Roy Evans wouldn't get many more opportunities to do so. He must have known his days were numbered towards the end of that 1997–98 season, although given his overall League record he hardly merited being regarded as a failure. Judged against the managers of the time, Evans did a good job. Unfortunately for him, Liverpool managers aren't simply compared to their peers but to their predecessors, whose achievements speak for themselves. Being good is not enough at Liverpool. You've got to be exceptional.
Roy never finished outside the top four and pushed United harder for the title than Gérard Houllier or Rafa Benitez. He also won one trophy, reached the FA Cup Final, and made a European semi. To claim he didn't make brave decisions would also be wrong. The 3–5–2 system worked well for a couple of years and was correctly seen as an inventive solution, breaking with tradition to bring the best out of skilful players. Despite the accusations he was too weak to be a manager, he proved he was capable of making tough calls at certain moments. He dropped every member of the squad at least once, including his captains, with only one exception: Steve McManaman was the only player to avoid the axe, which is no criticism or surprise given his form throughout that period. High-profile stars such as Julian Dicks, Don Hutchison and Mark Wright were all bombed out at some point. Collymore was sent packing after two seasons.
The manner in which Ince was handed the captaincy ahead of Wright was especially ruthless. Our first game of Roy's last season was away to Wimbledon. There had been rumours Ince would get the armband, but Wright, who had been vice-captain behind Barnes and captain in previous years, still wasn't told of any decision. Evans made the announcement in the Selhurst Park dressing room. There was no explanation, just a firm, matter-of-fact revelation. Ince was captain. Nothing to discuss.
Despite these incidents, overall it wasn't enough to make examples out of players now and again. Players needed to know who was the boss every day, not occasionally. The Anfield environment had to change for every existing and new player to alter his attitude. For Liverpool to transform their image completely it was going to take an outside influence. Someone new had to come in and put everyone on their toes, make them more wary of how they handled themselves, more prepared to knuckle down.
That man was Gérard Houllier.
Rumours had been circulating of a possible change, but most were expecting a new assistant manager. I arrived for pre-season training in the summer of 1998 and immediately noticed the absence of Ronnie Moran. This was unheard of. Ronnie was the first to arrive every morning and the last to leave at night. Evans told the players he'd been given a few extra days off. The next thing we knew, the club was unveiling Houllier as part of a 'joint management' set-up, which was doomed before the pair began the job. Ronnie, it was announced, had retired.
It was a classic fudge by the club. You can't have two managers. Within a couple of days you could see tensions were developing, and from a purely operational point of view it wasn't working. It can be hard enough to keep some players' attention for one team talk, but two? Our heads were spinning as we were bombarded with different information from each manager. As each of them tried to assert his authority, they succeeded only in undermining each other. Roy would give his speech, then Gérard would begin talking while his co-manager was anxious to get us on to the training pitch.
And not only did we have two managers, we had several assistants. If we'd had coaches versus players games they'd have had more reserves on the bench than us. Gérard brought in Patrice Bergues, who had a lot of fresh ideas he wanted to establish quickly, while Doug Livermore remained as Roy's assistant.
Any notion that Liverpool old and Liverpool new would form some powerful alliance was madness. A political battle ensued, and the players' loyalties were tested: those sympathetic to Roy would always speak to him, while those of us fascinated by the new arrivals and their opinions would feel guilty asking for advice. I admired Roy, but I was fascinated by Houllier and his ideas. Maybe some players, particularly those who'd been at the club for a lot longer, felt more allegiance to Roy which made them less trustful of Gérard. I saw them both as my manager, and was as happy listening to the new boss as the old one. I didn't buy into all the anti-foreign coach hype which a few Anfield traditionalists were spouting. Those of us who'd gone through the previous few seasons recognized a figure like Houllier could sweep away the debris. I can say without any sense of guilt the mistake the club made was not ending Evans's reign in the summer of 1998. It wasn't fair to drag his inevitable departure through the torturous sham of a marriage with a manager he'd never met before.
As results continued to deteriorate at the start of the 1998–99 season, a swift divorce was the only answer. A 3–1 League Cup defeat to Spurs at Anfield on 10 November was the end for Evans. We were called for a meeting the following morning, at which he tearfully announced his resignation. It was impossible not to sympathize with him on a human level. He'd dedicated his life to the club, and for all the evident problems, he'd only narrowly failed to deliver the title.
I glanced around the room as Roy left. Most of the lads had their heads bowed. A few of them should have been feeling guilty about their own role in his downfall. To my horror, a couple of players began to laugh, apparently finding the emotion of the occasion funny. I guess you find out who your real friends are in those situations.
Rightly or wrongly, the media announced the Spice Boys' era was over, and Houllier got to work enforcing a new sense of discipline and professionalism.
