by David Peace
Right then, said Bill Shankly. Let’s make a start.
And Bill Shankly, Bob Paisley, Joe Fagan, Reuben Bennett, Albert Shelley, Arthur Riley, Tom Bush and Eli Wass began to walk across the training pitch. Slowly. Their heads bent forward, their eyes staring down. Down at the ground, down at the pitch. Slowly. Bill Shankly, Bob Paisley, Joe Fagan, Reuben Bennett, Albert Shelley, Arthur Riley, Tom Bush and Eli Wass picked up every stone they saw. Every bit of brick, every piece of broken glass. Every rock and every pebble. They pulled up every weed they found. Every dandelion and every thistle. They put the stones into their sacks, they put the weeds into their sacks. They used the heels of their boots to tread down the ground. To fill in every divot, to fill in every hole. From one end of the training pitch to the other end. And when they reached the other end, they turned and walked back. Slowly. Picking up the stones they had missed. The bits of brick, the pieces of broken glass. Pulling up the weeds they had missed. The dandelions and the thistles. Treading down the ground. Every divot and every hole. And when they came to the place where they had started, then they turned again. And they began to walk back towards the other end again. Slowly. Picking up the stones, pulling up the weeds.
And the players of Liverpool Football Club kept running their laps of the training pitch. All forty of them. The players of Liverpool Football Club watching the eight men. The eight men picking up the stones, the eight men pulling up the weeds. With their sacks and with their trowels. And the players of Liverpool Football Club glanced at each other. They shook their heads, they rolled their eyes. And the players of Liverpool Football Club slowed their pace.
Reuben Bennett looked up from the ground. From the stones and from the weeds. And Reuben Bennett shouted, Pick up them feet, lads. No slacking now! No bloody slacking, lads!
Bill Shankly, Bob Paisley, Joe Fagan, Reuben Bennett, Albert Shelley, Arthur Riley, Tom Bush and Eli Wass reached the other end of the training pitch for the twelfth time. They had eight sacks of stones and weeds. Eight full sacks of stones and weeds –
Right, said Bill Shankly. It’s no bowling green. Not yet. But it’ll do for today. It’s a start. For now.
Reuben Bennett blew his whistle. Reuben Bennett shouted, Last lap, lads. And it’s a race! Go!
And the players of Liverpool Football Club sprinted around the training pitch. All forty of them. And Bob Paisley gathered the fastest twenty on one half of the pitch. And Joe Fagan gathered the slower twenty on the other half. Bill Shankly went into the pavilion. Bill Shankly came back out carrying a big bag of balls. Bill Shankly stood in the centre of the training pitch. And Bill Shankly smiled –
Right then, said Bill Shankly. Enough running around the houses. We’re going to play some football, lads …
The players of Liverpool Football Club rubbed their hands together. The players of Liverpool Football Club smiled.
And Bill Shankly smiled again –
We’re going to play some five-a-sides, said Bill Shankly. Have ourselves a wee little FA Cup, boys …
The players of Liverpool Football Club hopped from foot to foot. The players of Liverpool Football Club grinned.
Bill Shankly grinned, too. Bill Shankly looked at the players gathered around Joe Fagan. The players who had been the slowest twenty around the training pitch. Bill Shankly took off his sweater. Bill Shankly took off his shirt. Bill Shankly took off his vest. And Bill Shankly laughed. And Bill Shankly said, Merry Christmas, lads. It’s shirts versus skins. Merry Christmas, boys!
…
In the afternoon, after their lunch. The directors of Liverpool Football Club were sitting in the boardroom at Anfield. The directors of Liverpool Football Club were waiting for Bill Shankly. The directors of Liverpool Football Club heard the footsteps in the corridor outside. The fast steps, the heavy steps. And then the knock upon the boardroom door. Fast and heavy. And Tom Williams said, Come.
Bill Shankly opened the door. Bill Shankly stepped into the boardroom. Bill Shankly looked around the boardroom. From director to director. And Bill Shankly waited.
Tom Williams said, Sit down.
Bill Shankly sat down at the long table. Bill Shankly looked up the long table at the directors of Liverpool Football Club.
Tom Williams smiled at Bill Shankly. And Tom Williams said, Well then, Mr Shankly. How is it going? How are you getting on?
