by David Peace
On Saturday 18 April, 1964, Arsenal Football Club came to Anfield, Liverpool. Again in the sunshine. The lovely, spring sunshine. Forty-eight thousand, six hundred and twenty-three folk came, too. In the sunshine. The lovely, spring sunshine. Forty-eight thousand, six hundred and twenty-three folk locked inside Anfield, Liverpool. In the sunshine. The lovely, spring sunshine. Ten thousand, twenty thousand, locked out of Anfield, Liverpool. In the sunshine. The lovely, spring sunshine. Red balloons floated in the sky. Over Anfield, across Liverpool. In the sunshine. The lovely, spring sunshine. Red balloons bounced on the ground. Outside Anfield, inside Anfield. In the sunshine. The lovely, spring sunshine. The Anfield crowd sang, the Spion Kop sang. In the sunshine. The lovely, spring sunshine. With flair and with wit. In the sunshine. The lovely, spring sunshine. The crowd sang, the Kop sang. In the sunshine. The lovely, spring sunshine. The crowd swayed, the Kop swayed. In the sunshine. The lovely, spring sunshine. They sang in rhythm, they swayed in rhythm. In the sunshine. The lovely, spring sunshine. They sang and they swayed. In the sunshine. The lovely, spring sunshine. They sang as one, they swayed as one. In the sunshine. The lovely, spring sunshine. They sang and they swayed, they swayed and they waited. In the sunshine. The lovely, spring sunshine. They waited and they prayed. In the sunshine. The lovely, spring sunshine. For LI-VER-POOL, LI-VER-POOL, LI-VER-POOL. In the sunshine. The lovely, spring sunshine. For LI-VER-POOL, LI-VER-POOL, Liverpool Football Club. In the sunshine. The lovely, spring sunshine. At home, at Anfield, Liverpool, LI-VER-POOL,
LI-VER-POOL –
Before the whistle, the first whistle. In the dressing room, the home dressing room. On the benches. In their kits and in their boots. Tommy Lawrence, Gerry Byrne, Ronnie Moran, Gordon Milne, Ron Yeats, Willie Stevenson, Ian Callaghan, Roger Hunt, Ian St John, Alf Arrowsmith and Peter Thompson looked up at Bill Shankly. Bill Shankly standing in the middle of the dressing room, Bill Shankly pointing his finger into the air –
The top of the mountain is in sight, said Bill Shankly. The very summit of the mountain, boys. And today you will reach that summit. You will stand on the very top of the mountain, boys. But you will not be standing there alone, no. You will be standing there with the tens of thousands here today. Inside Anfield. And the tens of thousands outside here. Outside Anfield today. You will stand there with them, boys. And you will stand there as one. So go out there now, boys. Go out there now and reach that summit. Go out there now and stand on the very top of the mountain, boys. And give these people what they deserve, give these people what they want. Go out there now and make these people happy, boys …
In the sunshine. The lovely, spring sunshine. After just seven minutes, Ian St John scored for LI-VER-POOL, LI-VER-POOL, LI-VER-POOL. But Arsenal Football Club did not capitulate, Arsenal Football Club did not surrender. And in the sunshine. The lovely, spring sunshine. The players of Liverpool Football Club began to feel anxious. And the players of Arsenal Football Club sensed that anxiety. The players of Liverpool Football Club began to make errors. And the players of Arsenal Football Club exploited those errors. Baxter missed by inches. Again. Baxter missed by inches. Gerry Byrne cleared off the Liverpool goal line. And Arsenal won a penalty. Eastham stepped up. Eastham struck the ball. Lawrence dived. Lawrence reached the ball. Lawrence pushed the ball around the upright. Tommy Lawrence had saved the penalty for LI-VER-POOL, LI-VER-POOL, LI-VER-POOL. Now there would be no more anxiety, now there would be no more errors. In the sunshine. The lovely, spring sunshine. Lawrence, Byrne, Moran, Milne, Yeats, Stevenson, Callaghan, Hunt, St John, Arrowsmith and Thompson shone. In the sunshine. The lovely, spring sunshine. They shone like diamonds. And they cut like diamonds. In the sunshine. The lovely, spring sunshine. LI-VER-POOL, LI-VERPOOL, LI-VER-POOL cut Arsenal Football Club to pieces. And in the sunshine. The lovely, spring sunshine. In the thirty-eighth minute, Peter Thompson turned Arsenal inside and out, this way and that. And Thompson sent a perfect centre to the post. St John rose to head square for Arrowsmith. For Alf Arrowsmith to nod home. Into the Arsenal goal. London Bridge is falling down. In the sunshine. The lovely, spring sunshine. In the fifty-second minute, Thompson beat Magill. Inside and out. Both ways. In a single, surging movement. Thompson unleashed a shot. From the edge of the penalty area. Into the Arsenal goal. Falling down. In the sunshine. The lovely, spring sunshine. Five minutes later, Thompson repeated the dose. From an inside-right position. London Bridge is falling down. In the sunshine. The lovely, spring sunshine. In the sixtieth minute, Gordon Milne passed to Thompson. Thompson flicked on to Hunt. Roger Hunt shot. A thundering shot. Into the back of the net. POOR, OLD LONDON! In the sunshine. The lovely, spring sunshine. LI-VER-POOL, LI-VER-POOL, Liverpool Football Club beat Arsenal Football Club five–nil. In the sunshine. The lovely, spring sunshine. LI-VER-POOL, LI-VER-POOL, Liverpool Football Club were the Champions. In the sunshine. The lovely, spring sunshine. LI-VER-POOL, LI-VER-POOL Liverpool Football Club were the Champions of England –
