My Liverpool Home by Kenny Dalglish Read Free Book Online

their routine, mine involved the blackest of moods if Liverpool failed to win. I’d be silent in the dressing room, even in the car on the way home, even the next day. Even if I had a couple of glasses of wine to remove the edge, I’d still feel bad, not wanting to see the papers, knowing the weekend was ruined. I trained all week to win and felt sick if we slipped up. When Liverpool lost away from Anfield, the trip back was murder. I’d sit there, staring disconsolately out the window, desperate to get back in the old routine – winning. Fortunately, the legendary Boot Room ensured we did.

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    OLD BOB AND THE BOOT ROOM
    J UST A CRAMPED area, 10 foot by 10 foot off a corridor near the dressing rooms, the Boot Room made an unlikely nerve centre for Liverpool operations. Match boots hung from pegs and a carpenter’s bench provided space for working on studs. Adorning one wall was a newspaper photograph of Joe Fagan talking to Ronnie Moran in the Boot Room. A calendar reminded everybody what year it was.
    Running along the left-hand wall was metal shelving, leaving room at the end for a chair, traditionally occupied by Old Tom Saunders, who liked that seat because he could hide his whisky behind one of the uprights in the shelving if somebody walked in. For the life of me, I don’t know why Tom feared discovery. Everybody knew what went on in the Boot Room. Up against the right wall stood two wooden cupboards, housing ledgers and a few bottles of whisky. A crate of Guinness Export stood in one corner, a present from friends at the brewers, who received tickets in return. After matches, Bugsy and Joe would sit on metal skips, holding court. When visiting managers and coaches were invited in for a drink, they usually accepted gratefully, aware of the honour. They’d perch on a skip, sipping whisky from an old glass, totally unaware they had walked into an ambush. Joe, Ronnie and Tom should have worn masks they staged so many hold-ups in the Boot Room. Information was their target and it was extracted with great subtlety. Unassuming and respectful people, never gloating over a victory, Liverpool’s coaching staff were masters at making guests relax.
    ‘That’s us got a job for another week,’ Ronnie said if Liverpool won.
    ‘Oh no, it’s not,’ Joe piped up. ‘We’ve got a game on Tuesday. Christ, we could be under pressure Tuesday.’ The visiting manager felt he was being taken into their confidence when he was actually being led very skilfully into a trap. Gradually, waiting until his guard was down, Ronnie, Joe and Old Tom would quietly grill him.
    ‘You’re building a good team there. Got any good kids coming through?’ Joe asked. Responding to such flattery, the visiting manager would talk about some real promising teenager on the books of his club. Within days, Liverpool scouts would be checking him out. They were so crafty. All the time in that Boot Room, they were weighing people up, finding out tiny details about what made their team tick, building up a mental dossier on opponents’ strengths and weaknesses. Most managers fell for it. Brian Clough didn’t. He visited just a couple of times, leading me to suspect Cloughie knew what the Boot Room boys were up to.
    Shanks set up the Boot Room and it proved to be a breeding ground for future managers – Bob, Joe and Roy Evans. It was the heart and soul of Liverpool’s footballing operation, a centre for research and strategy.
    ‘Many a battle has been won in here,’ Bugsy kept telling us players. The Boot Room was mainly the coaches’ domain, and players were discouraged from entering. Sometimes I’d knock on the door, checking on timing for training, but on the whole I avoided the place. The Boot Room’s history intimidated me. I never went in unless they shouted down the corridor for me.
    ‘It’s the officers’ mess,’ Liverpool’s chief executive, Peter Robinson, remarked to me one day.
    ‘Peter,’ I replied, ‘they are generals, not