Two Tribes Read online

  It was not only the players who were feeling distraught. Cynthia Kendall worried as much for her kids as her husband. ‘I think it’s all the more difficult because it’s Liverpool,’ the Everton manager’s wife said. ‘It’s harder. The children have friends at school who are all Liverpool supporters and it’s important to them that they go back with their heads held high.’

  At that point, Cynthia had not seen her husband yet. She was asked if she was looking forward to that moment. ‘Not really, no,’ she said. The pain and disappointment of everyone connected with Goodison made their public show of solidarity even more impressive.

  At the Liverpool hotel, the post-match feast had a very different atmosphere. On the coach journey from Wembley to their central London base, the sound system was cranked up and the team sang along to Chris Rea’s ‘I Don’t Know What It Is But I Love It’, their theme song from the European Cup win in 1984. It was not exactly cutting edge rock ’n’ roll but Dalglish looked like a parent having to endure a teenager’s record collection. Liverpool had something to sing about. Everton did not. Drink flowed at both hotels but only one team went to bed happy. ‘From the moment you wake to the moment you go to sleep, it was perfect,’ Mølby said. ‘It was special. The crowd singing “Merseyside” was brilliant. It was all great.’

  The Everton players would have argued differently.

  Outside Wembley the mood was unusual. Groups of mates met up around the stadium and there were very few spats and little gloating. Most Reds commiserated with their Blue friends. The phrase ‘there’ll be other years’ became the late afternoon’s cliché.

  There was plenty of humour. An Evertonian mate walking back to Wembley Central Tube station encountered a London bus in the slow-moving traffic on the High Street. He lay down in the road in front of the double decker, covered his eyes with his blue-and-white scarf and waved the driver towards him. ‘Come on, you big red bastard, end it for me.’ Even his fellow Blues laughed.

  The lack of anger from the losing fans was startling. The camera caught John Hurt outside the stadium wearing a replica shirt with a blue scarf dashingly swished around his neck. Surrounded by a growing group of Scallies, he was asked if defeat hurt more because it was Liverpool that had beaten Everton to the Double. ‘I suppose, in a sense,’ the actor said. ‘But at least it’s Merseyside.’ The boys behind him nodded in agreement. It summed up the mood even if the joke on the Kop for months afterwards was that the Elephant Man was a Blue.

  The next morning the teams gathered at the airport for the flight home. It was the last place Kendall and his men wanted to be but they forced themselves to go through with it. ‘I couldn’t believe what they made us do,’ Sharp said. ‘It was unbelievable. On the plane, Liverpool were all celebrating and we were sitting there miserable.’

  On the runway at Speke it was even more painful. A brass band played ‘Here We Go’ as the teams disembarked. The body language of the Everton players spoke louder than any words. They stood around, downcast, as their rivals larked around at the bottom of the stairs.

  Kendall and Dalglish did a joint interview in the terminal. No losing manager had ever had to suffer such onerous media duties. The reporter asked if the men were still friends. There was a very telling pause before the Everton boss cracked a joke. ‘I want him to retire, now,’ Kendall said, nodding at the Scot.

  Always one to rise to the challenge Dalglish quipped back, ‘Somebody thought I had at half-time.’ It was quite a double act, though Kendall might have winced at the word ‘double’.

  ‘It’s not war,’ Dalglish said, ‘it’s a game of football. You’ve got to keep it in perspective. Fortunately, we’re a lot better off than some other cities.’

  The parade through the city piled on the misery for Everton. Unlike in 1984, the losers trailed behind. There was little sympathy on the Liverpool bus. ‘They were fuming,’ Lawrenson said, amused even now. ‘We were on the first bus, the journalists on the second. Everton were on the third.’

  The Blues felt like an afterthought, slinking home behind the victors. The majority of people on the streets were decked in red. They climbed atop roofs for a better view, gathered in clusters on road signs like nesting crows and a man dressed in a gorilla suit perched himself on a traffic light. Liverpool were loving it, Everton suffering every moment. ‘We had the trophies, all they had was a few cans of ale,’ Nicol said.

