In the house or in the street. In conversations and in interviews. The journalists nodded and the well-wishers smiled. And they said, Yes, it was twenty years ago today, Bill. Twenty years ago today.
And Bill said, I only wish I could start all over again …
But in the street or in the house. The journalists and the well-wishes thanked Bill for his thoughts and for his reminiscences. They thanked Bill for his time. And they said goodbye. Until the next time, the next anniversary. They left Bill alone. In the house or in the street. But Bill never forgot. Bill always remembered. Every hour of every day. Every day of every week. Every week of every month. Every month of every year. Every year and every season. Every season and every match. Every single match. From the first match to the last match. Bill always remembered, Bill never forgot. Bill bore these memories, Bill carried these memories. A great weight Bill bore, a piece of wood Bill carried. A piece of wood which left Bill with splinters, splinters in his back. In his shoulders and in his neck. But splinters which gave Bill faith, splinters which made Bill believe. Believe in the things that had been, once. Believe in the things that could be, again. After the resurrection, before the resurrection –
Bill said, I only wish I could start all over again …
85. BEFORE THE REVOLUTION
In the winter. Under dark and heavy skies. In the middle of the week, in the middle of the day. In his suit and in his tie. Bill Shankly stood before Anfield. Before the camera. The Italian television camera. The television crew and the interviewer. These men who had come from Rome to find out why English football was now the most successful football in Europe. These men who had come to ask Bill Shankly why. And in the winter. Under dark and heavy skies. They switched on their camera and they switched on their lights. And the interviewer looked up at the clouds and then back down at Anfield. At the houses around the ground, at the streets around the ground. The boarded-up shops and the paint-splattered walls. An abandoned old car and a smashed-up phone box. The newspapers and the crisp packets blowing across the pavements. Across the broken glass, across the dog shit. And the man from Rome said, This city is like a cemetery. This town is like a ghost town. Twenty per cent of this city’s labour force is unemployed. In the town centre, in the job centre. There were just forty-nine jobs on offer. Everywhere we have been, we have seen derelict buildings. Empty factories. Huge tracts of wasteland. And wilderness. And everyone we have spoken to, everyone talks about closures and redundancies. About British Leyland and Fisher-Bendix, Dunlop and BICC, Plessey and GEC, Lucas and Girling, Courtaulds and Meccano. People don’t seem to know what is happening here. People say there is nothing happening here in this town. Nothing here but the football.
The football is not nothing, said Bill Shankly. His eyes narrow now, his jaw set now. The football is everything! And now more than ever, in times like these. But I do not deny the things you have seen. I do not deny the things you have heard. No, no. But men hear what they want to hear, men see what they want to see. But there are some things some men cannot see, some things some men will never see. Some things some men do not want to see. Hidden things to some men, invisible things to some men. So where you only see empty factories and people on their knees. I still see a beautiful city and a great people. Proud people, passionate people …
And before Anfield. Before the camera. As Bill Shankly spoke. Men stopped to listen. Men and boys. In their coats. Their thin coats. With their scarves. Their red scarves.
And now more than ever, said Bill Shankly. His eyes wide now, his jaw forward now. Now in these times. It is the football that helps to keep them proud, it is the football that helps to keep them passionate. Because there is still an intense and powerful passion for football in this city. An intensity you will find nowhere else except in Glasgow. Because it comes from the heart here. And it flows in the blood here. In the blood of the people, in the hearts of the people. And what we do on Saturday provides a purpose and a focus for the people. For the working people, for the working man. Because football is the working man’s sport. And so he is the club! The working man is the club. You cannot make a football club without him, without the ordinary working man. Oh no! And you cannot cheat him. Or he’ll find you out. Oh yes! But if he trusts you, if the working man believes in you. Then he will follow you. And he will follow the team. Because he will recognise you are committed to him, the team is committed to him. And he will put all his pride and all his passion into the team. With fervour and with love. In his blood and in his heart.
Under the dark and heavy skies. In his broad-brimmed hat. The interviewer, this man from Rome. He smiled and he said, But perhaps it is only you who thinks like this now, Mr Shankly? Perhaps it is only you who is so passionate about this city. About Liverpool and about football. Perhaps it is only you now, Mr Shankly?
Well, you go back into the city again. With your fancy camera and with your fancy lights. And you talk to the men and women who live here again. But this time you ask them about the passion they feel for this city. The passion they feel for the football in this city. The things they want to be asked about, the things they want to talk about. And then you’ll see. Oh yes. Then you’ll see and then you’ll hear. If you have the ears to listen, if you have the eyes to see. And then you’ll go back to your city, back to Rome. And you’ll always remember the day you came to this city, the day you were in Liverpool. And you will feel lucky, you will feel privileged. Lucky to have walked on these pavements, privileged to have spoken with these people! Real people.
And before Anfield. Before the ground. Bill Shankly stared into the camera. And now Bill Shankly nodded. And then Bill Shankly turned away. Away from the camera, away towards the people. The men and the boys. In their coats. Their thin coats. With their scarves. Their red scarves. And the men and the boys walked towards Bill Shankly. The men and the boys gathered around Bill Shankly. In a group, in a huddle. They patted his back and they shook his hand. And they thrust pieces of paper, scraps of newspaper. Into his hands. For an autograph, for a signature. And one of the men said, You know you are a genius, don’t you? You know you are a genius, Bill?
Are you all going to the match tonight, asked Bill Shankly.
And one of the men said, Of course I am, Bill. I never miss a game. I’ve never missed a match yet, Bill. Never once.
But most of the men shook their heads. And one of the men said, I want to, Bill. Of course I want to go. But I can’t afford to go, Bill. Not to every game, not these days.
I know, son. I know, said Bill Shankly. And I am sorry, son.