his usual corner position, Terry Mac took off the moment Clem caught the ball. Clem found Ray and possession moved quickly from me to David Johnson in the centre circle. This was typical Liverpool, one-touch passes sweeping the ball forward. All the time, Terry Mac hared up the pitch. Running on to Davie’s pass, Stevie Heighway met the ball first time, whipping in a cross to the far post where Terry Mac rose to head past Barry Daines, Tottenham’s keeper, who must have been absolutely startled. Where the hell had Terry Mac sprung from? One moment he was on Liverpool’s line, a few seconds later he was 100 yards away scoring! In the last minute of the game! What made him bother running that far to finish off a move that Bob hailed as ‘good a goal as scored at Anfield’? That was the Liverpool way – giving everything. That was what made Liverpool so formidable.
‘That’s some fitness regime you’ve got going at Headquarters!’ I told Terry Mac afterwards.
Following games like that, my performance occasionally drew in-depth analysis in the newspapers, a reaction I found slightly awkward. Tommy Docherty declared that I saw goalscoring situations developing quicker than other players did, so compensating for my supposed lack of pace. This obsession with how fast I covered the ground annoyed me. I’d have liked to be a yard quicker, and an inch taller, but come on! Other footballers had greater handicaps. Maybe people were fed up talking about my strengths so they looked for weaknesses. If all the attackers at work in English football in the late Seventies and early Eighties had lined up for a 100-metre race, I promise you I would not have finished last. Anyway, speed is useless without control and vision. I knew where all my fellow strikers were before the ball came to me: Tosh, Davie Johnno, Rushie, Paul Walsh, John Aldridge and all the others. Bob kindly observed that what made me unique was my vision, that I could find a red shirt. Throughout my playing days at Liverpool, I had a picture in my mind of team-mates’ positions. Playing with my back to goal meant I could shield the ball from my marker, who had to read whether my intentions were to keep the ball or lay it off.
Taking responsibility came easily to me on the field. My old Celtic coach, Sean Fallon, once portrayed me as ‘greedy in the box’ but that wasn’t true. I never went for glory. I often laid the ball off. Sometimes the keeper expected me to lay it off so I shot. I couldn’t bend it like Beckham, but I could curl a moving ball.
When newspapers debated my fitness levels at Liverpool, arguing whether my stamina was good enough, I just looked at the appearances total for 1977–78. Of the 62 games, I was ever present, a record matched only by Phil Neal. In keeping up with the pace of the English game, fitness was never an issue. I just needed to adapt to the different style of play, and that didn’t take long. Celtic games were actually more intense because of the fans’ demand to ‘attack, attack, attack’. At Liverpool, we were more cautious, particularly away from Anfield, displaying a caginess that Celtic supporters would never tolerate. In possession, Liverpool moved the ball quicker than Scottish teams did. Scottish teams were more dependent on individuals, such as Jinky, who’d go past five people for fun. Such wingers were rare down south. When Celtic played Leeds, wee Jimmy roasted Terry Cooper.
My fitness record was helped because training at Melwood was on grass, a welcome respite from the shale in Glasgow, so my ankle problems eased. Eventually, I threw away the strapping that supported my ankle and had been part of my everyday uniform at Celtic. I was at my peak with Liverpool, both physically and in terms of expressing myself with a ball. During my early days at Anfield, the Doc described me rather too generously as ‘a football genius whereas Kevin Keegan’s qualities were man-made’. To say Kevin ‘manufactured’
‘That’s some fitness regime you’ve got going at Headquarters!’ I told Terry Mac afterwards.
Following games like that, my performance occasionally drew in-depth analysis in the newspapers, a reaction I found slightly awkward. Tommy Docherty declared that I saw goalscoring situations developing quicker than other players did, so compensating for my supposed lack of pace. This obsession with how fast I covered the ground annoyed me. I’d have liked to be a yard quicker, and an inch taller, but come on! Other footballers had greater handicaps. Maybe people were fed up talking about my strengths so they looked for weaknesses. If all the attackers at work in English football in the late Seventies and early Eighties had lined up for a 100-metre race, I promise you I would not have finished last. Anyway, speed is useless without control and vision. I knew where all my fellow strikers were before the ball came to me: Tosh, Davie Johnno, Rushie, Paul Walsh, John Aldridge and all the others. Bob kindly observed that what made me unique was my vision, that I could find a red shirt. Throughout my playing days at Liverpool, I had a picture in my mind of team-mates’ positions. Playing with my back to goal meant I could shield the ball from my marker, who had to read whether my intentions were to keep the ball or lay it off.
Taking responsibility came easily to me on the field. My old Celtic coach, Sean Fallon, once portrayed me as ‘greedy in the box’ but that wasn’t true. I never went for glory. I often laid the ball off. Sometimes the keeper expected me to lay it off so I shot. I couldn’t bend it like Beckham, but I could curl a moving ball.
When newspapers debated my fitness levels at Liverpool, arguing whether my stamina was good enough, I just looked at the appearances total for 1977–78. Of the 62 games, I was ever present, a record matched only by Phil Neal. In keeping up with the pace of the English game, fitness was never an issue. I just needed to adapt to the different style of play, and that didn’t take long. Celtic games were actually more intense because of the fans’ demand to ‘attack, attack, attack’. At Liverpool, we were more cautious, particularly away from Anfield, displaying a caginess that Celtic supporters would never tolerate. In possession, Liverpool moved the ball quicker than Scottish teams did. Scottish teams were more dependent on individuals, such as Jinky, who’d go past five people for fun. Such wingers were rare down south. When Celtic played Leeds, wee Jimmy roasted Terry Cooper.
My fitness record was helped because training at Melwood was on grass, a welcome respite from the shale in Glasgow, so my ankle problems eased. Eventually, I threw away the strapping that supported my ankle and had been part of my everyday uniform at Celtic. I was at my peak with Liverpool, both physically and in terms of expressing myself with a ball. During my early days at Anfield, the Doc described me rather too generously as ‘a football genius whereas Kevin Keegan’s qualities were man-made’. To say Kevin ‘manufactured’
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