Evans's failure to repeat the glories of the past confirmed fears that a forty-year period of unparalleled success had come to an end. When he departed, Liverpool were not just saying goodbye to one of their favourite sons and greatest servants, they were acknowledging the passing of time. Against their wishes, the modern world was finally catching up with Liverpool FC.
Even then, the club refused to wholly abandon its traditional Anfield links. Former captain Phil Thompson, who'd left under Souness, was appointed assistant manager, ensuring the spirit of the Shankly boys could be passed on to a new generation of players. Something had to change at Anfield in the late 1990s, but the presence of Thompson, a man who'd learned his trade under the Godfather of Anfield, meant there was still a comforting familiarity to the new regime.
Thommo could now rightfully claim to be 'the last of the bootroom boys'. Once he left a few years later, as the sole survivor of Evans's team I'd like to think it's a title that was justifiably passed on to me.
5
Houllier
Gérard Houllier spoke my football language. He just did it in a foreign accent. His critics dismissed him as 'the Frenchman', but Houllier was the best 'British' manager I've worked with.
Liverpool's revival under him came as a result of updating conventional English principles, not by imposing trendy, unfamiliar continental methods. Hard work, strict discipline, mental and physical toughness and team spirit were at the heart of his philosophy. This was how he delivered on a promise to bring winning times back to Anfield. He collected major trophies and led us into the Champions League by rigorously modernizing Liverpool traditions. He's judged as a failure because he didn't win the League. That's the only area he fell short in, but he's not alone in recent Anfield history.
Illness cruelly deprived him of the sharp judgement that had led to swift early progress, but for three years he was a great Liverpool manager. This statement could once be delivered without controversy. Now, there are Liverpool fans prepared to question how good he was. My memory isn't tainted by the last two appalling years of his reign. I appreciate what he did for me and Liverpool before his heart operation intervened, prior to those dark days when Michel Platini advised him to sign Salif Diao, and Houllier put his neck under his own guillotine by insisting Igor Biscan was a centre-half. Sadly, the message on his tombstone will read 'Here lies the man who bought Salif Diao, Bruno Cheyrou and El-Hadji Diouf'.
Football is an unforgiving business. He deserves more than that.
; I owe much of my success to him, so whenever I hear supporters dismiss his reign, I'm ready to dive into the argument. Try to remember where the club was when he took over in November 1998 and how many finals we'd won and European nights we'd celebrated six years later. Then compare this to the grim eight-year spell before he arrived. Our recovery began under him.
There was good reason for me to instantly like Houllier. The words 'Jamie, I'm going to get you a new contract' always sound agreeable, and Houllier mouthed them a month after taking full control of the side. Not a bad way to secure my support. 'You're exactly the type of player I like,' he told me. 'I wish I had more like you.'
We discussed Liverpool's weaknesses and I'd nod in agreement. They were the same conversations I'd have with friends after every game. We weren't aggressive enough; not enough players got their shirts dirty; some of the lads didn't like a tackle; Sean Dundee was not a Liverpool footballer. Such observations weren't new to Melwood. Ronnie Moran, whose departure when Houllier arrived saddened me most, made the same point about the team's lack of aggression. Ronnie always told the players they were too much of a soft touch. No one paid attention, brushing off the comments as the ramblings of an old man. The generation gap couldn't be bridged, even by a legend such as Ronnie. By 1998, it seemed English players were prepared to cut foreign managers more slack, whereas poor old Ronnie paid the price of the continental revolution. When Houllier arrived and made identical comments, everyone listened as though he was an enlightened football philosopher. I didn't care whether he was from Bootle or Bordeaux, he was just talking sense, and that's what mattered now.
Since the formation of the Premier League there's been a willingness to regard overseas coaches as more knowledgeable, especially when it comes to the tactical and technical areas of the game. It's a media myth created by the brilliance of Arsène Wenger. He joined Arsenal in September 1996, and within two years they were Premiership champions and FA Cup winners. Every top club wanted to go down the foreign route to repeat his success, and British managers have been struggling for the biggest jobs ever since. But for every class foreign manager like Wenger, there's been an Alain Perrin.
Liverpool copied Arsenal by opting for Houllier, but I was instantly struck by how English he was in his approach, so it wasn't difficult to adapt. People expected me to enjoy a closer relationship with Roy Evans, given our backgrounds. I didn't work long enough with Roy for such a bond to develop, but from the start I always felt close to Gérard. We shared an obsession with football. He would return home after an evening fixture and watch the match twice on video so he could tell each player what he'd done right or wrong at training the next day. I'd have private meetings with him at Melwood when he'd go through the tapes and pick out my errors. Some players hated it, but I enjoyed it. The painstaking attention to detail was weird yet inspiring. If I played well in my next game and showed the manager how much I'd taken his advice, he'd make me feel ten feet tall with his congratulations.
