‘How are you enjoying it, Frank?’ I asked him.
‘I’m not sure, Kenny.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Everybody’s really nice to me.’
‘Well, that’s good.’
‘I’m not sure about that, Kenny. I’m uneasy.’
‘You plank! They all want you to do well, Frank, that’s why they’re all nice to you.’
‘The cleaning lady is really nice to me!’
‘Frank, that’s because she’s a Liverpool fan. They’re all Liverpool fans. You’ve just come down from Scotland and they’re trying to make you welcome.’
Frank never overcame those doubts, which I always thought was a great pity for him, and for Liverpool. In truth, I must admit Frank’s style of play was far too individual for Liverpool. We dubbed Frank ‘the Incredible Turning Man’ because he’d twist and turn with the ball when some of the lads, particularly Terry Mac, wanted it laid off straight away, so keeping the momentum that made Liverpool such a force. Bob took a chance on Frank McGarvey and it didn’t work out, but anybody arguing that his 10 months at Anfield were an expensive mistake has simply not done their sums. Celtic paid Bob what he’d paid St Mirren. Liverpool’s association with Frank was disappointing but it could never be entered in the club ledger as bad business.
Sitting next to Frank on the bench in Tbilisi was Avi Cohen, a real character much loved in the Liverpool dressing room for his sense of humour. When Avi first walked through the door, I went out of my way to talk to him. After a few words, Avi asked me, ‘Do you speak English?’
‘Are you joking?’ I replied, failing to mask my annoyance. Even now, I’m still not sure whether Avi was winding me up, although the lads found it marvellous entertainment. ‘Do you speak English?’ became a constant refrain of theirs.
The Boss came into the dressing room, chuntering on about something. Eventually, he said, ‘The Press are saying Avi is an Orthodox Jew and that he can’t play on a Saturday.’ All the lads looked intrigued.
‘So what did you say to the Press, Boss?’ somebody asked.
‘I told them Avi won’t be out of place here. Several of you lot never play on Saturdays!’
Sadly, no laughter accompanied Liverpool’s travails in Europe for those two seasons. Finally, early in September 1980, Bob came bounding across Melwood. ‘Come on, who do you think you want?’ he smiled. We’d never have guessed. At last, Uefa granted Liverpool an easier start to a European campaign, a visit to Oulu, a small market town in Finland where the locals were incredibly hospitable, to play Oulun Palloseura. For these Scandinavians to have Liverpool Football Club actually in their town was a major honour and the Raatti Stadium was rammed, crackling with atmosphere as Finns and Scousers mingled.
As usual, Liverpool fans travelled in numbers and their loyalty never ceased to astonish me. They got everywhere, behind the Iron Curtain and up near the Arctic Circle, using their ingenuity to cover vast distances, sometimes skipping the train fare by hiding in the toilet when the ticket inspector came round. Liverpool supporters were masters at keeping the cost down. Outside grounds, some fans mugged ticket touts. They’d only hurt them in the pocket. When the tout produced the tickets, the fans grabbed them and ran. Such behaviour never troubled me. Why should it? The touts tried to fleece them, exploiting their passion for Liverpool. Our supporters made so many sacrifices, following the team they loved. It cost them serious money and cost some their marriages. I found it a truly humbling experience to talk to fans on the road in Europe. They’d hang on every word, no matter what I said, but I was fascinated by their adventures. Some of the punters were familiar faces from the club plane, or friends of local players. Nowadays, apart from Carra and Stevie, no Liverpool players enjoy the contact with fans that we did back then. Kop and team had a truly special relationship. Abroad, we made sure we got the fans tickets, rewarding their loyalty. On most midweek trips, we saw school-aged kids.
‘They must get a lot of holidays,’ I mentioned to Graeme. ‘Or their dads are taking them as a treat.’
Unfortunately, there were few treats for them in Oulu. The Finnish champions were playing their first game in Europe and the wait had made them impatient. Oulun had a right good go and we were fortunate to leave with a 1–1 scoreline. Unimpressed with our display, Bob sent out the same team again for the Anfield leg on 1 October.
‘Do the job properly this time,’ Bob told us. We didn’t let the Boss down. Souey and Terry Mac got hat-tricks in a 10–1 thrashing as we coasted into the second round.
The moment we knew it was Aberdeen next on 22 October, the mood around the dressing room changed. Facing a Scottish side was huge for Al, Souey and me. We all knew what a lively reception was in store. Scarcely had the draw been made than all sorts of noises flooded out of Scotland about what Aberdeen would do to Liverpool, about us Anglos being sent homeward to think again.
