I would call Liverpool for tickets for their European games, and they would always oblige. Shankly would know terrible disappointment in Europe, most devastatingly when he and his team claimed that Internazionale Milan had been cruelly favoured by a Spanish referee in their semi-final tie at the San Siro in 1965, but he laid down the standards, and the tradition, which would bring so much success in the tournament that I ached to be part of once more. However, that longing did not prevent me from enjoying their European nights at Anfield. It is a long time now since anyone with Manchester United close to their heart has been able say that a night in that ground was fun, but in those days no one with any feeling for the game, or working-class humour, could say otherwise. The Liverpool fans appreciated a new level of football and responded with great wit. Nowadays, five European Cup victories later, the Liverpool fans may not be so funny, at least not when United are visiting, but the memory of those distant nights is something that still fills me with warmth. Then, it would never have occurred to someone like me that attending a big game of one of your fiercest rivals might not be the wisest thing to do. There was never a hint of hostility.
One night at Anfield, that came much later, stands out vividly. It was the one when I was able to study, at greater distance than usual, the talent of my great rival Franz Beckenbauer. Liverpool beat Bayern Munich 3–0, but it was still fascinating to study the style of the emperor of German football. The quality that struck you most was his confidence, the aura he threw up around himself. Everything he did seemed to suggest that all he needed to do was move into another gear to leave everyone for dead. It wasn’t true. Beckenbauer didn’t slip through the gears like some high-powered Mercedes-Benz. He couldn’t do that – but what he could do was exploit a fantastic football brain, an innate awareness of where to be at any given moment. On this particular night, however, Liverpool were too good even for a player well on the way to proving himself one of the most influential in the history of the game. They were wonderfully quick and drilled, a team who seemed born for such nights of football drama.
When I looked at Liverpool in that first European season of theirs, I realised we still had work to do at Old Trafford. In Shankly they had more than a manager. He was a messiah whipping up both a team and a great city, and whenever you saw him, or heard about his latest outrageous statement, you knew that he, and Don Revie at Leeds United – and then a little later, Joe Mercer and Malcolm Allison at Manchester City and Brian Clough at Derby – were going to provide the most formidable opposition to our attempt to remake the Old Trafford empire.
The eccentric passion of Shankly was underlined for me by my England team-mate Roger Hunt’s version of the classic tale of the Liverpool manager’s pre-game talk before playing Manchester United. The story has probably been told a thousand times in and out of football, and each time you hear it there are different details, but when Roger told it the occasion was still fresh in his mind and I’ve always believed it to be the definitive account. It was later on the same day, as Roger and I travelled together to report for England duty, after we had played our bruising match at Anfield. Ian St John had scored the winner, then squared up to Denis Law, with Nobby finally sealing the mood of the afternoon by giving the Kop the ‘V’ sign. After settling down in our railway carriage, Roger said, ‘You may have lost today, but you would have been pleased with yourself before the game. Shanks mentioned you in the team talk. When he says anything positive about the opposition, normally he never singles out players.’ According to Roger, Shankly burst into the dressing room in his usual aggressive style and said, ‘We’re playing Manchester United this afternoon, and really it’s an insult that we have to let them on to our field because we are superior to them in every department, but they are in the league so I suppose we have to play them. In goal Dunne is hopeless – he never knows where he is going. At right back Brennan is a straw – any wind will blow him over. Foulkes the centre half kicks the ball anywhere. On the left Tony Dunne is fast but he only has one foot. Crerand couldn’t beat a tortoise. It’s true David Herd has got a fantastic shot, but if Ronnie Yeats can point him in the right direction he’s likely to score for us. So there you are, Manchester United, useless …’
Apparently it was at this point the Liverpool winger Ian Callaghan, who was never known to whisper a single word on such occasions, asked, ‘What about Best, Law and Charlton, boss?’
Shankly paused, narrowed his eyes, and said, ‘What are you saying to me, Callaghan? I hope you’re not saying we cannot play three men.’
The beauty of the story for us, soon enough, was that Shankly was protesting too much. While no side is ever complete – Pat Dunne in goal had some
