Read My Liverpool Home for Free Online Page A

on.
    ‘How’s Headquarters, Terry?’ John Smith would ask Terry Mac. John was in the pub game so he knew Headquarters was the social club Terry frequented at Quarry Green. ‘Good, chairman,’ Terry would reply. ‘Fine.’ Move on. Liverpool’s chairman never got in the way. If John Smith had ever felt he was, he’d never have come down from the boardroom.
    Kit donned, chairman sorted, I’d flick a ball up into my hands and head into the showers with Terry Mac for a further routine. Terry and I knocked the ball off the walls, warming up the Liverpool way – by passing. Every time, I’d say the same thing to Terry Mac – ‘Right, competition time.’ Terry and I played our little game, trying to hit the shower handle. Within a minute, Bob would call us back for a few final words. He was so calm, just walking around, worrying more about the 2.10 at Aintree than the 3 o’clock at Anfield.
    ‘All the best,’ Bob would say. He never mentioned anything especially pertinent to the game because he’d done all that the day before. Bugsy, Roy Evans, Tom Saunders and Joe Fagan would be wandering around, making sure we were fully motivated and making observations about the opposition. I’d be sitting in my place, always next to Al. He was No. 6, I was No. 7, and I’d have Jimmy Case or Sammy Lee on the other side at No. 8. Al would be absolutely silent, legs crossed, reading the programme, lost in reflection. That was the Hansen warm-up. Others stretched, got strapped up or rubbed down by Ronnie or Roy. Each player dealt with his nerves in different ways. Some chattered, some never said a word, but each person in that dressing room had supreme confidence in everybody around him. People talk about the secret to Liverpool’s success as if it were some great mystery but I never felt it was particularly complicated. It was just good players trusting implicitly in each other. Merely looking around the room filled me with belief. I knew we’d win. Graeme Souness would crunch into somebody or hit a wonder pass. Rushie would score, or Clem or Bruce would make a save.
    I find it hard to believe any team could possibly have matched Liverpool’s comradeship. If I was taking a kicking, Souey would drop by to sort out the defender. ‘Leave it,’ I’d say. ‘I can sort it.’ Graeme was always there, a friend in need. Souey was the most elegant enforcer in football, a commanding midfielder with so many qualities that his price-tag nowadays would run to many millions. Jimmy Case and later Ronnie Whelan were fantastic footballers who could also put their foot in. We looked after each other. We knew the Kop would always be there for us, supporting us, singing our praises. Inside the dressing room, we couldn’t hear them. Being cut off made the journey towards the pitch so special, heading towards the noise and the bright lights outside.
    Just before heading out, my routine demanded I make a journey around the room. ‘All the best,’ I’d say to each player. Nothing special, nothing Churchillian, but each player knew from the look in my eye and the strength of my handshake they could rely on me. I’d occasionally have a few words with Rushie, talking to him about the importance of closing down defenders, but we all knew what we had to do. Bob had us well prepared.
    Then a few shouts would go up, triggering responses off each other. ‘Come on, lads, right from the off,’ somebody would yell. ‘Let’s go,’ resounded as the door opened. First out would be the captain, Phil Neal, then the goalie, Clem or Bruce, then me. I’d touch the ‘This Is Anfield’ sign, a practice so embedded in every Liverpool player’s routine that the sign became worn by eager fingers. Some touched it with one hand but I was always two-handed, believing more luck rubbed off on me. ‘Just as well you’ve got your long studs on, Dugs,’ Souness laughed when he joined, watching me stretching up to the sign. Another Liverpool custom was the