My Liverpool Home (6 page)

‘It’s not good enough,’ Bob shouted at us. ‘We don’t accept that at Liverpool Football Club. If that happens again, you’ll not be here.’ He tweaked the button, giving us a warning, so we thrashed Swansea 4–0 four days later. Bob’s reaction worked.

He was a proud football man, who always demanded pride in the performance. A year later, we were leading Notts County, Rushie grabbed a hat-trick and we eased up. Rather than a ‘well done, lads’, Bob went ballistic.

‘After the fourth goal, you played as if it were a testimonial,’ he stormed. ‘I never want to see that again. This is Liverpool.’ This was Bob simply keeping us on an even keel, stressing that even what may seem like a resounding victory could be improved upon. The game finished 5–1.

Anyone getting carried away, or giving the opposition ammunition with a silly quote to the papers, often earned a summons to Bob’s office and an appointment with his wrath. In April 1982 when Liverpool were closing in on the title, Alan Kennedy said something to the Press that led to the headline: ‘WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS’. Alan was called in to Bob’s office, which, superficially, never seemed the scariest place, with three china ducks rising gently up the wall. On Bob’s desk was an ornament of some piglets fighting for a teat with the caption: ‘It’s easy to stay on top’. So Alan went in and was duly ticked off. Careless talk costs points was the gist of Bob’s reprimand.

Having witnessed Bob’s methods at first hand, I can readily testify that this man was a master of psychology. After 90 minutes of the League Cup final on 13 March 1982, Liverpool were drawing 1–1 with Tottenham. Before extra time got under way, some of the players sat on the ground, catching their breath.

‘Get up,’ Bob barked. ‘Don’t let them see you’re tired.’ Nobody quibbled. We trusted Bob implicitly so up we stood. The message Bob wanted transmitted to the drained Spurs team was that Liverpool were strong, fresh and ready for another 30 minutes. I glanced across at the Spurs players, some of whom were lying on the grass. Seeing us all standing, ready for action, their remaining energy must have ebbed away. Psychologically, Bob’s order not only shattered Spurs but lifted us. Ronnie Whelan and Rushie duly put them out of their misery.

Tactically, Bob was incredibly sharp. In a League Cup replay against Arsenal on 8 December 1982, Bob noted a vulnerability in the Londoners’ defence, so he took off Sammy Lee and sent on Craig Johnston. ‘Run at them,’ Bob instructed Craig. David O’Leary and Chris Whyte couldn’t cope with Johnston’s pace and movement and Arsenal soon folded.

Bob was very proud of his background in the mining village of Hetton-le-Hole, near Durham. One day, Liverpool were travelling to Sunderland and Bob made the driver take us on a detour to Hetton-le-Hole. There was a monument in the hills and Bob wanted us to see it. We never quite knew why. It was just Bob’s pride in the area really. He never lost his roots, never changed, always remembered the tough upbringing, the years as Gunner Paisley in the Army, driving a tank through Italy, fighting the Germans. At Liverpool, Bob kept to a well-rehearsed daily routine. Up, out of the house, drive to a friend’s garage, sit in the back, place a few bets and on to Anfield.

‘I’m only a modest Geordie,’ Bob said to us, ‘but back me into a corner and I’m a vicious bastard.’

As a modest Geordie, Bob never got the recognition he deserved. Bob Paisley is the greatest manager in the history of British football and I have no hesitation in saying that. His relentless amassing of silverware justifies such a statement. In nine years, Bob won six titles, three League Cups, the Uefa Cup and three European Cups. Three! In Rome in 1977, at Wembley in 1978 and in Paris in 1981. Some record – and, remember, that was in the days when if you lost in the first round of the European Cup, you were out. There were no second chances, no group stages providing a nice safety net. The Champions League protects the big clubs against a fatal shock by a smaller team. Bob masterminded three European Cup triumphs in a more demanding era yet never got any recognition from the country. Three European Cups and he can’t get a knighthood! Matt Busby was knighted. Alex Ferguson was knighted. Bobby Robson, God bless him, was knighted. So why was Bob missed out? I believe it was because he never promoted himself. Bob let the results speak for themselves, but obviously they didn’t speak loud enough for somebody to be listening in Westminster.

