[Written on the day Kenny Dalglish was sacked, 16th May 2012; published in Well Red magazine]
It was the headline on Sky Sports News that got me.
‘Liverpool sack Kenny Dalglish.’
Screaming gleefully into our front rooms, clear as day, garishly
presented on a bright yellow background for added impact.
Read it back. Think about what it
means, what those four words say about our football club and where it is at
this precise moment.
Our greatest living legend. The
man who won us the European Cup at Wembley; who defied history and logic to
lead us to the double in his first season as a manager; who created a team that
brought fantasy football to life, the ultimate in artistry and consummate
style; who carried a city on his shoulders in its darkest days, at the expense
of his own health and well-being; and who answered the call to rescue us from
the smouldering ashes that engulfed our club in the aftermath of Hicks, Gillett
and Hodgson.
Yes. That Kenny Dalglish. Sacked.
By hedge fund managers and accountants and people who are infinitely
more comfortable with a balance sheet than they will ever be with a team-sheet.
Welcome to Liverpool Football Club,
2012.
Because apparently one season is all a man like Kenny Dalglish
deserves. I know this is so because I’ve
seen people say it on Twitter and across forums, even at the match. He’s past it, Dalglish. Hasn’t got a clue
anymore. And so what if he did deliver
our first trophy in six years, and come tantalisingly close to a second? That means nothing to the new breed. Not when we could be battling it out with Newcastle and Tottenham
for fourth place. That’s where the real
glamour is. The kudos. The cash.
Except, that’s not the way I expect my club to behave.
We’re meant to be different from the rest. We laugh at Chelsea with their plastic flags and their
plastic fans and their revolving door policy when it comes to managers. We assume an air of self-aggrandising superiority
and hark back to history, to tradition and to the ‘Liverpool Way.’
Well, there’s nothing to laugh about now. Because our owners, the hedge fund managers
and the accountants, emboldened by the acquiescence of many of our own
supporters, have taken that history and pissed all over it. And we’re happy to accept it, in the name of
brand optimisation and maximised income streams and the viability of ‘the
project.’ Effectively, we’ve just become
the new Chelsea.
And if that means telling the club’s most revered servant that one full
season is all he gets to build a team to compete at the highest level, even
after two years of stagnation and crippling internal conflict, then so be
it.
But be warned. The benchmark has
been set. And if the next manager,
whether it’s Martinez or Benitez or David sodding Moyes fails to get us near a
Champions League place next season then don’t start whinging about knee-jerk
reactions or short-term thinking when he is thanked for his contribution and
sent on his way.
We’re now looking for our fourth manager in two years. That’s the same number we employed in the 32
year period between the arrival of Shankly and the resignation of Dalglish in
1991. Any notion of continuity, of stability, belongs to a Liverpool of the
past. All that matters now is short-term
achievement, sponsorship deals and kit marketing.
But what price the soul of the club?
What price our reputation as a club that has a unique DNA, an unseen
umbilical bond linking all who hold the Liver Bird dear? For me, part of that died yesterday.
I know all the arguments that are coming my way. That I’m allowing sentimentality to cloud
hard business sense. That I’m living in
the past. That I’m suggesting that Kenny
Dalglish should be judged by a different set of criteria than any other
manager.
I don’t deny any of that. And
what’s more I’m proud of it. Because if
we can’t apply emotion and bias and the experience of our formative years to
discussions of football, then when can we bring them into play?
And for me, Kenny Dalglish has done enough for this club to warrant the
kind of consideration that no other manager should rightly receive. Because otherwise, you’re telling me that we
should judge him in exactly the same way, and by the same set of values, that
we judge Roy Hodgson. And whether you
like it or not, that won’t be happening.
Only one man has come out of this debacle with his dignity intact. It’s the man I stood outside Melwood in
August 1977, the week he signed for the club, to get an autograph from. The man who amazed me week after week with
his bravery and craft and commitment.
The man who turned football into art and made that art something we
could all enjoy.
So farewell, Kenny. In the end,
we didn’t deserve you.
It’s been a dark, dark day.
