I remember the first time I saw Ian Rush in a
Liverpool shirt. 1981. The League Cup Final Replay. West Ham in the role of plucky yet ultimately
doomed opponents. Kenny Dalglish provided
a moment of sublime invention, latching on to a probing McDermott through ball
to hook a subtly executed volley over a bemused, immaculately coiffed Phil
Parkes. Alan Hansen headed the winner,
via the outstretched thigh of luckless Hammers skipper, Billy Bonds. And a scrawny 19 year old from North Wales
gave a tantalising glimpse of the future, a future that was to be defined
by an almost supernatural capacity for scoring goals and a largely
unprecedented accumulation of silverware.
Unusually, Rush didn’t score in that game. Indeed, it
wouldn’t be until his ninth outing that he managed to open his account for the
club, a typically instinctive strike against Finnish minnows, Oulun
Palloseura. Given that the match took
place the day after Bill Shankly’s untimely death, the significance of Rush’s goal
was not immediately apparent. But for
those who believe that football, on occasion, has the capacity to transcend its
populist, media-fuelled status and attain a sense of the mythic, it seemed to
represent the passing of the Anfield torch from one glorious generation to the
next. Shankly, more than anyone, would
have appreciated the symbolism.
From that moment on, there was no stopping Ian
Rush. With a game based on an explosive
turn of pace, unmatched anticipation and a calmness in front of goal not seen
since the days of Jimmy Greaves, he quickly established himself as the most
clinical striker in the country. For the
next six seasons it was a genuine privilege to witness Rush consistently
terrorise opposition defences in tandem with the peerless Dalglish, a
partnership which came to redefine the concept of a ‘telepathic
relationship.’ Where Kenny crafted and
probed, all guile and artistry, the consummate sorcerer, his apprentice applied
the rapier thrust. Time and again Rush
was on hand to pierce even the most stubborn of rearguards, with a
predictability that would have bordered on the monotonous if it hadn’t been so
uniquely thrilling.
Five times in this spell he exceeded the elusive ‘30
goals in a season’ target; twice he reached the 40 mark. Last minute winners, hat-tricks, crucial cup
final strikes, all were included in his repertoire. You didn’t just hope that
Ian Rush would score - you expected him to score, you knew that he would score. More often than not, he didn’t disappoint.
Examples of Rush’s goalscoring proficiency spring
readily to mind. There was the historic
four-goal haul against habitual victims Everton at Goodison in 1982, a performance
later to be immortalised in enduring Kop anthem, ‘Poor Scouser Tommy’; a
devastating triple strike on a frozen pitch at Villa Park, including a fiercely
lashed volley and a delicate lob bordering on the facetious; a decisive pair in
a bitterly fought European Cup semi-final in Bucharest; and, of course, the
goals that twice denied Everton the FA Cup, each a masterpiece of composure,
execution and timing.
For many Liverpool followers though, even these
towering achievements were eclipsed one murky afternoon in October, 1983. With Luton Town playing to perfection the
part of sacrificial lambs, Rush gave arguably the most complete exhibition of
the striker’s art ever seen at Anfield.
It wasn’t just the fact that he found the net five times that day. Nor was it simply the quality and diversity
of the strikes, which encompassed instinctive close-range finishes, a flying
header and a thunderous volley taken at full pace to despatch a 60 yard Rubble
through-ball (one of the great ’forgotten’ Liverpool goals). No, what was most profoundly memorable for me
was that this was the first time I saw an entire defence consumed by fear. Rush’s mere presence provoked the kind of
outright panic seldom displayed on a football pitch, his every touch causing
visible consternation and dispute in the Luton ranks. It was like watching a skilled matador toying
with a confused bull, patiently circling his forlorn prey before administering the
fatal attack. It was a brutally
efficient, coldly clinical demonstration, showcasing a master craftsman at the
peak of his powers.
It’s probably fair to say that Ian Rush’s second spell
at Anfield, after a troubled though not entirely fruitless season with
Juventus, never quite reached the same predatory heights. In fairness, he’d set
a standard that was impossible to live up to.
Liverpool’s style of play had evolved in his absence, with the attacking
emphasis now largely focused on the power and delivery of John Barnes from the
left wing. Rush, who was accustomed to feeding
on the kind of defence-splitting, slide-rule passes perfected by the likes of
Dalglish, Molby and McMahon, did not initially appear comfortable in this
formation. However, as with all truly
great players he was able to adjust and develop his game and was, within two
years of his return, once more the goalscoring fulcrum of a Championship
winning team.
So, just how good was Ian Rush? Was he as fearsome a finisher as his domestic
contemporary, gurning crisp whore, Gary Lineker? Did he match up to Geordie Messiah, Alan
Shearer? Could he really be classed
ahead of Red icons like Hunt, Fowler, Owen (in the days when his integrity was
still untarnished) and Torres, as our finest ever striker?
For me there is no debate. I have never seen a forward more incisive in
front of goal, more selfless in support of the team aesthetic, or more reliably
consistent when called on to prove his worth than Ian Rush. It is a tribute to his quality that, in a
team overflowing with genuinely world-class performers, he was the most sought
after and the most feared talent, as highly regarded on the continent as he was
on home shores. He could be kicked,
buffeted, barged or elbowed, marked man-to-man or targeted for intense
provocation. But, at his peak, he could
not be stopped. He just carried on doing
what he did best.
He scored goals.