If he’d been offered a knighthood, Bob would have accepted reluctantly, because that was the nature of the man – humble – but he’d have been down to the Palace, beaming inside and joking on the outside. A man who loved a quip, Bob would have celebrated the honour with some special words. ‘Never mind the European Cup final in Rome,’ Bob would have said, ‘I should have got this award for when I was there in my tank.’ For all his one-liners and self-deprecation, Bob would have been the proudest man in Britain to be knighted. Sir Bob Paisley would have sounded good. Such awards are supposed to reward role models and they didn’t come much better than Bob, whose conduct was always exemplary. He was a man who lived his life by sound principles.

As players, we didn’t bother about not receiving any respect from the country. We were just sitting there with another European Cup medal, another League Championship medal, another League Cup medal. Manchester United attracted all the publicity. But why did Bobby Charlton get a knighthood and not Roger Hunt, another World Cup winner? Why should United set the criteria? Manchester was a bigger city, a magnet to most of the media, who were obsessed with United. So what? Never bothered me. But I always felt for Bob. He deserved better.

The players loved him and it was a painful moment when he stepped down in 1983. Searching for a fitting tribute to a great manager, Graeme came up with a brilliant idea before the Milk Cup final, as the League Cup was known then.

‘If we win, we’ll send Bob up,’ said Graeme. Bob was incredibly reticent, needing persuasion to climb the 39 steps to receive the trophy and the acclaim of the Wembley crowd. A deeply unassuming man, Bob took off his white mac and cap before ascending to meet royalty, but I considered the honour was theirs.

Full of endearing characteristics, Bob had some unique phrases that peppered his talk in the dressing room. ‘Champagne only comes along if you get the bread-and-butter values right,’ Bob told us. ‘He’s alekeefie,’ Bob said of any player he considered a bit doolally. He had a language to himself.

‘The opposition will do a Huddy,’ Bob announced in one team-talk.

‘Boss?’ I asked. ‘What’s a Huddy?’

‘Alan Hudson,’ Bob explained. ‘Hudson does it. I hate it when a midfielder goes in among the back-four to get a pass. Don’t you be doing a Huddy.’

Another day, Bob said, ‘Don’t be giving it a slow roll across the back.’ Looks of bemusement spread across our faces and Tommy Smith burst out laughing.

‘What’s a slow roll, Boss?’ Tommy asked. Bob looked at Tommy and the rest of us as if we’d just taken up football.

‘It’s when the full-back passes the ball across the back-four,’ Bob said. ‘Don’t hit it slowly. Get pace on it. I’m not having the slow roll.’

When Bob couldn’t remember somebody’s name, he’d call him ‘Dougie Doins’. A team-talk could easily contain the instruction from Bob to Big Al: ‘Alan, at corners, you pick up Dougie Doins.’

Bob loathed the long pass, warning us against it with: ‘Don’t be hitting the far-flung one.’

On one occasion, we’d agreed to pick Alan up on our way to a game down south. ‘We’ll lift you at Crewe, Alan,’ Bob said.

Bob had a wonderful sense of humour, a real wry touch. Brian Kettle, a ginger-haired left-back, went in to speak to Bob one day. Bob was writing at his desk, and in front of him was a huge Sesame Street puppet. Seeing the puppet, Brian forgot what he’d come in for. Bob just carried on writing and eventually Brian managed to focus.

‘Boss, can I have a word with you about my future?’ Brian said. ‘I need to look ahead.’

‘Who do you think you are, son, Patrick Moore?’

One year, Terry Mac didn’t turn up to collect a sports writers award, but Bob accepted it for him.

‘You’ve given Terry this award,’ said Bob, ‘and one of the things you probably recognise in Terry is that he makes some great blind-side runs – but not normally as good as this!’

Having been a physio, Bob had an unbelievable eye for picking out injuries from the way we were walking. Within months of my arriving at Anfield, I was fully informed about how, in the past, Bob used this cannily to exploit the subs system. Liverpool were chasing the game at Upton Park in 1968 when Tony Hateley went down. Bob, then a trainer under Shanks, ran on and signalled for the stretcher.

‘No, no, Bob, I’m all right,’ said Hateley, who was only winded.

‘No, you need it, your legs,’ replied Bob, starting to tie Tony’s legs together.

‘I’m fine!’

‘You’re bloody well coming off.’ A player needed to be injured to be subbed, so strapping Tony’s legs up kidded everybody he had a problem. Liverpool then brought Doug Livermore on for his debut.

