off’. John knew he was out of order. Emotions were running high so everybody soon forgot about it.

Marina, Joan and the rest of the wives went home to Liverpool while the boys went to Blackpool on the Monday, preparing for the resumption of competitive football on Wednesday, 3 May against Everton. We could not have picked more fitting opponents as the city sought to recover from Hillsborough. Goodison Park crackled with an amazing atmosphere, 45,994 Scousers screaming themselves hoarse as Liverpool and Everton tore into each other. Capturing the city’s unity, nothing could divide these famous neighbours and the game finished 0–0. At the time, the dropped points didn’t feel important. What felt good was for the boys to be playing again, particularly with the Forest semi now arranged for 7 May at Old Trafford. This was a tie we couldn’t lose.

Apart from Forest fans, the public willed Liverpool to reach Wembley to honour those who died at Hillsborough. I sensed the emotional momentum building behind Liverpool, the boys feeding on the energy of the huge roar that marked the end of the minute’s silence. They quickly swept Forest out of the way to set up a final with Everton, again fittingly. The situation cannot have been easy for Cloughie, who knew he was up against the whole nation, but I appreciated the Forest manager’s magnanimity in defeat. ‘Good luck in the final,’ said Cloughie, ‘you deserve it.’ For all his famous unpredictability, I respected Cloughie, a strong disciplinarian who always insisted his players showed respect to referees, a quality I admired.

My players were ready for Wembley, relaxing in training at Bisham Abbey on the Friday with an hilarious game. Macca flicked the ball up, Bruce caught it in on the volley and if he beat Beardo in goal, Bruce would do a backflip. Pally Blue was no fool – he picked Beardo because he was the smallest, so there was more of the goal to aim at. Bruce duly did his flips, easing the tension before the big day.

At Wembley, the players wanted to get out early on the pitch, feeling the unique atmosphere of an all-Merseyside final, joining in when Gerry Marsden powered memorably through ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’. After the traditional rendition of ‘Abide With Me’, a moving minute’s silence fell over Wembley. It was like the world stopped turning for those 60 seconds. Everything was so still. The FA got one decision right, removing the fences for the day, and the fans sat among each other.

Fate decreed it would be Liverpool and Everton, helping the healing process, and fate also knew Liverpool must win. A final weighted with such emotional significance proved a classic. Fittingly, two Scousers combined for Liverpool’s first, Macca squaring to Aldo, triggering a seesaw game. Stuart McCall equalised and it was 1–1 at 90 minutes. Rushie immediately put us back ahead before McCall levelled. At 2–2, I was stunned, wondering which way the final would go now. A policeman walking past the bench reassured me by saying, in a broad Scottish accent, ‘Don’t worry wee man, you’ll still win.’ Digger soon embarked on a run, putting in a cross for Rushie to head the winner, and the PC strolled back. ‘You’re all right now, wee man,’ he said. I had to laugh. A Scottish guardian angel had been sent to watch over me.

At Joe Worrall’s final whistle, I hugged Ronnie and Roy. Seeing the punters on the edge of the pitch, streaming towards us, I said quickly to Bugsy, ‘I’m off. It might take some of them away and then you can get on with the lap of honour.’ I dashed to the tunnel, gaining a Celtic scarf on the way, to be met by Liverpool’s security chief, Tony Chinn. Tears rolled down Tony’s face. This Cup meant everything.

‘I can’t be tough all the time,’ said Tony before suddenly snapping back into hard-man mode. ‘Who hit you, Kenny?’

‘What are you talking about, Tony?’

‘Your eye’s cut.’

‘Where?’ I put my hand to my face, felt a trickle of blood and remembered I’d clashed heads with a punter while running through the throng to the tunnel.

‘It’s worth it.’ It was.

‘This is the best one for me,’ I told Ronnie and Roy when they reappeared in the dressing room, having abandoned all hope of a lap of honour. And it was the best. Even now, the Hillsborough Cup final was the trophy that meant most in my career, above even the European Cups. This trophy was for the 95 who had died and for their families, who bore the tragedy with such dignity. It cannot have been easy for the relatives who travelled to Wembley, feeling the sadness amid the celebrations, knowing their loved one would have been there to see Ronnie lift the Cup. If only the FA had thought of saying to Liverpool: ‘We’ll get a new trophy, you keep that one.’ Such an act of generosity would never have crossed Lancaster Gate’s mind. They got the FA Cup final played on the day scheduled, so what else mattered? But Hillsborough changed everything.