LI-VER-POOL, LI-VER-POOL, LI-VER-POOL …
WE LOVE YOU, YEAH, YEAH, YEAH …
LI-VER-POOL, LI-VER-POOL, LI-VER-POOL …
WE LOVE YOU, YEAH, YEAH, YEAH …
And in the sunshine. The lovely, spring sunshine. The new Champions of England ran around the pitch. The Anfield pitch. In the sunshine. The lovely, spring sunshine. The new Champions of England ran a lap of honour around the ground. The Anfield ground. In the sunshine. The lovely, spring sunshine. Ron Yeats carried the trophy around the stadium. The Anfield stadium. In the sunshine. The lovely, spring sunshine. Not the real Football League Championship trophy. Not the Lady. The Football League had refused to let Everton Football Club courier the trophy across the park. But in the sunshine. The lovely, spring sunshine. No one cared. In the sunshine. The lovely, spring sunshine. Ron Yeats carried a papier-mâché trophy around the pitch. The Anfield pitch. A red papier-mâché trophy around the ground. The Anfield ground. And in the sunshine. The lovely, spring sunshine. The Kop sang, the Spion Kop sang. And everybody sang, everyone sang, WE’VE WON THE LEAGUE! WE’VE WON THE LEAGUE …
EE-AYE-ADDIO, WE’VE WON THE LEAGUE!
16. TOP OF THE WORLD
In the house, in their kitchen. At the window. Bill stared out at the sheets on the line. In the sun. The white sheets, drying on the line. And in his eyes, in his mind. Bill saw another sheet, another white sheet. In his eyes, in his mind. A white sheet held aloft, aloft on the Spion Kop. In his eyes, in his mind. The white sheet painted with two words, two words in bold capitals. In his eyes, in his mind. In capitals, in red. In his eyes, in his mind. SHANKLY’S CHAMPIONS. In the kitchen, at the window. Bill smiled. And Bill turned away from the window. Bill walked back over to the kitchen table. Bill sat back down in the chair. And Bill stared back down at the table. At the piles of letters, at the piles of telegrams. The letters of thanks, the telegrams of congratulation. The thanks from their supporters, the congratulations from his colleagues. Men he had played with, men he had played against. Managers he had pitted his wits against, managers he had beaten. At the table, in the chair. Bill went through the letters, Bill went through the telegrams. The letters of thanks, the telegrams of congratulation. Backwards and forwards. The many letters of thanks, the many telegrams of congratulation. Forwards and back. At the table, in the chair. Bill kept coming back to one telegram, one telegram of congratulation. A telegram of congratulation from Jackie Milburn. Jackie Milburn was the manager of Ipswich Town Football Club. Liverpool Football Club had played Ipswich Town twice this season. And Liverpool Football Club had beaten Ipswich Town twice this season. Ipswich Town had finished twenty-second in the First Division this season. And Ipswich Town had been relegated from the First Division. Two years ago, Ipswich Town had been first in the First Division. Ipswich Town had been the Champions. The Champions of England. At the table, in the chair. Bill put down the telegram of congratulations from Jackie Milburn. And Bill turned back to the window. The light had changed, the sun had gone. There were spits of rain on the w
indow pane. At the table, in the chair. Bill stood up again. Bill walked back across the kitchen. Bill opened the back door. Bill went out into the back garden. The spits were now a shower. And Bill began to take the sheets down off the line. The shower now a downpour. Bill brought the sheets back in. Out of the rain, into the house. Bill shut the door behind him. In the house, in their kitchen. The sheets in his arms. At the window. Bill stared out at the line. In the garden, in the rain. The pouring rain. The empty, hanging line. Redundant in the rain. No use to anyone. In the house, in their kitchen. The damp sheets in his arms. At the window. Bill knew the time of the greatest victory was also the time of the greatest danger. These hours when the seeds were sown, these days when the seeds were planted. The seeds of complacency, the seeds of idleness. Watered with song, drowned with wine. The seeds of defeat. In showers of praise. That hypnotised men, that intoxicated men. And blinded men. Holes for their eyes, stitches for their lids. Finished men, forgotten men. In their houses, in their kitchens. At their windows. Redundant in the rain.