Assisting Bob was a real brain’s trust. Ronnie was always incredibly loyal to Bob, and to his successor, Joe Fagan. Bugsy knew his position but still voiced his opinion, screaming and shouting at us when we needed it. Bugsy was so competitive. If Liverpool were leading and the ball came out of play, landing close to Ronnie, he’d either knock it down the track or jam his fingers into it, checking the pressure before passing it back, just wasting time. If Ronnie picked up the ball, he’d throw it against the wooden edging of the pitch so it bounced back into the crowd, killing a few more precious seconds. It looked so real. ‘Sorry,’ Ronnie said to the opposition manager, although any tears were very much of the crocodile variety. We knew Bugsy would do all he could to help us to victory.

In pre-season, he worked us incredibly hard, building up our fitness for the long marathon of matches ahead. ‘Get yourself early to bed tonight, lads,’ he’d say. ‘Big Picture tomorrow.’ This horror came a week into pre-season and was a gruelling running session. Ronnie made us lap Melwood throughout the morning, giving us the power to last the season. Terry Mac was up at the front with Ray Kennedy, and Mark Lawrenson, better known as ‘Lawro’, tucked in just behind. I stayed in the pack while the back was brought up by Clem and David Fairclough. At the end, as we struggled to stand up, sweat pouring from us, Bob announced, ‘You’ve been good this week, so we’ll give you a game in the morning.’ Thank you. We knew we were getting one anyway. When people claimed Liverpool acquired their fitness simply from playing five-a-sides, I always thought of those brutal runs under Bugsy and winced. Those sessions underpinned the season’s success, allowing us to play 70 games and never think about it. If a modern player starts two games a week, he complains, in an era when the footballer is supposed to be faster, fitter, stronger! During the season, Ronnie threatened more running.

‘You’re not training properly,’ Bugsy yelled if anybody mucked about during pattern-of-play work. ‘If you don’t want to do it properly with the ball, we can just set the cones out and do some running. It’s up to yourselves.’ That threat, and the stern manner in which Bugsy delivered it, usually worked. The Boot Room boys were tough, quick to spot any slacking off.

‘Some of you think we’ve never played,’ Bugsy shouted at us. I noted with quiet pleasure that Joey Jones or Alan Kennedy got most stick off Ronnie because they played left-back, his old position, and he followed their movements like CCTV. During matches, Ronnie barked instructions.

‘I have the best break of my life – not hearing too well out of my right ear,’ Jimmy Case told me. ‘Whatever Bugsy’s saying, I haven’t a clue.’

After games, Ronnie always left us with the same message – ‘Any injuries, see you tomorrow. Straight home. Don’t go boozing or gallivanting with girls. Rest up, no messing about.’

Bugsy influenced life at Anfield and Melwood in so many ways, and particularly assisted the education of Roy Evans, a man similarly steeped in Liverpool tradition. When Roy represented Liverpool and England Schoolboys, the world and his dog fought battles to sign him. When Anfield beckoned, Roy came running to the club he loved, and he certainly started promisingly. Sadly, Roy was just short of top quality, so Shanks called him into his office.

‘You can leave, or I’ll give you a job here, taking the reserves,’ Shanks said. As a local lad who adored Liverpool, Roy stayed and did brilliantly with the reserves, winning loads of titles. Roy’s diplomatic skills were often deployed to good effect as some first-teamers felt reserve games beneath them, even if they needed some playing time after injury. Roy persuaded them of the game’s importance. I played once for the reserves, and I knew how much it meant for younger players to rub shoulders with first-teamers.

A coach I respected greatly, Roy worked us hard at Melwood, making sure we did the stretching right, joining in the running, everything to sharpen us up. ‘Golden Bollocks’ was Roy’s nickname for me, and he often shouted at me in training. ‘Come on, Golden Bollocks, harder,’ he’d yell. He was never the type to rant like Bugsy, but Roy made sure he got his point over.

The sheer cast of characters in the Boot Room was unbelievable. Tom Saunders never played professionally but I soon became aware of his great experience of football. He coached Liverpool and England Schoolboys. ‘I went to the university of life,’ he told me one day, and I bet he graduated with honours. Tom was very wise, sprucing up Bob’s scripts before he gave a presentation or after-dinner speech. Tom’s immersion in Anfield life began when he arrived as the first Youth Development Officer in England and he gradually became a fixture in the Boot Room, sitting in his chair, discreetly sipping his whisky and floating perceptive ideas. If the coaches wrestled with a problem, Tom said, ‘Step back and reflect on it. Let’s come in tomorrow and sort it out.’ Under Bob and Joe, Tom was used as a European scout, sussing out hotels and the opposition, compiling detailed reports. Tom was incredibly valued by Liverpool, whom he served loyally from Boot Room to boardroom, eventually becoming a director.