I have been here a week now, said Bill Shankly. And for that week, I have held my tongue but I have kept my eyes open. And frankly, gentlemen, I do not like what I have seen. There are many things that need changing, many things that need doing. First and foremost, this ground is an embarrassment and an eyesore. It needs cleaning up and it needs renovating. For a start, the pitch needs proper watering equipment. And then there are the toilets. The toilets are a disgrace. Most of them don’t even flush. And so they stink!
The directors of Liverpool Football Club looked at each other. And one director asked, Which toilets are you talking about?
All of them, said Bill Shankly. All of the ones in the stands.
The ones the spectators use?
Yes, said Bill Shankly. The ones in the stands. The ones the people who pay to watch Liverpool Football Club have to use. Those people who pay my wages. Those people, their toilets.
Tom Williams said, Well, we will certainly take your suggestions under consideration. Was there anything else, Mr Shankly?
Aye, said Bill Shankly. There certainly is. There is Melwood. That place is worse than here. It’s not fit for a Sunday kick-about, let alone training sessions for professional footballers. The pitch is a deathtrap. It’s a wonder no one has broken their leg on it. And that pavilion is no better. One big gust of wind and that thing will fall down. And the kits the players wear for training. They are in tatters. They are nothing but rags. A tramp would turn up his nose at them. It’s not good enough for Liverpool Football Club.
Again the directors of Liverpool Football Club looked at each other. And another director asked, So what do you suggest, Shankly?
I suggest you get the players some new training kits, said Bill Shankly. And I suggest you get me some tins of paint. I’m not asking you to bring in the painters and the decorators. Just get the players their kits and get me some paint. And then I’ll do the rest.
Tom Williams said, Well, I think we’d all agree you certainly make a very powerful case, Mr Shankly. And, as I say, we will certainly consider your suggestions. Thank you, Mr Shankly.
Good, said Bill Shankly. Because I am here to do a job of work. And I will do it. And so I expect you all to do yours, too.
…
On Boxing Day, 1959, Liverpool Football Club travelled to the Valley, London. In the thirty-fourth minute, Fryatt scored. In the seventy-fourth minute, Fryatt scored again. And in the ninetieth minute, Lawrie scored. And Liverpool Football Club lost three–nil to Charlton Athletic. Away from home, away from Anfield –
After the whistle, the final whistle. In the dressing room, the away dressing room. The players of Liverpool Football Club looked at Bill Shankly. And Bill Shankly looked at the players. From player to player, Liverpool player to Liverpool player. From Slater to Molyneux, Molyneux to Moran, Moran to Wheeler, Wheeler to White, White to Campbell, Campbell to Melia, Melia to Hunt, Hunt to Hickson, Hickson to Harrower, Harrower to Melia and Melia to A’Court. From dejected player to dejected player. And Bill Shankly smiled –
We only conceded three this time, said Bill Shankly. So that’s better than the last time. But it’s still a defeat. So we still have a lot to learn. And so I’ll see you all tomorrow morning. Bright and early!
…
In the morning, the dark and early morning. Again. The players of Liverpool Football Club were running laps around the training pitch at Melwood. All forty of them. And again. Bill Shankly, Bob Paisley, Joe Fagan, Reuben Bennett, Albert Shelley, Arthur Riley, Tom Bush and Eli Wass were standing in a line across one end of the training pitch at Melwood. Again. Each man with a sack in one hand, each man with a trowel in the oth
er. And again. Bill Shankly smiled –
Right then, said Bill Shankly. Let’s start again.
And again. Bill Shankly, Bob Paisley, Joe Fagan, Reuben Bennett, Albert Shelley, Arthur Riley, Tom Bush and Eli Wass began to walk across the training pitch. Again. Their heads bent forward, their eyes staring down. Down at the ground, down at the pitch. Again.
Picking up every stone they saw. Every bit of brick and every piece of broken glass. Again. Pulling up every weed they found. Every dandelion and every thistle. Again. Putting the stones into their sacks, putting the weeds into their sacks. Again. Using the heels of their boots to tread down the ground. Every divot, every hole. Again. From one end of the training pitch to the other end. Again. Reaching the other end, then turning and walking back. Again. They picked up the stones they had missed. The bits of brick, the pieces of broken glass. Again. They pulled up the weeds they had missed. The dandelions and the thistles. Again. They trod down the ground. Every divot and every hole. And again. When they came to the place where they had started, then they turned again and they began to walk back towards the other end. Again. Picking up the stones, pulling up the weeds.