…
In the hotel, in the dining room. After the laps of honour. The many laps of honour. At the celebration dinner. The many celebration dinners. Tom Williams and Sidney Reakes stood up. Tom Williams was now the president of Liverpool Football Club. Sidney Reakes was now the new chairman of Liverpool Football Club. Tom Williams and Sidney Reakes raised their glasses. They proposed a toast –
To Bill Shankly, said Tom Williams. This success is all down to one man. And to one man alone. To Bill Shankly! Bill Shankly is the greatest manager in the world!
In the dining room, at the table. Bill sprung up. Bill shook his head. And Bill said, No, no, no! The success of Liverpool Football Club is no one-man affair. We are a team. We are a working-class team! We have no room for individuals. No room for stars. For fancy footballers or for celebrities. We are workers. A team of workers. A team of workers on the pitch and a team of workers off the pitch. On the pitch and off the pitch. Every man in our organisation, every man in our team. He knows the importance of looking after the small things, he knows how the small things add up to the important things. From the chairman to the groundsman, every man is a cog in the machine. A cog in the team. And every cog has functioned perfectly. In the team. Every man has given one hundred per cent. For the team. And so the team has won. The team are champions, a team of champions. We are all a team of champions! We are all a team. A team, a team …
But amid the popping of corks, amid the clinking of glasses. The slapping of backs and the singing of songs. Amid the celebrations, amid the congratulations. The accolades and the praise. No one could hear Bill. No one was listening to Bill.
…
His jacket stuck to his shirt. His shirt stuck to his vest. His vest stuck to his skin. His skin stretched, his muscles taut. Bill opened his eyes. And Bill tried to shift in his seat. His skin burning, his muscles straining. Bill could not shift in his seat. Burning, straining. Bill tried to move his hands. His hands locked tight around the armrest of his seat. His knuckles white. Bill forced open the fingers of his right hand. Bill raised his right arm. Bill brought his right hand over to the left sleeve of his jacket. Bill pulled up the left sleeve of his jacket. Bill stared down at his watch. His watch on his left wrist. The aeroplane shuddered. Again. Bill gripped the armrests of his seat. The aeroplane dipped. Again. Bill closed his eyes. Again. Bill tried to think of films. The films he had seen in Muirkirk. American films. Bill tried to think of boxers. The fights he had heard on the radio. American fights. Bill tried to think of gangsters. The books he had borrowed from the library. American books. And Bill tried to remember the reasons why he was flying to America. Flying to America to join Liverpool Football Club on their tour of the United States. The reasons Liverpool Football Club had agreed to this tour of the United States. This tour he had been against. This tour he knew would exhaust them. This tour he knew would weaken them. Bill tried to remember the reasons Liverpool Football Club were not at home. The reasons he wasn’t at home. In Liverpool. Or in Blackpool. Or Glasgow. Anywhere but here, on this aeroplane, with his jacket stuck to his shirt, his shirt stuck to his vest, his vest stuck to his skin, at thirty thousand feet, above the sea, flying to America.
…
In the hotel in New York City, in a chair in the lounge. In his blazer, his Liverpool Football Club blazer. Bill saw Bob. Bob walk into the lounge, Bob look around the room. Bob looking for Bill –
There you are, said Bob. There you are, Boss. I’ve been looking everywhere for you! You’ll never guess what I’ve found, Boss? I’ve found Jack Dempsey’s bar! It’s just around the corner, Boss. On the very next block! Come on, Boss. The man might even be there …
Bill looked at his watch. Bill shook his head. And Bill said, Are you mad, Bob? It’s half past eleven. I’m away to my bed, Bob.
Bob looked at his own watch. And Bob shook his head –
It’s not half eleven, said Bob. It’s only half six, Boss. It’s still early. It’s only half past six in the evening, Boss …
Bill looked at his watch again. Bill shook his head again. And Bill said, It’s half past eleven, Bob. Your watch must be wrong.
No, said Bob. You’ve got the wrong time, Boss. It’s half past eleven in England. But it’s only half past six here.
