Free My Liverpool Home by Kenny Dalglish

I’d looked around the Anfield dressing room seven months earlier, I’d realised I was now rubbing shoulders with players who would help me fulfil my European dream. That was the start of Liverpool’s European road to Wembley, a venue known as Anfield South because of the club’s frequent visits, and I was getting ready for our second-round tie against Dynamo Dresden on 19 October. Liverpool’s XI was packed with strong characters you’d want alongside you in a fight, let alone a sporting confrontation. I sat between Emlyn Hughes and Jimmy Case, men not short of commitment. To Emlyn’s right were Ray Clemence, Phil Neal, Joey Jones, Alan Hansen and Ray Kennedy. To Jimmy’s left were Stevie Heighway, John Toshack and Ian Callaghan. Bob Paisley had built a formidable team and Dresden shattered like old porcelain.
    Tosh was an outstanding target-man of the old school, brilliant at the powerful flicks Kevin Keegan had revelled in running on to. Tosh’s game was more suited to Kevin than to me. I preferred to do my work slightly deeper at times, not running through like Kevin, but Tosh and I still managed to link up. Dresden man-marked me but that simply created space for others. Alan Hansen scored with a header, taking a smack in the face for his troubles as he leapt for the ball. Once Al scored, Dresden crumbled. Nealy, Ray and Jimmy, twice, added to the scoreline. Over at the Rudolf Harbig Stadium, in the second leg, Dresden were brilliant, scoring twice and threatening to get all four back, but fortunately Stevie Heighway struck and that killed them off. Liverpool’s defence was too strong for Dresden to break through again.
    In Ray Clemence, Liverpool had a man between the posts who could easily be numbered as one of the best goalkeepers in the world. Strangely, Clem thought he was one of the best left-wingers in the world, a ludicrous point he tried to prove in training. At Melwood, I laughed as Clem looked for opportunities to come out of goal, joining in the Friday five-a-sides. He flew into tackles, nothing deliberately nasty, but we knew Clem was about. He moved the ball slowly – touch, touch, touch – like a rugby scrum inching forward. The players loved it when Clem scored, partly for the rarity value and also because he celebrated as if he’d just settled a Cup final from 30 yards.
    The four men charged with protecting Clem on match-day were of similar high quality. Tommy Smith was coming to the end of his distinguished career at Anfield but remained as fearsome as ever. At Melwood one day, I nutmegged Smithy and went after the ball.
    ‘Ohhhhh,’ went Terry Mac.
    ‘What?’ I replied.
    ‘Smithy doesn’t like that.’
    ‘That’s not my fault.’ Terry Mac stared at me as if I had some kind of death wish.
    I survived the wrath of Smithy, which is more than can be said for some of Liverpool’s rasher opponents. Part of Smithy’s unwritten match-day duties were as Ian Callaghan’s enforcer. If somebody gave Cally a hard time . . . BANG. Smithy was in there, a vigilante with studs, leaving a little reminder to show some respect. Against Coventry, Smithy nailed Terry Yorath, hardly a shrinking violet himself. What a challenge that was! Yorath had just ‘done’ Cally and Smithy came storming out of defence, charging towards Yorath, absolutely clattering him. I was 30 yards away and even my bones juddered. How Yorath picked himself up I’ll never know. In another game, against Coventry, Smithy played full-back against Tommy Hutchison, the Scottish winger. Hutch jinked past Smithy, pushed the ball on, ran and crossed. Jogging back past Smithy, Hutch said, ‘I was quick there. I’ll race you for your wages.’
    ‘All right,’ said Smithy. ‘Let’s go double or quits – I’ll fight you for your wages.’ Hutch was terrified.
    Like Smithy, Emlyn’s time was almost up at Anfield. I soon became aware Emlyn had some enemies, and ‘selfish’ was the usual accusation thrown at the Liverpool