And again. The players of Liverpool Football Club kept running their laps of the training pitch. All forty of them. But today the players of Liverpool Football Club did not watch the eight men working. The eight men picking up the stones, the eight men pulling up the weeds. With their sacks and with their trowels. Today the players of Liverpool Football Club did not slow their pace. All forty of them. Today the players of Liverpool Football Club did not slack.
And again. Bill Shankly, Bob Paisley, Joe Fagan, Reuben Bennett, Albert Shelley, Arthur Riley, Tom Bush and Eli Wass reached the other end of the training pitch for the twelfth time. Again. They had eight sacks of stones and weeds. But today the eight sacks of stones and weeds were not quite as full. Again. Bill Shankly smiled –
It’s still no bowling green, said Bill Shankly. Not yet. But it’s getting better. So we’re getting there, gentlemen.
And again. Reuben Bennett blew his whistle. Again. Reuben Bennett shouted, Last lap, lads!
And today the players of Liverpool Football Club knew it was a race. For dear life. The players of Liverpool Football Club tore around the training pitch. All forty of them. And again. Bill Shankly went into the pavilion. Again. Bill Shankly came back out carrying a big bag of balls. Again. Bill Shankly stood in the centre of the training pitch. Again. Bill Shankly took off his sweater. Bill Shankly took off his shirt. Bill Shankly took off his vest. Again. Bill Shankly smiled –
Right then, lads. Let’s play some five-a-sides again!
Bob Paisley, Joe Fagan and Reuben Bennett put the players of Liverpool Football Club into eight teams of five. And Bob Paisley, Joe Fagan and Reuben Bennett divided up the training pitch into four smaller pitches. Bob Paisley, Joe Fagan and Reuben Bennett would be the referees. And Albert Shelley would be the fourth referee. Bill Shankly would not be a referee. Bill Shankly would not stand on the touchline watching. If there was a game of football to be played,
then Bill Shankly played. Bill Shankly played –
He played and he ran. Over every inch of grass. Over every blade. Bill Shankly ran. He ran and he shouted. Calling. Constantly calling for the ball. Every ball. Demanding the ball. Every ball. Getting the ball. Every ball. Receiving and then passing the ball. And running again. Over every inch of grass. Every blade. Running and shouting. Calling. Demanding. Receiving and passing. On and on. Over and over. Game after game. Running and shouting. Calling and demanding. Receiving and passing. Until his team had beaten each of the other seven teams, beaten every one of them into the ground. And Bill Shankly stood, Bill Shankly tall. Stripped to his waist, sweat down his chest. His chest heaving, his back steaming. In the winter, in the morning. Bill Shankly standing, Bill Shankly tall –
His boot upon the ball. His arms raised,
his fists clenched. Victorious.
…
On Monday 28 December, 1959, Charlton Athletic came to Anfield, Liverpool. That day, twenty-five thousand, six hundred and fifty-eight folk came, too. Two months ago, when Dave Hickson had made his debut against Aston Villa, when Dave Hickson had scored twice against Aston Villa, when Liverpool Football Club had beaten Aston Villa two–one, almost fifty thousand folk had been at Anfield, Liverpool. But not today. Today there were empty seats in the stands, today there were empty spaces on the Kop. And there was silence, too. But in the fifty-eighth minute, Jimmy Harrower slipped the ball to Tommy Leishman, who chipped it up for Alan A’Court to head into the Charlton net. Five minutes later, Jimmy Harrower put Roger Hunt through to shoot and score a second. And Liverpool Football Club beat Charlton Athletic two–nil. At home, at Anfield. There was still silence. No insults, no bawling. Just
silence –
But not after the whistle, the final whistle. Not in the dressing room. In the home dressing room. Bill Shankly was tap-dancing from player to player. From Slater to Molyneux, Molyneux to Moran, Moran to Wheeler, Wheeler to White, White to Leishman, Leishman to Melia, Melia to Hunt, Hunt to Hickson, Hickson to Harrower and Harrower to A’Court. Bill Shankly patting their backs, Bill Shankly shaking their hands. All of their backs and all of their hands. Tap-dancing and singing, singing their praises, all of their praises –
Well done, boys. Well done. You were great, lads. You were great. Each and every one of you, boys. I could not have asked for more. And this is only the start, lads. Only the beginning. And so I’ll see you all first thing tomorrow, boys.
