My Liverpool Home by Kenny Dalglish Read Free Book Online Page B

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