Red Machine

by Simon Hughes

  Wark did return from that injury, but a broken ankle suffered soon after ruled him out of the majority of the 1985–86 season as Liverpool completed the double.

  ‘The treatment of players at Liverpool when it came to injuries was very basic. In fact, at times it was laughable. There was an occasion when the coaching staff were getting very frustrated with Paul Walsh because he wasn’t responding to ultrasound. He was given the silent treatment and we all got the impression that the staff thought he was crocked. It was only when a maintenance guy turned up to service the equipment that it was established the machine hadn’t been working for months.’

  When out of the team, Wark admits that the free time allowed him to drink more and play snooker. ‘I wasn’t the golfing type.’ He says that before he’d arrived in England as a teenager, he’d never been inside a pub, but by the mid ’80s he was well grounded in the art of combining an afternoon in the boozer followed the next day by a strenuous training session at Melwood.

  ‘The regime at Ipswich wasn’t quite as tough as it was at Liverpool, but saying that Liverpool took a hard and fast attitude towards drink would be a lie too. Bobby Robson never had a problem with us having a pint – even on the night before a big game. In hotels before away games at Liverpool, each room would have a visit from Ronnie Moran and Roy Evans. “Anyone want a sleeping tablet?” they’d ask, before nosing around to check we weren’t up to mischief.’

  For a time, his best buddy was Bruce Grobbelaar, ‘a crazy man with a deeper side’. The goalkeeper’s ritual before a game would be to visit the Holiday Inn on Paradise Street for a meal of steak and chips.

  ‘Stevie Nicol had the biggest appetite, though,’ Wark insists. ‘On away trips, he’d have an evening meal then return to his room and order room service. It wasn’t just a snack either. He’d have a burger and chips with all the garnishing. Later on, he’d have a midnight snack of crisps, chocolate bars, fizzy drinks and Haribo sweets, which he carried in a holdall. We were never allowed to take beer into our rooms with us, so Steve often carried a couple of cans of Tennent’s with him as well.’

  Wark concedes that Nicol was the dressing-room buffoon.

  ‘He did so many soft things,’ he says, before clearing up a story about Nicol being abandoned near Gretna by Graeme Souness and Kenny Dalglish on a trip back to Scotland. ‘Souey had asked Steve to wipe the back of the window as it was steaming up because of the snow outside. As soon as he got out, Souey drove 50 yards up the road. When Stevie caught up, Souey would drive off in the car again. This went on for half an hour or so before they got bored and allowed Stevie back into the car again.’

  There were other humorous moments.

  ‘We were inside the dressing-room and a load of brown envelopes were being handed out by the club secretary. Stevie assumed that money was being exchanged and was pissed off that he wasn’t given one. So he marched over to the manager’s office asking questions. Kenny then informed him that the letters were from the Inland Revenue over unpaid taxes. Stevie walked out with his tail between his legs.’

  Nicol’s nickname was ‘Chops’.

  ‘He couldn’t say the word “chips” because of his strong Ayrshire accent,’ Wark laughs. ‘Unfortunately for him, he loved chips, so he was saying “chops” all of the time. We’d deliberately send him around to the chippy for lunch after training, and it took him a while to figure out why we were doing it.’

  Nicol was, however, well appreciated as a player by the squad.

  ‘He was underrated – could play anywhere and still give an eight out of ten every single game. Everybody had complete faith in him, and he had a brilliant football brain. The goalscorers tend to get the accolades, but every successful team needs a player like Stevie.’

  Wark left Anfield in 1988 after playing only a handful of games in the previous two seasons. Despite being a close personal friend of Dalglish, having been an international and club teammate for the best part of a decade (Wark made his Scotland debut at Ipswich in 1979 and played 29 times for his country), the Liverpool boss wasn’t in the business of dealing favours for friends.

  ‘I could have stayed – sat out the contract for another year. But I dropped 50 per cent of my wages to play football again. I had offers from Watford and Coventry on the table, both of whom were in the old Second Division. My stock had dropped because of the injuries, so in the end I decided to go back to Ipswich – somewhere I knew well and somewhere I would enjoy the game again.’