…
On Saturday 2 January, 1960, Liverpool Football Club travelled to Boothferry Park, Hull. In the thirty-first minute, Jimmy Melia scored. And Liverpool Football Club beat Hull City one–nil. Away from home, away from Anfield.
One week later, Leyton Orient came to Anfield, Liverpool. That afternoon, forty thousand, three hundred and forty-three folk came, too. In the first minute, Roger Hunt scored. In the sixty-second minute, Foster scored for Leyton Orient. But in the last minute, Roger Hunt scored again. And Liverpool Football Club beat Leyton Orient two–one in the Third Round of the FA Cup. At home, at Anfield –
After the whistle, the final whistle. In the tiny office, before the small desk. Horace Yates, of the Liverpool Daily Post, watched Bill Shankly jump up from behind the desk in the office. Horace Yates watched Bill Shankly pace the room. He watched him pace and he listened to him talk. Ten to the dozen, one hundred miles an hour –
Talking and pacing, pacing and talking,
talking about the future,
the future now –
The gates of Anfield, the gates of Melwood are wide open. Wide open, Horace. To every schoolboy and every youth on Merseyside. The gates are open, Horace. They need feel no embarrassment. No shyness, Horace. They must come and report for coaching and training. Every one of them. Every lad who has ever kicked a ball within one hundred miles. They are all welcome. All welcome, Horace. And we will watch them all. So any boy, any lad, who has any potential, we will develop that potential. That is my promise. To give every boy, every lad who comes through these gates the opportunity. The opportunity, Horace. Because that is what I believe in. Giving people, whoever they may be, wherever they may come from, giving them that opportunity. That opportunity, Horace. Because without opportunity, there is no chance for talent. And so if any boy, if any lad, has any talent in them at all, we will do our very best to bring it out of them. Our very best, Horace. Because that is what I believe in. Finding that talent. Then giving that talent the opportunity. Bringing out that talent. Then developing that talent. So they are all welcome. They are all welcome, Horace –
The more the better. The more the merrier …
Bill Shankly sat back down behind the desk. Bill Shankly looked across the desk at Horace Yates –
You know, it’s not such a giant step from school to League football these days. Not such a long stride, Horace. Not these days. And when you think how difficult it is to find experienced play
ers. And then how costly it is to procure them. It makes more sense to look much closer to home, does it not? And I just cannot believe, I simply refuse to believe, in a city as soccer-conscious, as soccer mad as Liverpool, that we cannot find the talent we need. The boys we need. And if we get enough of them …
Bill Shankly jumped back up onto his feet, Horace Yates jumping out of his skin in his chair. Bill Shankly pacing the room again, Horace Yates turning his neck again. Horace Yates writing as fast as he could, Bill Shankly talking as fast as he could –
If enough of them come, then we are sure to get a percentage of winners. I am certain of that, Horace. I know that. I know that within three years of them leaving school, these boys could be in the first team. I know that. So I know it is not even that long term. Not as long term as the cynics might say. Not so long term, Horace. Not when you can’t get the ready-made material. Not when it is so difficult. So heartbreaking. Look at Roger Hunt. How many more Roger Hunts are out there now, playing for their school, playing in their street? Look how many we found at Leeds Road. At Huddersfield, Horace. In a town that size. A town that small, Horace. It should be much easier here, in this city, with its size, with all its people, with all its history, all its passion. Its passion for football, Horace. I refuse to believe there aren’t the boys, aren’t the lads, out there who think, who eat, who sleep football. Just hankering after a career in soccer, just waiting for the chance. For the opportunity. The opportunity, Horace. And so all I ask is for those boys, those lads, to give me the opportunity, to give me the chance to help them achieve their goal, to achieve their dream. If they give me the chance, Horace, I will give them the chance …
Talking and pacing, pacing and talking,
jabbing his finger into the chest of Horace Yates, looking into the eyes of Horace Yates, saying –
Football is my life. My life, Horace. And so I do not mind how long it takes, how much time I spend among these boys, these lads. Because I have great hopes. Great hopes, Horace. And I know the boys, the lads of Liverpool, I know they will not let me down. They will not let me down. And so to me the sky is the limit. The sky is the limit, Horace. And so the gates are open. The gates are open, Horace. And they will stay open. For as long as I am at Liverpool Football Club, the gates will always be open. Always open, Horace. Always.