My Liverpool Home (8 page)

Tosh was an outstanding target-man of the old school, brilliant at the powerful flicks Kevin Keegan had revelled in running on to. Tosh’s game was more suited to Kevin than to me. I preferred to do my work slightly deeper at times, not running through like Kevin, but Tosh and I still managed to link up. Dresden man-marked me but that simply created space for others. Alan Hansen scored with a header, taking a smack in the face for his troubles as he leapt for the ball. Once Al scored, Dresden crumbled. Nealy, Ray and Jimmy, twice, added to the scoreline. Over at the Rudolf Harbig Stadium, in the second leg, Dresden were brilliant, scoring twice and threatening to get all four back, but fortunately Stevie Heighway struck and that killed them off. Liverpool’s defence was too strong for Dresden to break through again.

In Ray Clemence, Liverpool had a man between the posts who could easily be numbered as one of the best goalkeepers in the world. Strangely, Clem thought he was one of the best left-wingers in the world, a ludicrous point he tried to prove in training. At Melwood, I laughed as Clem looked for opportunities to come out of goal, joining in the Friday five-a-sides. He flew into tackles, nothing deliberately nasty, but we knew Clem was about. He moved the ball slowly – touch, touch, touch – like a rugby scrum inching forward. The players loved it when Clem scored, partly for the rarity value and also because he celebrated as if he’d just settled a Cup final from 30 yards.

The four men charged with protecting Clem on match-day were of similar high quality. Tommy Smith was coming to the end of his distinguished career at Anfield but remained as fearsome as ever. At Melwood one day, I nutmegged Smithy and went after the ball.

‘Ohhhhh,’ went Terry Mac.

‘What?’ I replied.

‘Smithy doesn’t like that.’

‘That’s not my fault.’ Terry Mac stared at me as if I had some kind of death wish.

I survived the wrath of Smithy, which is more than can be said for some of Liverpool’s rasher opponents. Part of Smithy’s unwritten match-day duties were as Ian Callaghan’s enforcer. If somebody gave Cally a hard time . . . BANG. Smithy was in there, a vigilante with studs, leaving a little reminder to show some respect. Against Coventry, Smithy nailed Terry Yorath, hardly a shrinking violet himself. What a challenge that was! Yorath had just ‘done’ Cally and Smithy came storming out of defence, charging towards Yorath, absolutely clattering him. I was 30 yards away and even my bones juddered. How Yorath picked himself up I’ll never know. In another game, against Coventry, Smithy played full-back against Tommy Hutchison, the Scottish winger. Hutch jinked past Smithy, pushed the ball on, ran and crossed. Jogging back past Smithy, Hutch said, ‘I was quick there. I’ll race you for your wages.’

‘All right,’ said Smithy. ‘Let’s go double or quits – I’ll fight you for your wages.’ Hutch was terrified.

Like Smithy, Emlyn’s time was almost up at Anfield. I soon became aware Emlyn had some enemies, and ‘selfish’ was the usual accusation thrown at the Liverpool captain. Emlyn was always good to me, helping me settle in when I was his room-mate. My admiration grew when I realised what an accomplished defender he was – two-footed, unbelievably enthusiastic, strong, pacey and a brilliant reader of the game. Not many attackers got the better of Emlyn. He loved a goal as well. When Emlyn scored, the whole place lit up because his face was a picture. Banter came easily to Emlyn. When Scotland played England in a Home International at Hampden Park in 1978, we’d qualified for the World Cup but, much to my delight, Emlyn and the English boys were staying at home. Scotland were doing badly in the Home Internationals and Emlyn was determined to rub it in, particularly when England won in Glasgow.

‘Hey, wee man, you only got one point,’ Emlyn shouted as we walked off the pitch.

‘Emlyn, just think, if you’d got one more point, you’d be going where we’re going. Argentina. World Cup. Brilliant.’

‘Piss off!’

‘I’ll send you a postcard, Emlyn.’

Liverpool had another top centre-half not going to Argentina after England’s embarrassing failure. Long before I arrived at Anfield, Phil Thompson had come to my attention on
Football Focus
. The BBC profiled this rising young talent from Kirkby, filming Tommo with his pride and joy, a new Ford Capri. The cameras followed him into his house for some more filming. I’m sure they got some decent footage inside but it was pure TV gold when Tommo came back outside. His Capri was up on bricks. Somebody had nicked the wheels.