  Ipswich were not the side of the Bobby Robson era, however, and after a year at Portman Road, he moved on again to equally struggling Middlesbrough. Financial difficulties at Ayresome Park meant another return to Ipswich twelve months later, where he remained for another six years until his retirement.

  ‘I never fancied management,’ Wark says. ‘I took temporary charge at Ipswich for nine games as player-manager. It really opened my eyes. As a player, you’re only out for two or three hours a day. As a manager, you have to be on the go 20 hours a day, training, in the office, then out watching matches at night. I was offered jobs at Ipswich coaching, then at Cambridge, but I didn’t even go to speak to them. The stress would have been too much, and I wanted to keep playing at any level for as long as I could.’

  His only regret in a 20-year career is suffering the injuries that kept him out of the Liverpool team for so long.

  ‘Before and afterwards at other clubs I was as fit as a fiddle,’ he concludes.

  ‘I was a bit unfortunate on that front.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  ISOLATED, Kevin Sheedy

  LIKE AN INJURY-PRONE LIVERPOOL PLAYER IN THE 1980S, FINCH FARM feels isolated. Geographically just as close to Widnes as it is to Liverpool’s city centre, the grim Fiddlers Ferry Power Station pumps hot air from aged cooling towers into a sky that cloaks Everton’s training ground in a colourless haze.

  It is easy to appreciate, however, why in 2007 Everton decided to move here. The facilities rival that of any other Premier League club. Even though Everton do not own the land, it offers the opportunity to keep academy and professionals on one site and gives the impression to any potential signings that this is a club with ambition. The complex is modern, vast and clinical.

  It could not be any more different than the old base of Bellefield, located in West Derby less than a mile away from Melwood. Used as the tournament camp for the Brazilian national football team at the 1966 World Cup, it was once considered so advanced that the Brazilian FA took photographs to inspire clubs at home. Yet for a long time after, Bellefield – a small piece of land sandwiched in between attractively whitewashed pre-war houses – was, at best, basic, intimate and atmospheric.

  It was at Bellefield that Kevin Sheedy emerged as a top-class winger. Having spent four years impressing in Liverpool’s all-conquering reserve team, he was injured too many times for Bob Paisley’s liking and considered too callow to replace the buccaneering Ray Kennedy on the left of Liverpool’s midfield. In 1982, at the end of his contract, he signed for Everton and soon became a key component in Howard Kendall’s team that challenged and, for two seasons, overtook Liverpool to become champions of England.

  That Everton side was perfectly balanced, where no player other than goalkeeper Neville Southall was greater than the sum of its parts. Sheedy proved to be a performer who oozed sophistication, complementing those around him: Trevor Steven rampaged up and down the right, Peter Reid and Paul Bracewell hustled in the centre, and up front there was always someone to finish a move off.

  Sheedy was particularly remembered for his set-pieces. Against Ipswich Town in 1985, he exquisitely curled one in from twenty-five yards only to be asked to retake it. Sheedy promptly pearled the second effort into the opposite corner. In a perfect storm, he was reliably calm.

  On one occasion, though, he lost it. When Sheedy scored for Everton against Liverpool in April 1987, he ran towards the Kop before flicking two fingers. The Blues were edging towards the First Division title, their second in thr
ee years. It was a crucial game. The action was met with bewilderment. For someone who was renowned as being mild-mannered, the act was out of character. The media, both sets of supporters and the managers questioned his motives. At first, Sheedy pleaded that he was merely recreating a hand gesture made famous by the popular Ted Rogers in his show 3-2-1. Years later, Sheedy admitted to the Everton fanzine Blue Kipper that it had simply been a release of emotion.

  I decided to speak to Sheedy because Liverpool’s story in the ’80s is intrinsically linked to Everton’s. In the interest of balance, it makes sense. Additionally, there is no other player in the history of Liverpool to have become an undisputed top-class player elsewhere having been disregarded by the club following just a handful of first-team appearances. Sheedy is unique. I am keen to know precisely why he did not convince Paisley that he was worthy of a regular place.

