After the whistle, the final whistle. In the tiny office, before the small desk. Horace Yates, of the Liverpool Daily Post, watched Bill Shankly jump up from behind the desk in the office. Horace Yates watched Bill Shankly pace the room. He watched him pace and he listened to him talk. Ten to the dozen, one hundred miles an hour –
Talking and pacing, pacing and talking,
talking about the future,
the future now –
The gates of Anfield, the gates of Melwood are wide open. Wide open, Horace. To every schoolboy and every youth on Merseyside. The gates are open, Horace. They need feel no embarrassment. No shyness, Horace. They must come and report for coaching and training. Every one of them. Every lad who has ever kicked a ball within one hundred miles. They are all welcome. All welcome, Horace. And we will watch them all. So any boy, any lad, who has any potential, we will develop that potential. That is my promise. To give every boy, every lad who comes through these gates the opportunity. The opportunity, Horace. Because that is what I believe in. Giving people, whoever they may be, wherever they may come from, giving them that opportunity. That opportunity, Horace. Because without opportunity, there is no chance for talent. And so if any boy, if any lad, has any talent in them at all, we will do our very best to bring it out of them. Our very best, Horace. Because that is what I believe in. Finding that talent. Then giving that talent the opportunity. Bringing out that talent. Then developing that talent. So they are all welcome. They are all welcome, Horace –
The more the better. The more the merrier …
Bill Shankly sat back down behind the desk. Bill Shankly looked across the desk at Horace Yates –
You know, it’s not such a giant step from school to League football these days. Not such a long stride, Horace. Not these days. And when you think how difficult it is to find experienced players. And then how costly it is to procure them. It makes more sense to look much closer to home, does it not? And I just cannot believe, I simply refuse to believe, in a city as soccer-conscious, as soccer mad as Liverpool, that we cannot find the talent we need. The boys we need. And if we get enough of them …
Bill Shankly jumped back up onto his feet, Horace Yates jumping out of his skin in his chair. Bill Shankly pacing the room again, Horace Yates turning his neck again. Horace Yates writing as fast as he could, Bill Shankly talking as fast as he could –
If enough of them come, then we are sure to get a percentage of winners. I am certain of that, Horace. I know that. I know that within three years of them leaving school, these boys could be in the first team. I know that. So I know it is not even that long term. Not as long term as the cynics might say. Not so long term, Horace. Not when you can’t get the ready-made material. Not when it is so difficult. So heartbreaking. Look at Roger Hunt. How many more Roger Hunts are out there now, playing for their school, playing in their street? Look how many we found at Leeds Road. At Huddersfield, Horace. In a town that size. A town that small, Horace. It should be much easier here, in this city, with its size, with all its people, with all its history, all its passion. Its passion for football, Horace. I refuse to believe there aren’t the boys, aren’t the lads, out there who think, who eat, who sleep football. Just hankering after a career in soccer, just waiting for the chance. For the opportunity. The opportunity, Horace. And so all I ask is for those boys, those lads, to give me the opportunity, to give me the chance to help them achieve their goal, to achieve their dream. If they give me the chance, Horace, I will give them the chance …
Talking and pacing, pacing and talking,
jabbing his finger into the chest of Horace Yates, looking into the eyes of Horace Yates, saying –
Football is my life. My life, Horace. And so I do not mind how long it takes, how much time I spend among these boys, these lads. Because I have great hopes. Great hopes, Horace. And I know the boys, the lads of Liverpool, I know they will not let me down. They will not let me down. And so to me the sky is the limit. The sky is the limit, Horace. And so the gates are open. The gates are open, Horace. And they will stay open. For as long as I am at Liverpool Football Club, the gates will always be open. Always open, Horace. Always.
…
On Saturday 16 January, 1960, Sheffield United came to Anfield, Liverpool. That afternoon, thirty-three thousand, two hundred and ninety-seven folk came, too. In the ninth minute, Jimmy Melia scored. In the fifteenth minute, Roger Hunt scored. And in the sixty-eighth minute, Roger Hunt scored again. Fifteen minutes later, Dave Hickson was sent off. But Liverpool Football Club still beat Sheffield United three — nil. At home, at Anfield –
Every morning, every morning of the week. In the ground, in the dressing room. The players and the coaching staff of Liverpool Football Club took off their suits and ties. And their shoes. Every morning. The players and the coaching staff of Liverpool Football Club put on their tracksuit bottoms and their sweaters. And their boots. Every morning. The players and the coaching staff of Liverpool Football Club walked out of the dressing room and down the corridor. The players and the coaching staff of Liverpool Football Club walked out of the ground and into the car park at Anfield. Every morning. The players and the coaching staff of Liverpool Football Club climbed on board the bus to Melwood. Every morning. The players and the coaching staff of Liverpool Football Club travelled on the bus to Melwood to train. And every morning, after training and a nice cup of tea. The players and the coaching staff of Liverpool Football Club climbed back on board the bus. And every morning. The players and the coaching staff of Liverpool Football Club travelled back to Anfield. Every morning. The players and the coaching staff got off the bus in the car park at Anfield and walked back into the ground. Every morning. The players and the coaching staff of Liverpool Football Club walked back down the corridors and back into the dressing room. Every morning. The players and the coaching staff took off their boots. Their sweaters and their tracksuit bottoms. And every morning. The players and the coaching staff of Liverpool Football Club went into the showers and into the baths. Every morning. The players and the coaching staff of Liverpool Football Club washed and then changed back into their suits and ties. And their shoes. And then every morning. The players and the coaching staff of Liverpool Football Club said, Goodbye. See you tomorrow. Take care now. See you. This was the Liverpool way. Every morning –
The Anfield way –
And every morning. A young lad with a broom in his hand stood by the bus in the car park at Anfield. Every morning. The young lad with the broom in his hand watched the players and the coaching staff of Liverpool Football Club climb aboard the bus to Melwood. And every morning. The young lad dreamt of the day he would no longer have a broom in his hands. The day he would have boots on his feet. The day he would climb aboard the bus to Melwood –
What’s your name, son, asked Bill Shankly.
The young lad jumped. Out of his dreams, into the car park. And the young lad said, Christopher Lawler, sir.
What are you doing just standing here, son, asked Bill Shankly. Why aren’t you changed? Why aren’t you on the bus, lad? Hurry up.
The young lad said, But I have my work to do, sir. My work.
And what work is that, son, asked Bill Shankly.
The young lad said, During the day, I have to clean the place up, sir. That’s my job. That is my work, sir.
So when do you do your training, son, asked Bill Shankly. When do you play your football, lad?