‘You have to understand,’ I told the other players. ‘We cannot lose this. Come on. It’s a big game for us.’ The English players took the piss.
‘Even if we lose up there, we’ll beat them at Anfield,’ Terry Mac said.
‘Don’t start that,’ I replied. ‘Don’t. We have to win up there. Our lives depend on it.’
Before we departed north, all the non-Scottish players were made fully aware of what this tie meant. Nothing less than victory over Aberdeen was acceptable. Catching the mood, the newspapers raised the stakes, giving it the full ‘Battle of Britain’ treatment. Fittingly, we landed at RAF Lossiemouth with our canny squadron leader, Bob, ready for the Scots. As he headed off for the press conference, Bob said, ‘I’m just going to give Gordon Strachan a wee bit of toffee.’ Bob brought out the toffee for special occasions only, for when he wanted to give an opposing player a compliment to soften him up. The Boss was a master at dishing out toffee. On the morning of the game, the newspapers were awash with Bob’s praise for Strachan. They’d taken the bait. Bob talked about how Liverpool respected Aberdeen’s winger, how it was a great stage for such a talent as Gordon to shine, and how the world watched him.
‘We’ve seen the headlines, Boss,’ I said as he came into breakfast. ‘We’ve seen you’ve said how good Strachan is.’
‘I just gave him a bit of toffee,’ smiled Bob.
When we arrived at Pittodrie, the Aberdeen fans seemed in no mood to repay the compliment. The reception for Graeme, Al and me was horrendous, real vitriol spitting out from the terraces. If we’d been wearing a Scotland shirt, they’d have cheered us, but we represented an English team so they battered us. The one blessing was that Graeme’s ‘Champagne Charlie’ image meant the Aberdeen fans slaughtered him even more. Charlie liked that, and so did Al and I, because it took the heat off us.
Our game plan was Liverpool’s usual away tactic of keeping the ball, quietening the 24,000 fans and taking the sting out of a heated occasion, but we knew the scale of the mission. Alex Ferguson was doing such a magnificent job with Aberdeen we had to respect them. With so much money and playing talent at Celtic Park and Ibrox, I appreciated what an incredible achievement it was by Fergie to break the Old Firm stranglehold. He’d assembled a really good side at Pittodrie. For opposing forwards, like me, stepping into this cauldron, Aberdeen posed a particularly formidable challenge. Fergie had built a brilliant centre-back pairing. Alex McLeish attacked the ball while Willie Miller swept up, handling the one-on-ones. Bob told us that when we got in the final third, we must move the ball quickly to get past Alex and Willie. Within five minutes, we’d scored from a fast move, Terry Mac chipping Jim Leighton for the only goal of the first leg.
The Scottish newspapers claimed we were fortunate to leave with a 1–0 win. ‘Lucky Liverpool’ was the gist of the headlines, but I didn’t care. I just felt relief, because losing to a Scottish side, and hearing the crowing of the Scottish journalists and public, would have been torture. Terry Mac did us a right good favour with that goal. The pressure was off.
The second leg kicked off on Bonfire Night and Aberdeen certainly lit a fuse, upsetting us by winning the toss and making us kick towards the Kop. Down the years, it has become one of the great traditions of European nights at Anfield that Liverpool attack the Kop in the second half. From St Etienne, before my time, to Olympiakos more recently, Liverpool have performed heroics running towards the Kop as the clock ticked down. Maybe it was the sight of all those expectant faces, all those Liverpool flags and scarves, or maybe it was the noise, pulling us towards the goal, but there was always something special about this second-half experience. Against Aberdeen, we were annoyed to be playing towards the Kop so early, and took our anger out on Fergie’s defence. Miller conceded an own goal, Nealy swept in another and the tie was over before half-time. After the break, Al and I really rubbed it in. Battering Aberdeen 4–0 pleased a lot of people and it certainly delighted us. The verdict in the newspapers was that Liverpool comprehensively outplayed Aberdeen. Fergie had been completely outwitted by Bob, and wee Gordon was too busy chewing on toffee to hurt us. I’m convinced that this defeat was when Fergie first realised the importance of psychology. What Fergie now uses as mind games, Bob just called toffee. It certainly worked.
As bitter memories of the party being over faded, Liverpool strode closer towards the final in Paris. In the March quarter-final, CSKA Sofia were overwhelmed in a tie notable for Graeme’s hat-trick at Anfield and David Johnson’s strike in Bulgaria.