Tommo was a great character, a good leader as well as a fantastic defender. The uneducated looked at the stick-thin Tommo and wondered, ‘How can he play?’ He was wiry, more a sapling than an oak like Smithy. Shanks famously remarked that Tommo looked like he’d ‘tossed with a sparrow for a pair of legs and lost’ but he turned tackling into an art form, sliding in to nick the ball at a time when many centre-halves piled in blindly, taking man and ball. When Scotland faced England, I knew the difficulties in store. Tommo was as stealthy as a pickpocket, the king of anticipation, but if the game got dirty, he’d have a kick. Nobody bossed Tommo around. He loved playing the Scots. Sitting next to him on the coach to Jock Stein’s testimonial at Celtic Park, I laughed at Tommo’s running commentary on all the fans outside.

‘Look at that daft Jock there,’ Tommo said, pointing out one supporter. ‘He’ll be butting a bus in a minute.’ Tommo was convinced all Scots spent their waking hours head-butting vehicles. ‘It’s butt-a-bus time,’ Tommo shouted whenever we travelled to Scotland.

Noisy and irrepressible, Tommo was steeped in the passion of the Kop. Having stood on the terrace as a kid, he brought the hunger of a Liverpool supporter to his every thought and movement. I soon understood how profoundly Tommo hated the idea of his Liverpool, his friends’ Liverpool, his family’s club, ever losing. He gave everything for Liverpool, including four cartilages. Few players touched the ‘This Is Anfield’ sign with such tenderness. Rising up those final steps on to the pitch, Tommo charged straight to the Kop, waving to his brother Owen, standing where Tommo himself once stood. That showed the bond between terrace and dressing room, fans and players belonging to the same family, fighting for the same cause. Tommo was a Kirkby boy through and through and even at his height with Liverpool, he’d help out with the pub team at The Falcon. He even took the European Cup in to the bar there one night.

Like Tommo, Joey Jones was another diehard Liverpool fan. He used to run towards the Kop, shaking his forearm to show off his Liverpool tattoo. Joey was tough and unyielding, a real defender. A lot of defenders don’t actually enjoy their duties but Joey took great pride in forcing opponents back, protecting Liverpool’s goalmouth with all the commitment of a guard dog. This suited Emlyn, who liked to go forward.

Although far from a classic patsy, Joey was pleasingly vulnerable to our wind-ups. Under Bob, we did a particular heading practice at Melwood, running along and jumping up, an exercise that proved fertile territory for bouts of tomfoolery. On one occasion, I was running alongside Joey and when we landed I said, ‘Christ, Joey, did you see that car the other side of those flats?’

‘What car?’

‘The other side of the flats. Come on Joey, you’re not jumping high enough.’

When Wales played Scotland in an October World Cup qualifier at Anfield, on 12 October 1977, Joey was pumped up for weeks in advance.

‘The Kop’s going to be full of Wales boys, Kenny, just you wait and see. Anfield’s going to belong to Wales.’

‘Is that right, Joey?’

‘Yes, you’ll see. I’m going to run straight to the Kop and give it that.’ Joey punched the air.

‘You’d better be careful, Joey,’ I advised.

‘Why? I can’t wait to see all the Welsh punters on the Kop.’

‘All right, Joey.’

When Joey ran out, he sprinted straight to the Kop but stopped in his tracks. The Kop was a sea of blue, swaying with Saltires. Tucked away in the corner of the Tartan Army’s home for the night was a wee pocket of Welsh supporters.

‘The Kop looks good tonight,’ I remarked to Joey as we lined up.

Even under the fiercest pressure, no weak link could be detected in Liverpool’s defence. In the eight years I played with Phil Neal, I never saw anybody give Liverpool’s right-back a hard time. For a defender, Nealy was really composed in front of goal. It sometimes seemed to me that ice filled Nealy’s veins when he ventured forward because he never panicked, particularly when tucking away penalties. Nealy’s first job was defending and he was Mr Reliable but anybody heaping praise on Nealy must also acknowledge the contribution of Jimmy Case, who often doubled up on the opposition winger, helping Nealy out. When Nealy went cantering forward, Jimmy slotted in to cover and keep Liverpool’s shape.

The Kop loved Jimmy because he was one of them, a proud south Liverpool lad, and their affection deepened because he worked his socks off. A player’s player, Jimmy contributed far more than he was given credit for. He could pick people out with a pass and score as well as steam into tackles. Jimmy was a quiet, genuine character, but I upset him when we were returning on the train after the 1977 Charity Shield.

‘Kenny, have a drink.’

‘I don’t drink, Jimmy.’ He seemed shocked.

‘You must drink.’

‘Jimmy, I don’t.’