Bill shook his head. And Bill said, You’re wrong, Bob. You’re mistaken. No American is going to tell me what time it is. I know what time it is, Bob. It’s half past eleven. And so it’s time for bed, Bob. So you sleep well now, too. And I’ll see you in the morning, Bob …
…
In the hotel, in the corridor. In his blazer, his Liverpool Football Club blazer. With a sheet of paper in one hand. A sheet of names, a sheet of numbers. Bill knocked on Bob’s door. And Bill waited. And Bill waited. And then Bill knocked again. And Bill waited. And then the door opened. And Bill saw Bob. Bob still rubbing his eyes, Bob still wearing his pyjamas. And Bill said, What’s wrong with you, Bob? Are you ill? Are you sick, man? Are you not well?
No, said Bob. I’m fine, Boss. I was asleep.
Asleep? Jesus Christ, Bob. It’s eight o’clock in the morning. It’s breakfast time, Bob. It’s time to go through the team. The team for the game, Bob. The game today …
Just a minute then, smiled Bob. Just a minute, Boss.
…
On the pitch at Soldier Field, Chicago. Bill was not watching the players of Liverpool Football Club practise for their friendly. Bill was looking up at the stadium. At the Roman columns. Now Bill turned to the groundsman. And Bill said, This is a famous place. A very famous place. I’ve heard of this place. This is the very place where Jack Dempsey fought Gene Tunney in 1927, is it not?
Yes, said the groundsman. This is the place. There were over one hundred thousand people here that night. Gloria Swanson was here, Al Capone was here. There were the Astors and the Vanderbilts. There were politicians and there was even royalty …
Bill nodded. And Bill said, I know, I know that. I listened to it on the radio. And I remember every round. Every jab and every feint. Every punch and every blow. But where exactly was the ring then?
It must have been over there, said the groundsman, pointing to the centre of the pitch where the players of Liverpool Football Club were practising. That’s where the ring would have been that night.
Bill said, Are you certain? I don’t want any guesses now.
Yes, said the groundsman. I am certain. In that centre circle.
Bill nodded. Bill turned around. Bill looked for Bob. Bill saw Bob. And Bill shouted, Bob! Bob! Come over here with me. Follow me, over here. And bring a ball, Bob. Bring a ball over here …
Bill took off his coat. Bill took off his jacket. Bill made a goal with his coat and with his jacket. And Bill said, Come on, Bob. Come on! To me, to me. Pass the ball to me, Bob …
Bob passed the ball to Bill. Bill took the ball. Bill passed it back to Bob. Bob took the ball. Bob passed it back to Bill. Bill turned. And Bill shot. And Bill scored. B
etween his coat, between his jacket. Bill scored a goal. On Soldier Field, Chicago. In the place where Jack Dempsey fought Gene Tunney. On the site of the Long Count –
Bill looked at his watch. His watch on his left wrist. His Liverpool watch, with Liverpool time. And Bill picked up his jacket, Bill picked up his coat. Bill put on his jacket, Bill put on his coat. And Bill went back to Liverpool. Bill went back home.
…
In the house, in their front room. In the night and in the silence. In his chair. Bill picked up the paper again. The evening paper. Bill turned to the back pages again. The sports pages. Stan Cullis had been sacked as the manager of Wolverhampton Wanderers. In 1949, as manager of Wolverhampton Wanderers, Stan Cullis had won the FA Cup. He had been the youngest manager ever to win the FA Cup. He had been just thirty-two years old. In 1954, Wolverhampton Wanderers had won the First Division Championship. They had won it again in 1958 and they had retained it in 1959. The next year, Wolverhampton Wanderers had won the FA Cup again. That year, they had also been runners-up in the First Division, losing to Burnley Football Club by just one point. Just one point. Two points and they would have won the Double. The first Double since Aston Villa in 1897. Stan Cullis had won three Championships and two FA Cups. Yesterday, the directors of Wolverhampton Wanderers Football Club had sacked Stan Cullis. In the night and in the silence. In his chair. Bill turned to the inside back page of the paper. The page of results, the page of tables. And Bill looked down at the First Division table. Bill looked down the First Division table for the Champions of England. A long, long way down. On Saturday 12 September, 1964, the Champions of England were seventeenth in the First Division. Seventeenth. This season, this new season, the Champions of England had played seven games. They had won two and they had drawn one. And they had lost four games. At Blackburn Rovers and at Leeds, at Sheffield Wednesday and at Leicester. Again. In the night and in the silence. In his chair. Bill let the pages of the paper fall to the floor. And Bill picked up his diary from the arm of his chair. His diary of dates, his diary of fixtures. Bill opened the diary to the next date and Bill stared down at the next fixture. On Saturday 19 September, 1964, Liverpool Football Club would play Everton. At home,