‘Well done, Doc,’ I shouted at Johnson, who was becoming more and more influential. David was known as the Doc because he always carried a small BOAC airline bag filled with all types of pills.
‘My head’s killing me,’ I occasionally said to the Doc.
‘I’ve got a tablet for that,’ replied the Doc, fishing around in his magical medical chest of a bag. He had absolutely no medical knowledge, of course, but the Doc knew where the goal was. When I arrived, the Doc thought he would be bombed out by Bob but he stayed and played an important role.
Through to the semis, we knew our next opponents would be of the very highest order. ‘Inter, Real Madrid or Bayern Munich,’ I said to Terry Mac as we trained. ‘I don’t think Bob’s going to have very big strides.’ Moments later, our beloved manager walked out of the Melwood pavilion and we stopped training, transfixed by his movement.
‘Smallish strides,’ I correctly concluded after much scrutinising. Bob was quite happy with Bayern. He knew the Germans could field some of the best talent at work in the modern game, stars such as the European Footballer of the Year, Karl-Heinz Rummenigge, but Bob trusted us. Even when Liverpool were held 0–0 at Anfield on 8 April, the Boss remained relaxed.
‘We’ll score out there,’ said Bob, his confidence strengthened by the knowledge that Graeme would be back from injury, stiffening the midfield. By the time we got to the Olympic Stadium on 22 April, Bob’s team-talk had already been done for him. Living up to arrogant stereotype, the Germans gave us all the incentive we required by spouting information to their fans on the best travel plans for the Paris final. Even Bayern’s experienced players, who should have known better, mouthed off about us. I was seething when I heard Paul Breitner calling us ‘unimaginative and unintelligent’, a comment as disrespectful as it was incorrect. Just before we went out, Bob said to Sammy Lee, ‘Go and mark Breitner.’
Liverpool traditionally relied on tried and trusted tactics in Europe. I was occasionally withdrawn into midfield, but this was a new development. Bob rarely assigned individuals to man-making roles but he clearly identified Breitner as Bayern’s chief threat. Being the mouthpiece for all Munich’s dressing-room rubbish about Liverpool told Bob that Breitner was the ringleader. Only somebody assured of his team-mates’ support, or immensely thick, would have ventured opinions as provocative as Breitner’s denigrating remarks about Liverpool.
Sammy accepted his evening’s mission willingly. Typical Sammy. A local boy, he loved Liverpool with a passion and would do anything for the team. Friendly and unquestioning, the only person Sammy ever criticised was himself, and he’d apologise for everything, even breathing. ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry,’ he kept muttering, like a Scouse Ronnie Corbett. His committed, genuine nature made him one of the most popular players in the Liverpool dressing room. When he marked his 1978 debut with a goal, against Leicester City, we were all made up. Sammy hit the ball from 20 yards, not the most venomous strike ever attempted in front of the Kop, but it somehow meandered into the net.
‘I’ve scored. I’ve scored,’ yelled Sammy, almost in disbelief. ‘I’ve scored at the Kop,’ he added, realising the extra significance. Scoring in front of all his family and friends meant the world to Sammy. His wholehearted nature endeared him to everybody at Anfield. Sammy ran himself into the ground shuttling between the boxes, making light of his lack of height. In confronting some of the bigger units patrolling central midfield, Sammy’s size was against him, so I consider his achievements in the game should command even greater respect. His was a difficult position to play in for Liverpool, up and down non-stop, demanding great stamina. Continuing the rich tradition of Brian Hall and Jimmy Case, Sammy put in a good shift and he never let anyone down at Liverpool. I always felt the only ingredient holding Sammy Lee back from being a truly top player was self-belief. If Sammy had believed in himself more, and not got so wound up if he made a mistake, he’d have been up there with the very best. That was Sammy’s nature. Bob certainly believed in him, seeing what Sammy could bring to the team, what an important cog he was in the midfield engine. So he set Sammy to work on Breitner.
‘Smother him, don’t let him move, don’t let him breathe,’ Bob said. Sammy’s not a dirty player but he wouldn’t let Breitner go. Wherever the German went, a short, freckly Scouser blocked his path. Whenever Breitner got the ball, Sammy was in his face, closing him down, pressing him to lose it. Whenever Breitner saw a window of opportunity, Sammy slammed it shut. Sammy followed him everywhere, almost into the Bayern dressing room at half-time.