Free My Liverpool Home by Kenny Dalglish Page B

liked to go forward.
    Although far from a classic patsy, Joey was pleasingly vulnerable to our wind-ups. Under Bob, we did a particular heading practice at Melwood, running along and jumping up, an exercise that proved fertile territory for bouts of tomfoolery. On one occasion, I was running alongside Joey and when we landed I said, ‘Christ, Joey, did you see that car the other side of those flats?’
    ‘What car?’
    ‘The other side of the flats. Come on Joey, you’re not jumping high enough.’
    When Wales played Scotland in an October World Cup qualifier at Anfield, on 12 October 1977, Joey was pumped up for weeks in advance.
    ‘The Kop’s going to be full of Wales boys, Kenny, just you wait and see. Anfield’s going to belong to Wales.’
    ‘Is that right, Joey?’
    ‘Yes, you’ll see. I’m going to run straight to the Kop and give it that.’ Joey punched the air.
    ‘You’d better be careful, Joey,’ I advised.
    ‘Why? I can’t wait to see all the Welsh punters on the Kop.’
    ‘All right, Joey.’
    When Joey ran out, he sprinted straight to the Kop but stopped in his tracks. The Kop was a sea of blue, swaying with Saltires. Tucked away in the corner of the Tartan Army’s home for the night was a wee pocket of Welsh supporters.
    ‘The Kop looks good tonight,’ I remarked to Joey as we lined up.
    Even under the fiercest pressure, no weak link could be detected in Liverpool’s defence. In the eight years I played with Phil Neal, I never saw anybody give Liverpool’s right-back a hard time. For a defender, Nealy was really composed in front of goal. It sometimes seemed to me that ice filled Nealy’s veins when he ventured forward because he never panicked, particularly when tucking away penalties. Nealy’s first job was defending and he was Mr Reliable but anybody heaping praise on Nealy must also acknowledge the contribution of Jimmy Case, who often doubled up on the opposition winger, helping Nealy out. When Nealy went cantering forward, Jimmy slotted in to cover and keep Liverpool’s shape.
    The Kop loved Jimmy because he was one of them, a proud south Liverpool lad, and their affection deepened because he worked his socks off. A player’s player, Jimmy contributed far more than he was given credit for. He could pick people out with a pass and score as well as steam into tackles. Jimmy was a quiet, genuine character, but I upset him when we were returning on the train after the 1977 Charity Shield.
    ‘Kenny, have a drink.’
    ‘I don’t drink, Jimmy.’ He seemed shocked.
    ‘You must drink.’
    ‘Jimmy, I don’t.’
    ‘You’re winding me up.’ But I wasn’t. This wasn’t Puritanism on my part; this was just about taste. I can’t stand lager for a start, and unless it was Champagne or a glass of wine after a win, my limit would be sweet Martini with lemonade. Any time, any place, anywhere, it was certainly the right one for me. Back at the Holiday Inn, I stuck to the local version of Irn Bru and cream soda.
    One day, 5 December 1977, I was relaxing in the foyer of the hotel with my daughter, Kelly, when I spotted a familiar face – and haircut. Kevin Keegan was in town with Hamburg for the second leg of the European Super Cup. We’d drawn 1–1 in Germany. These were useful occasions to keep us in tune for Europe. The quarter-finals of the European Cup were not until March so Hamburg’s visit was welcome, as was seeing Kevin. Cynics in the Press believed tension churned between us, as if we were still fighting over the red No. 7 shirt, a suggestion rooted firmly in the realm of fantasy. Kevin and I had a good chat about Hamburg and Liverpool, about how each other was settling in. Nobody would describe it as the longest conversation ever but everybody could see the friendliness on both sides, putting an end to the lie that we didn’t get on. Kevin was brand new.
    Mind you, Kevin’s mood was better in the Holiday Inn than at Anfield the following night when he played on his own up