  That beer was going down quickly on the Everton bus. They were drinking to forget. The problem was that the copious amounts of alcohol had to come out. There was no toilet on the bus. ‘All the boys were trying to do it in cans,’ Sharp said. ‘I couldn’t do that. I said to the driver to stop for a minute on Queens Drive and got off.’ It was a road lined with semi-detached houses. The Scot looked around for a place to pee.

  ‘There was a woman in her doorway waving at us, so I went over and asked her if I could use her toilet. She sent me upstairs and when I came out there was a queue down the stairs with the rest of the team waiting to use it.’

  The parade was being televised but the cameras mainly focused on the Liverpool team. Someone must have noticed the commotion around the Everton bus and the pictures of what was happening were beamed to the watching public. One viewer took offence. ‘The woman’s husband was sitting in the living room watching it on telly,’ Sharp said. ‘He saw us going in. He was a Red and the next thing he’s running up the stairs kicking us all out. I was the only one who got to use the toilet.’ They were used to Liverpudlians taking the piss. Now they weren’t even allowed that satisfaction.

  There were Evertonians about. A group ran alongside the third vehicle carrying a white bedsheet that was spray-painted with the words: ‘Chin up, lads, win or lose we support you.’ It was scant consolation.

  As a public-relations exercise the bus tour worked. The image of Scouse solidarity was reinforced. But most of the Everton team wished they had followed Reid’s example and regretted that they weren’t drinking in a pub in Bolton.

  The media coverage focused on the difference 12 months had made since Heysel. The Sunday Times said:

  A year ago Liverpool was to the world what Chernobyl is now. Yesterday the true spirit of our premier football city was allowed to drift around the globe, bounced by satellite to upwards of 50 countries and between 200 and 500 million people who, we trust, gained a kinder picture of the English at play.

  The analogy of the nuclear reactor that had exploded catastrophically in the Soviet Union the previous month was extreme but it rather neatly summed up how toxic the city’s reputation had been. And it was not just Heysel. The political, social and cultural climate had all contributed to the poisonous reputation conferred on the region.

  Tony Wilson, the man who sent love from Manchester to Liverpool City Council, opened a Granada TV special programme with these words: ‘Twelve months ago, after the Heysel Stadium disaster, English football was on its knees. At 4.40 last Saturday afternoon, a whistle blew and it was clear English football was back standing tall. How does it feel to win not just trophies, but respect?’

  The game had salvaged its reputation. Well, almost. As the teams were flying back to Speke airport, the FA announced that UEFA had informed it that the ban still stood. English clubs would not be going back into European competition any time soon.

  At Anfield, where the mood was so dark after Brussels, the elation faded quickly. ‘It was just relief,’ Lawrenson said. ‘After what had happened the year before at Heysel, it was a great relief.’

  The spotlight had been intense throughout the campaign and the young, inexperienced manager had come through the stiffest test of his career. ‘We felt it for Kenny,’ the centre half continued. ‘He had the most pressure. He just appeared to go about the job serenely and not feel the pressure.

  ‘He always made us feel that success was not about him, that it was about the group. It was some achievement from him.’

  It was. But in defeat Everton did something more important than winning trophies
. They lost with dignity. Despite the crushing disappointment, Kendall and his team managed to maintain that perspective Dalglish talked about. Their sportsmanship and solidarity was as crucial to this feel-good ending as Liverpool bouncing back to win the Double. They might have felt like crap but Everton restored faith in the game. That was a more difficult task than achieving victory on the pitch.

  English football had not only been saved but it had started moving in a different direction. The power of television had begun to exert itself, the Big Five were flexing their muscles and the drawing power of star players was becoming more and more apparent.

  Hooliganism was on the wane. Towards the end of the season there appeared to be greater numbers of children and women at matches. The tide of history that was dragging the game to destruction before Heysel had turned; now the undertow was pulling, unseen, towards a place called the Premier League.