  I meet Sheedy nearly 12 months after he was diagnosed with bowel cancer. There was a history of the disease in his family and he caught it in time, meaning that soon enough he was able to return to coaching Everton’s Under-18 team, initially alongside Duncan Ferguson.

  ‘I received all kinds of letters from the football community at a difficult period of my life,’ Sheedy says, as he walks me through Finch Farm’s atrium and into his office, which is adorned by pictures of Alan Ball. ‘Many of them came from Liverpool supporters. They were very powerful. It makes you realise how special this community is.’

  Sheedy speaks quietly and quickly. Despite living in Southport for the last 30 years, his Welsh border accent is clearly detectable. He was brought up as the second son of a publican in the village of Allensmore, just outside Hereford.

  ‘I lived with my parents and grandmother inside a place called the Tram Inn,’ he recalls. ‘Fortunately, we had quite a big car park outside. I spent most of my time kicking a ball against a big wall. Being in the country, there were too many hills and no street football. I had a brother, but he wasn’t too keen on joining in, so I played by myself most of the time.’

  During his years at Everton, Sheedy was capable of any kind of pass. He could ping, curl, float or drill with an air of cultured elegance. From his childhood, purely by having nothing more practical to do, Sheedy’s skills improved through repetition.

  ‘I was naturally balanced, but I practised with both feet every single day until my legs were practically falling off. One of the walls had a window in it and I’d take free kicks from different angles trying to hit the target. Without me actually knowing, I was getting all the ammunition to become a professional. The basics are essential: you have to be able to pass and receive the ball properly. I used three walls to test my movement. If you can’t do things like this when you’re not under pressure, you’re not going to be able to do it when people are closing you down.

  ‘You see the academies and the levels of control on young footballers now, but I was self-taught. It helps having a coach or someone to guide you, but it’s important that a player can make his own decisions. That’s always in the back of my mind when I coach.’

  Sheedy’s first experience of competitive football was at a church fete. He started out as a goalkeeper.

  ‘My dad organised a six-a-side team, and we travelled around the county. They were really intense, with some big country boys ready to knock you about. I’d rush off my line and sweep. It helped my understanding of how the game was played, as I could see everything in front of me – how a game developed, if you like.’

  Having progressed to an 11-a-side team and after playing in the Forest of Dean League, an invitation for a trial at nearby Hereford United arrived through the post. Few players in the area could use their left foot like Sheedy. He stood out.

  ‘There was a shale car park outside Edgar Street, and we’d train with the floodlights on. You’d finish every session with cuts all over your legs. Other players didn’t hold back on tackles. Monday was a hard running morning whether the team had won or lost. We’d run until we were physically sick. But I was able to handle it.’

  Sheedy trained at Hereford while still at school. He’d long since decided that he was not going to follow an educational path.

  ‘John Sillett was the manager and he told me to ask my headmaster to see if I could miss lessons to train during the day. My heart and mind was set on football, so I plucked up the courage to knock on his door. We came to an agreement that I only needed to go to school in the afternoons. I know clubs have regular contact with schools now, but this was unprecedented.’

  It is unimaginable in the modern era that a teenage footballer would be asked to scrub mud from the communal bathtub inside a club’s dressing-room with such intensity that his hands would wither in the detergent. But as one of six apprentices, this was one of Sheedy’s jobs, along with cleaning boots, kits and sweeping the stands on Mondays.

  ‘It continued throughout the summer. As an apprentice, I became an amateur horticulturalist, learning how to weed the pitch and sow the seeds for a relay. We’d be out there come wind, rain or shine. It taught me to get the job done; no excuses.’

  Sheedy made his league debut aged 16.

  ‘I was surrounded by some great characters. Up front we had Dixie McNeil, who was a lower-league goalscoring legend. At the back, we had John Layton and Billy Tucker. Both of them were very protective of the young boys. If I ever took a buffeting from an angry right-back, they’d be right in their faces. It usually happened against Cardiff, who became a regional rival for a period. It was an opportunity for the Welsh to get one over on the English, whether that be in terms of the result or, instead, in terms of the physical battle.