Houllier's man-management skills were his strength. He could be severe – witness his ban on mobile phones at the training ground, one of many rules introduced to create a more strict working environment (it didn't bother me: at the time, I didn't have one) – and generous in equal quantities. No matter how good a player, whether a Michael Owen or a young reserve, a word of praise in the ear puts an extra spring in the step. Houllier recognized the importance of polishing a player's ego when needed, while at the same time condemning those who weren't performing. Paul Ince can vouch for this. He was the unwitting victim of the most brutal exhibition of management I've seen at Anfield.
Manchester United cast a shadow over Liverpool throughout the 1990s and beyond, and for me they inadvertently thread the two halves of Houllier's story together: my faith in him grew following a heartbreaking fixture against United in 1999, and evaporated on the eve of the short trip to Old Trafford five years later. Reputations can grow or die on the basis of trips to Old Trafford. Score the winning goal or play a blinder and you'll be remembered for ever; endure a nightmare and you can irreversibly lose the fans' and manager's trust. Houllier arrived with a plan to confront what he perceived as the strongest, most disruptive personalities at the club. Not even the captain would be free to assert his authority any more. By the time he left, his position had been undermined because our inspirational new skipper was brave enough to speak on behalf of everyone at the club and question his judgement. In both instances, meetings with United were the catalyst for a symbolic shift in power.
The first of these pivotal fixtures was a fourth round FA Cup tie in January 1999. I've mentioned this was a key date for personal reasons. Professionally it was equally significant. Halfway through the second half, with Liverpool leading 1–0, Ince limped off with an injury. United fought back to win 2–1. Our season was effectively over.
A week later, a team meeting was called during which Houllier tried to keep our heads up and set objectives for the final difficult months of a traumatic campaign. Ince had some issues of his own he wanted to raise, and as club captain he decided it was time to take on Houllier.
'We're not training properly,' he said. 'The strikers haven't been doing enough finishing practice.'
Houllier's response was furiously impressive. In an instant he reeled off the dates and times the strikers had been called in for shooting exercises. Michael Owen and Robbie Fowler confirmed the accuracy of Houllier's memory. Then he turned to Ince.
'Since the day I arrived, how many five-a-sides have you won?' he asked. 'I'll tell you. It's four in six months.'
Ince was bewildered, as we all were, by Houllier's memory and grasp of detail. Most players wouldn't remember how many five-a-sides they'd played in training in a season, let alone how many they'd won or lost. And the manager wasn't finished.
'Now, maybe you'd like to explain to all the lads what happened to you at Manchester United last week?'
If you think the atmosphere at Anfield on a European night is electric, you could have lit the stadium floodlights with the vibes in that team meeting.
'When my Liverpool team is 1–0 up at Old Trafford in a cup tie, I don't expect my captain to limp off with an injury,' Houllier continued. 'If he has to come off the pitch, I expect it to be on a stretcher because he needs to go to hospital in an ambulance.'
Incey had no response.
As Mo and I left the room, he turned to me and said what I was thinking: 'What a manager we've got here.' We were both in a state of shock.
Ince was one of those sold before the start of the next season. To me, it was a sign of a gifted manager that he was prepared to sacrifice a star player for what he perceived as the greater good of the team. I liked Incey and looked up to him. I saw him as a mentor because we'd played in the same position, me for England Under-21s and he for the senior national side. But even the regard in which I held him couldn't prevent me being impressed with our no-nonsense new boss.
This was the first but by no means last occasion on which Houllier pulled players when they were out of line. He didn't care about their reputation. In Ince's case, the fact he was such a strong personality gave Gérard the ideal opportunity to show who was in control. But there was no favouritism or honeymoon period for any recently signed player either. Our German fullback Markus Babbel was once summoned in front of the squad to explain remarks he'd made in a newspaper claiming he was being played out of position and should be a centre-half. Babbel had just arrived from Bayern Munich with a huge reputation, but he knew within a few weeks Houllier wouldn't let him get away with any misdemeanour.
'Respect your team-mates when you talk to journalists,' Houllier told him. 'How do you think Sami Hyypia and Stéphane Henchoz felt reading this rubbish?'
It was precisely what the club needed. The joint-manager experiment had failed. We knew there was only one boss now.
Pre-season was especially inspiring under Houllier. He'd detail the plan for the year over a series of days in our Swiss training camp. No player could
have been left confused about what was expected on and off the pitch. Team meetings were Houllier's forte. He was a charismatic speaker. One day he'd lecture us on the type of football we'd play; the next, discussion would focus on our behaviour off the park and how we looked after ourselves. Then there would be long speeches about what we should and shouldn't say to the press. When Gary McAllister signed in 2000 he said he was amazed by this meticulous preparation. That was a considerable compliment from such an experienced player.
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