Read Online My Liverpool Home by Kenny Dalglish - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kenny Dalglish
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the boys. The clothes weren’t snide, they were genuine. Another guy sold fruit and pies, and every Friday, George the Fish came up to Anfield. Another bloke had a contact in the meat market who got us great steaks. A mate of Roy’s, Wee Charlie, came to the ground to cut hair. When I came out of the shower, Charlie would say, ‘Sit down. How do you want it?’
‘Just a touch, Charlie, don’t take it all off.’
‘No problem. If it’s not right, I’ll be back in a fortnight.’
I enjoyed having Roy’s mates around. Like Roy and Ronnie, they were real Liverpool people. I loved Anfield’s community spirit, everyone mucking in. ‘Everyone at Liverpool is the greatest,’ said Bob. ‘The tea-ladies are the greatest tea-ladies.’ And they were great. They were Liverpool people, who worshipped the club and were just so proud to spend their day at Anfield. Working for Liverpool filled them with a sense of importance. Liverpool’s secret was that they employed the best – the best tea-ladies, the best players and the best administrator in Peter Robinson, known as PBR and renowned for looking after the players brilliantly. Most years, a message would come from upstairs: ‘There’s a new contract for everybody upstairs and you all have a rise, if you want to go up and sign.’
‘It’s happened to me ten out of the eleven seasons I’ve been here,’ Stevie Heighway told me. Famed for being fair with employees, Liverpool showed similar generosity to me. In that pre-Bosman age, Liverpool’s board was under no requirement or pressure to give me a rise. I was tied to Liverpool, yet they always showed their appreciation with a rise nearly every year. In those days, everybody wanted to play at Liverpool but the board never took advantage of that. Silverware was rewarded financially. No wonder the camaraderie was so strong. No wonder, with the Boot Room and a manager of Old Bob’s quality, Liverpool dominated England and Europe.
5
----
ANFIELD SOUTH
I T WAS the afternoon of 10 May 1978, a momentous day in the history of Liverpool Football Club and I was a bag of nerves. As I lay on my bed at Sopwell House Hotel, near St Albans, waiting there until the coach came to transport us to Wembley for the European Cup final against Bruges, I felt the walls closing in on me. All it needed was for the curtains to be replaced by bars on the window. Impatiently, I watched the hands of the clock inch towards my moment with destiny, willing them to hurry up. God, they were moving slowly. A couple of feet away, Stevie Heighway stretched out on his bed, book in hand, a picture of tranquillity. Nothing fazed Liverpool’s languid winger, who turned the pages, oblivious of my nerves. How I envied Stevie. Reading never featured high on my list of interests, or abilities, but at that moment I craved any means of distraction. Of course, Stevie had been to a European Cup final before, but he was naturally laid-back, unperturbed by the scale of the assignment. For me, freshly arrived from Celtic, a European final was new territory.
Sleep usually came easy in the build-up to matches but not this time, not before my first European Cup final. I leapt up, desperate to escape the confines of the room, looking for anything to take my mind off time’s reluctant passage. Bob Paisley was not a manager for organising games, like the carpet bowls Don Revie staged with England. Even Liverpool’s card school had closed down for the afternoon. The only activity available seemed a tour of Sopwell’s corridors. After pacing around for a while, I returned to the room. Stevie was still reading, still untroubled by the thought of what lay ahead. Throwing myself down on my bed, I closed my eyes, knowing sleep would not rescue me. Instead, I found my mind rewinding through the season, recalling the events that guided Liverpool here. I found the reflections soothing, reminding me that this was the journey I had craved at Celtic but never managed.
When
‘Just a touch, Charlie, don’t take it all off.’
‘No problem. If it’s not right, I’ll be back in a fortnight.’
I enjoyed having Roy’s mates around. Like Roy and Ronnie, they were real Liverpool people. I loved Anfield’s community spirit, everyone mucking in. ‘Everyone at Liverpool is the greatest,’ said Bob. ‘The tea-ladies are the greatest tea-ladies.’ And they were great. They were Liverpool people, who worshipped the club and were just so proud to spend their day at Anfield. Working for Liverpool filled them with a sense of importance. Liverpool’s secret was that they employed the best – the best tea-ladies, the best players and the best administrator in Peter Robinson, known as PBR and renowned for looking after the players brilliantly. Most years, a message would come from upstairs: ‘There’s a new contract for everybody upstairs and you all have a rise, if you want to go up and sign.’
‘It’s happened to me ten out of the eleven seasons I’ve been here,’ Stevie Heighway told me. Famed for being fair with employees, Liverpool showed similar generosity to me. In that pre-Bosman age, Liverpool’s board was under no requirement or pressure to give me a rise. I was tied to Liverpool, yet they always showed their appreciation with a rise nearly every year. In those days, everybody wanted to play at Liverpool but the board never took advantage of that. Silverware was rewarded financially. No wonder the camaraderie was so strong. No wonder, with the Boot Room and a manager of Old Bob’s quality, Liverpool dominated England and Europe.
5
----
ANFIELD SOUTH
I T WAS the afternoon of 10 May 1978, a momentous day in the history of Liverpool Football Club and I was a bag of nerves. As I lay on my bed at Sopwell House Hotel, near St Albans, waiting there until the coach came to transport us to Wembley for the European Cup final against Bruges, I felt the walls closing in on me. All it needed was for the curtains to be replaced by bars on the window. Impatiently, I watched the hands of the clock inch towards my moment with destiny, willing them to hurry up. God, they were moving slowly. A couple of feet away, Stevie Heighway stretched out on his bed, book in hand, a picture of tranquillity. Nothing fazed Liverpool’s languid winger, who turned the pages, oblivious of my nerves. How I envied Stevie. Reading never featured high on my list of interests, or abilities, but at that moment I craved any means of distraction. Of course, Stevie had been to a European Cup final before, but he was naturally laid-back, unperturbed by the scale of the assignment. For me, freshly arrived from Celtic, a European final was new territory.
Sleep usually came easy in the build-up to matches but not this time, not before my first European Cup final. I leapt up, desperate to escape the confines of the room, looking for anything to take my mind off time’s reluctant passage. Bob Paisley was not a manager for organising games, like the carpet bowls Don Revie staged with England. Even Liverpool’s card school had closed down for the afternoon. The only activity available seemed a tour of Sopwell’s corridors. After pacing around for a while, I returned to the room. Stevie was still reading, still untroubled by the thought of what lay ahead. Throwing myself down on my bed, I closed my eyes, knowing sleep would not rescue me. Instead, I found my mind rewinding through the season, recalling the events that guided Liverpool here. I found the reflections soothing, reminding me that this was the journey I had craved at Celtic but never managed.
When
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