  Everton played a huge role in this life-affirming season. West Ham, Manchester United and Chelsea had all lifted spirits and drawn people back through the turnstiles.

  Gary Lineker emerged as the country’s hottest property. English teams could not play in Europe but Englishmen could. One way or another the nation would continue exporting football to the Continent.

  Frank McAvennie had risen from obscurity, experiencing anonymous fame before becoming a vivid, blond celebrity. His landmark season was unforgettable. Bryan Robson’s was worth wiping from the memory. The man who could have turned the campaign was too brave and too injury-prone for his own good. United would have to wait for a new age to dawn before they stamped their authority on the league.

  And Liverpool, tainted, triumphant and seemingly indestructible, were girding themselves for the next titanic struggle against Everton. The two sides would remain flagbearers for the beleaguered city. By the end of the summer Derek Hatton and his fellow councillors were stripped of office and facing huge fines. Politics was a sport at which Merseysiders were losing. But who could beat their teams on the football pitch? No one.

  Football’s most critical season was over. The game was alive and still kicking.

  Epilogue

  Well, the season was not quite over. There was still a World Cup to come before thoughts turned to the next campaign.

  Nothing quite builds excitement for football fans like a World Cup. British teams would be playing foreign opposition. It was an even more exotic treat with the Heysel ban in place.

  England, Scotland and Northern Ireland qualified and most of the main figures of the domestic season were in Mexico. Bryan Robson was deemed fit enough to play, offering the Manchester United midfielder another opportunity to consolidate his position as England’s hero. Gary Lineker would lead the line for Bobby Robson’s men.

  The striker had played his last game for Everton. A deal was agreed with Barcelona before the tournament started. Lineker would swap Goodison for the Nou Camp. The price was £2.8 million. In his autobiography, Howard Kendall was ungracious about his 40-goal hitman. ‘Although he had scored so many goals I didn’t think his departure would cause irreparable damage to our team,’ he wrote. ‘Indeed, to the contrary, I felt it might heighten the teamwork that had brought us such outstanding success a year earlier. As it happened, that was the case.’

  Frank McAvennie was in the Scotland squad. He would not get the chance to play alongside his idol, as Kenny Dalglish withdrew. The Liverpool player-manager said his ageing body needed to recover over the summer. Many suspected that if Alan Hansen had been on the plane to Mexico then Dalglish would have joined him.

  West Ham’s superstar did not get much chance to show a global audience what he could do. He came on as substitute for the first two games – defeats by Denmark and Germany – and sat frustrated on the bench as Scotland played out their final group game, a 0–0 draw against Uruguay. McAvennie was back in Stringfellows a little too quickly for even his liking.

  Robson, the man who was too courageous for his own good, led England out for the opening game against Portugal. English expectations were high, as they always are at the beginning of big international tournaments. Reality hit home quickly.

  Portugal won 1–0. It was a very disappointing performance for the supporters who had travelled to Central America. It was hard to feel too much sympathy for England fans, though. A group in the crowd held up a bedsheet with the words ‘West Ham NF’ on it. It was not unusual. The National Front preyed on the jingoistic mentality that was rife among England followers and the organization’s racist, fascist insignia frequently adorned their flags. There were plenty on display in Mexico.

  Worse was to come. Next up were Morocco, the group’s supposed whipping boys. England matches do not come uglier than this encounter.

  The game was meandering towards half-time in the heat of Monterrey when Robson chased a ball down the inside-left channel in the opposition area. A defender challenged the England captain and Robson went to ground heavily. When he did not get up quickly everyone knew what had happened. Ray Wilkins crouched over his teammate and gestured furiously at the referee to get medical help on to the pitch. The shoulder had dislocated again. When England needed a hero, Robson was the obvious candidate. His body refused to cooperate.