  ‘Hereford was the perfect environment for a young player entering professional football for the first time. There was a hierarchy, and that was a good thing within the framework of a squad. As a young player, it gave you something to aspire to.’

  Wolverhampton Wanderers and Bristol City sent scouts to Edgar Street the season after Hereford clinched promotion from the old Third Division. On the recommendation of chief scout Geoff Twentyman, however, Liverpool were the first club to make an offer.

  ‘I knew that Liverpool had a policy of signing players young and preparing them for first-team football by playing them in the reserves for a couple of years, but that put me off to be honest,’ Sheedy insists. ‘I went there not really wanting to sign, because I felt I was good enough to start every week. Bob Paisley showed us around Anfield and I got a photograph of the European Cup with my dad. But I must have been the least enthusiastic signing the club has ever made. I really didn’t think it was the right move for me. I explained this to Peter Hill, the chairman of Hereford, but he said the £100,000 that Hereford had accepted was going to save the club because they faced going out of business. A gun was put to my head a little bit. I felt pressurised. I had to go with it.’

  It was agreed that Sheedy would live seven streets down from the old Kemlyn Road on Elsie Road in lodgings with a Mrs Edwards. For the first six months, Alan Hansen called it home too, and afterwards Ronnie Whelan moved in.

  Signing for Liverpool brought added attention. Soon, he was offered the opportunity to represent the Republic of Ireland at Under-21 level. He qualified through his father’s family, and after Wales ‘dithered’ for too long about selecting him – even in any of their youth squads – he rang the Welsh FA to ask whether they had any intention of changing their stance. ‘Yet more dithering.’

  Sheedy chose Ireland, and in the decade that followed he would become a key part of Jack Charlton’s side, qualifying for the World Cup in 1990. His success at international level served to support his idea that he was ready for first-team football at Liverpool.

  ‘All the reserve boys were frustrated,’ he says. ‘It was a very good team performing very well in a competitive reserve league. We won the Central League four times on the trot. It was probably one of the best reserve teams there’s ever been. Unfortunately, the first team were cruising. They strolled through games, seasons even, and rare
ly picked up injuries. There were few opportunities. It was a bottleneck. I was probably at the right place at the wrong time.’

  Sheedy regrets not speaking to the management about his lack of opportunities.

  ‘I should have been a bit more forward,’ he says. ‘Sometimes it helps to go knocking on your boss’s door. But I was brought up with the idea that your talent and ability will always take you far. In competitive environments, though, that isn’t always the case. I wasn’t a confrontational type; it just wasn’t in my nature. I’d gone from playing for Hereford, watching Kenny Dalglish score the winner in the European Cup final, to sitting next to him in pre-season a few months later and then going to a barbecue at his home in Birkdale. As an 18 year old who hadn’t done much, it was difficult to find a space in a dressing-room that included some of the continent’s best players.’

  For two and a half years, Sheedy remained in Liverpool’s reserves. In February 1981, he was given a first-team debut against Birmingham City.

  ‘Football is dictated by small margins. I hit a shot early on that whistled towards the top corner right in front of the Kop. Instead, it hit the angle of the bar and the post. If that nestles, you get probably selected the following week. Instead, I ended up on the bench at Brighton.’

  Inside Anfield, there were already doubts about Sheedy’s fitness. During his first six months as a Liverpool player, he suffered a serious back injury.

  ‘The people at Liverpool didn’t take too kindly to any player spending time on the sidelines. They saw it as a sign of mental and physical weakness. I thought that was unfair, because sometimes players are genuinely unlucky. It probably stems from the fact that those in charge at Liverpool came from a different era – an era when people were told just to get on with things and shrug off their problems. We were athletes, though, and injuries are part and parcel of football unfortunately. When my back went, Ronnie Moran and Roy Evans tried to get it better. I don’t think they had any qualifications, though. The treatment certainly didn’t work for me.’