‘You’re winding me up.’ But I wasn’t. This wasn’t Puritanism on my part; this was just about taste. I can’t stand lager for a start, and unless it was Champagne or a glass of wine after a win, my limit would be sweet Martini with lemonade. Any time, any place, anywhere, it was certainly the right one for me. Back at the Holiday Inn, I stuck to the local version of Irn Bru and cream soda.

One day, 5 December 1977, I was relaxing in the foyer of the hotel with my daughter, Kelly, when I spotted a familiar face – and haircut. Kevin Keegan was in town with Hamburg for the second leg of the European Super Cup. We’d drawn 1–1 in Germany. These were useful occasions to keep us in tune for Europe. The quarter-finals of the European Cup were not until March so Hamburg’s visit was welcome, as was seeing Kevin. Cynics in the Press believed tension churned between us, as if we were still fighting over the red No. 7 shirt, a suggestion rooted firmly in the realm of fantasy. Kevin and I had a good chat about Hamburg and Liverpool, about how each other was settling in. Nobody would describe it as the longest conversation ever but everybody could see the friendliness on both sides, putting an end to the lie that we didn’t get on. Kevin was brand new.

Mind you, Kevin’s mood was better in the Holiday Inn than at Anfield the following night when he played on his own up front and saw little of the ball. I cannot believe Kevin was surprised by the sight of his old team enjoying so much possession. That was the Liverpool way, and Kevin had once been a valued part of that machine. Liverpool duly won 6–0, Terry Mac collecting three goals and a Man of the Match trophy almost as big as himself. Kevin didn’t take many great memories from his visit to Anfield – the Kop’s reaction was reserved rather than raucous. Liverpool fans respected Kevin but were disappointed with his decision to leave.

When European Cup combat resumed, Liverpool were ready. Our quarter-final assignment was Benfica, and we kicked off in the lashing rain at the Stadium of Light. In goal for the Portuguese champions was Bento, as mad as a brush and an early version of Rene Higuita, the Colombian who lit up Wembley with that scorpion kick against England in 1995. When Jimmy Case lifted a free-kick towards goal, Bento approached the ball like a man emerging from the shower trying to control a bar of soap. The ball slipped into the goal and Bento’s night went from farce to worse when Emlyn beat him with a misdirected effort.

‘That was a cross!’ I told Emlyn.

‘I meant it. I meant it.’

‘Well, you should be embarrassed if you meant it!’ Nothing could prick Emlyn’s bravado.

Benfica visited a fortnight later to discover snow blanketing Anfield. They ran into another storm on the pitch when Cally scored within six minutes, leaving the Portuguese requiring snookers. By 1978, the clock was ticking on Cally’s career but he was still important, still hugely respected for the experience acquired since making his debut 18 years earlier. The best compliment I can pay Cally is that it took someone of the exceptional calibre of Graeme Souness to divest him of the No. 11 shirt. Cally embodied the Liverpool way, keeping the game nice and simple, just tackling, passing and moving – win it, give it. Cally was Mr Dependable and Mr Versatility, moving effortlessly from right-wing to the holding role in midfield, happily sitting back to release Terry Mac, who also struck that night against Benfica.

What a player Terry was, blessed with unbelievable stamina. ‘You’ve got two pairs of lungs,’ I said to Terry and I’m sure he did. Terry could run and run and his mind shifted as quickly. As a footballer, Terry was a creature of instinct and intelligence, a killer mix. If I even hinted at darting into a particular area, Terry read my mind. The ball was waiting for me, almost smiling at me. Not only could Terry see a great pass, he could deliver it. Vision and execution are qualities found in only the very best players and Terry had those strengths. Along with his keen eye for goal, what made Terry even more special was his full-on, committed attitude. Surrender was for cowards, not for men like Terry, who’d never give up.

During my long association with Terry Mac, it has been a constant frustration that people never really appreciated what a sharp footballing brain he had. To many people, Terry was the village idiot because of the lisp, his constant refrain of ‘all right, son’ and a diet that never strayed far from soup and sandwiches. We used to get taken to the Bryn Awel Hotel, in Wales, with fine wine and wonderful food. It was top dollar and we’d be choosing from the à la carte menu. When it came to Terry’s turn to order, he’d ask for ‘chicken sarnies and a pint of lager’. You can take the boy out of Kirkby! If that was what Terry liked, fine. Terry’s not stupid, far from it, although his personal grooming didn’t exactly bestow an air of gravitas. ‘Why does your hair look as if somebody has just parted it with an axe?’ I asked him one time.