  The ball had gone out for a corner. Wilkins went out to take it and stayed wide when the defence cleared. England gained possession and the ball came back to Wilkins but the midfielder was offside. In frustration – and perhaps still annoyed about the referee’s slow response to Robson – he threw the ball at the official’s feet with venom. The Paraguayan referee produced a red card. With three minutes left to the interval, England were down to ten men. They held on to draw 0–0.

  Lineker was having a torrid time. Bobby Robson had deployed him alongside Mark Hateley. The ball was not coming forward quickly enough and when it did England were lofting aerial passes designed to hit the big target man alongside Lineker. The striker who had scored 40 domestic goals was receiving possession with his back to goal. It nullified his strength – raw pace.

  After Morocco, the players staged a revolt against Bobby Robson’s system. In the general reshape of the team, out went Hateley and in came Peter Beardsley, a clever forward who would drop deep and look to release an early ball for his partner. Peter Reid came into the side, too. He knew exactly how to get the best out of Lineker.

  It was like a switch had been flicked. In the final, must-win group game against Poland, the striker ran wild, scoring a hattrick in the 3–0 win. In the first knockout round, Paraguay could not cope with him. Lineker got two in the 3–0 victory. The world sat up and took notice.

  The quarter-final was an epic. England versus Argentina in the Azteca Stadium, Mexico City, in front of 114,580 people and a global audience on television.

  It was the first meeting of the nations since the Falklands Conflict in 1982, when Argentina’s attempt to occupy what they referred to as the Malvinas led to a British task force being deployed in the South Atlantic. More than 900 were killed as British troops pushed the Argentinian forces out of the Falkland Islands. Two-thirds of the dead were South Americans. Margaret Thatcher called a general election on the back of the military success. Before the Argentinians invaded the Falklands, the Conservative government was in trouble. Unemployment was rising and the Prime Minister was deeply unpopular. Victory in the South Atlantic changed the public perception of the government and generated huge support. Thatcher won by a landslide at the 1983 election. The huge majority in the House of Commons gave her the authority to embark on a programme of radicalism that would change the nature of British society.

  Argentina was still angry, Britain still tub-thumpingly triumphant. The quarter-final was shot through with political undertones.

  It is a match remembered for Diego Maradona’s performance. Before the game, he said that the Malvinas were not a factor. Later, he admitted he was lying.

  There was sporadic fighting in and around the stadium between English and Argentinian fans before, during and after the match.
The clashes were not serious enough to overshadow the football. The day will always be recalled for Maradona’s four-minute spell that etched itself into football legend. First, he punched the ball into the net in the ‘Hand of God’ incident to put Argentina 1–0 up. Then he ran with the ball from his own half to score one of the greatest goals in World Cup history. It was Maradona’s day. It could easily have been Lineker’s signature moment.

  Trailing by two goals with time running out, Bobby Robson sent on first Chris Waddle and then John Barnes. With two wingers, England suddenly began to stretch the Argentina defence. Barnes in particular rampaged down the left. With nine minutes left, the Watford winger drove past two defenders to the byline and produce a cross that Lineker headed into the net.

  Barnes was in sublime form. The racists with their NF banners must have been conflicted when the man with Jamaican heritage looked like dragging England back into the match. ‘I didn’t care,’ the winger said. ‘I had nothing but contempt for them [the racist fans] and they weren’t going to stop me playing.’ With three minutes left, Barnes was at it again. He sent over a dangerous cross to the back post. It was an awkward ball for Lineker. Few players could have twisted their bodies into a position to make contact. The striker headed the ball from less than a yard out. It seemed a certain equalizer. Instead, Julio Olarticoechea threw himself in the way and the ball stayed out of the net. That, as much as any point in the entire tournament, is the moment when Argentina won the World Cup.

  If Lineker had scored and the game had gone to extra time, Barnes, with his fresh legs, would surely have created more chances for England. The South Americans were tiring. History could have been very different had that late header hit the net. Or not. ‘If we’d have made it 2–2, then Maradona would have gone up the other end and scored the winner,’ Barnes said. ‘He was unplayable. The greatest ever.’