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Southport to Anfield was decided by superstition. If Liverpool got beaten, it was out with the map and change the route. If I saw a wedding while driving in, I knew that spelled good luck, so I was always hoping to spot a wedding car before every game. Funerals meant bad luck, and so it went on. Magpies caused endless problems. If I saw one magpie, I’d scan the garden, hunting for a second one because of the old saying, ‘one for sorrow, two for joy’.
    Entering the Liverpool dressing room, I continued my preparations while taking care not to interrupt anybody else’s routine. At home, I decided what clothes to wear, depending on results. At Anfield, I went about taking them off in the right order. First move – jacket off; second – unknot tie; third – remove shirt. And then I worked south. The kit was simple – jock-strap and then shirt. The shorts had to wait.
    When I brandished a pair of nail-clippers, Liverpool tried to stop one of my routines. ‘Don’t be cutting your nails,’ Paisley said. ‘You’ll cut them too short and give yourself a sore toe.’ Nail-clipping had been a beloved tradition of mine at Celtic but Bob didn’t like it. My nails probably didn’t require attention but I needed to give it to them because of my superstition, so I carried on clipping.
    My routine then became complicated, descending into real detail, starting with strapping up my ankles and picking up my socks – the correct way was right first then left. Even in an era of tough tacklers, I hated shin-pads and never wore them because they cramped up my shin. Climbing on the treatment table, I had a massage and then it was on with the shorts. Boots came next, adidas before I switched to Puma. When I first got free boots off adidas, I thought it was Christmas. Then Puma came along offering financial attractions and I started wearing Puma Kings and Puma Royals. I felt I’d arrived when they stitched my name into the boots – Dalglish Silver and Dalglish Gold. I really appreciated my good fortune. Kids were wearing boots with my name on them when I couldn’t afford proper boots at their age. My boots were my fortune and I tended them lovingly. Even on elevation to the ranks of professional, I inspected everything the ground-staff did with my boots, particularly when they put them in the drying room. They’d be like crisps in the morning. I had two pairs, one for training and one for matches, and I was obsessed with these boots, running them under a tap to soften the leather and remove any flecks of mud, often imaginary, and checking that the studs were tightened just right. When I look at the boots worn by Stevie and Fernando, even some of the kids in the Academy, I feel a twinge of envy, which might also be a touch of arthritis in my toes. Players now don’t need to break boots in. They can wear them fresh from the box, but the trend for blades, rather than round studs, worries me because when the player turns, he encounters resistance that can damage cruciates.
    Studs ruled back then. Continuing my routine, I put the right boot on first, then left, before the vital visit to the toilet, always the right-hand cubicle of the two at Anfield. That was the one I used for my first game, against Newcastle United, and since I scored that was me sorted trap-wise for my Liverpool career. If another player was in my cubicle, and the other stood empty, I’d still wait. Each player had his set time with the toilet and any new boy accidentally jumping the queue would be stopped by a shout of, ‘You can’t go now. It’s my turn.’
    To the untrained eye, Liverpool’s dressing room might have appeared a jumble of players weaving in and out of each other, but method underpinned the seemingly chaotic movement. More routine was provided by the chairman, John Smith, who would visit the dressing room, going around each player, saying a few words. ‘How are you, Kenny?’ he’d ask. ‘Fine, chairman,’ I’d reply, and he’d move