himself, as some people did, was fine because he worked hard at his craft, but so did I. Nobody poured more time and sweat into improving themselves. God never said: ‘Kenny Mathieson Dalglish, you are born with all these skills, now go out and shine.’ That talent was nurtured through hard graft and good advice.
‘Play with your head up, Kenny,’ Dad instructed me when I was young. Dad was a decent player until he suffered an injury. He resumed playing in the Army but never made it professionally. He coached and encouraged me. ‘Learn, learn, learn,’ he’d say. I’d watch games on television, pick up ideas from Rangers stars – Ian McMillan for one – and try their skills again and again.
‘Look at how McMillan shoots,’ Dad urged me as we hurried into Ibrox one day. McMillan had this trick where he waited for a defender to drift across, blocking the keeper’s line of sight, and then he bent the ball around the defender. Seeing the ball late, the keeper usually had no chance to prevent a goal.
‘See what he did there?’ Dad said.
‘That’ll do for me,’ I replied. McMillan’s ploy served me well down the years.
After studying a few of my displays at Anfield, Ian St John remarked that I was ‘an old-fashioned Scottish inside-forward’ like McMillan, a compliment that thrilled me and my dad. At Motherwell, the Saint worked with a clever, creative inside-forward, Willie Hunter. Although such a breed usually had No. 8 or No. 10 on their backs, I wore No. 7 but operated in a similar style.
Scottish players have traditionally been associated with footballing intelligence but also, back then, with dribbling irrepressibly down the wing. Jinky at Celtic and Eddie Gray at Leeds United, real tanna-ba’ players as we called them, were brilliant at taking a ball deep into enemy territory.
For a nation not blessed with numbers, Scotland produced a lot of successful footballers. As a breed, we’re tough, capable of enduring difficult times, and I have long believed that leading financial companies often employ Scots in their sales force because the aggressive accent makes them intimidating in negotiations. On the football field, the 1970s and 1980s were eras of brutality, when centre-halves had licence to batter into forwards from behind. I envy the way skilful players are protected now. Back then, referees either turned a blind eye to the punishment meted out by defenders or simply didn’t have the laws to stop the slaughter. The tackle from behind had yet to be outlawed, so centre-halves felt they had a free hit. First minute – BANG! Every time. Defending is more of an art now, encouraging attackers and making the game more of a spectacle.
When I played, every match-day brought a different assassin. At Leeds United, Norman Hunter could play a bit but Christ could he kick, as I discovered when Liverpool played Bristol City, where he’d moved by the time I came to play in England. Similarly uncompromising opponents were encountered at Nottingham Forest – Kenny Burns and Larry Lloyd were as hard as hobnailed boots. Big Mickey Droy ploughed into me at Chelsea. Malcolm Shotton pounded my ankles at Oxford United. At times, I felt I’d strayed into a war zone in the role of target, so I dreamed up a clever means of protecting myself – stopping a yard short of where the defender expected. I knew he’d either slam on the brakes, and then I’d accelerate away, or his momentum would take him into me and I’d get a free-kick. Whichever way, it was too late for him to kick me.
Football was a game of survival and I treated the pitch as a jungle. One day, I overheard Bob saying that ‘few defenders can kick Kenny out of the game’, a judgement from the great man that filled me with pride. I knew I had to stand up for myself, otherwise defenders would walk all over me, so I fought hard and sometimes dirty. Just as I accepted that defenders would assault me, so they acknowledged the possibility of retribution
‘Play with your head up, Kenny,’ Dad instructed me when I was young. Dad was a decent player until he suffered an injury. He resumed playing in the Army but never made it professionally. He coached and encouraged me. ‘Learn, learn, learn,’ he’d say. I’d watch games on television, pick up ideas from Rangers stars – Ian McMillan for one – and try their skills again and again.
‘Look at how McMillan shoots,’ Dad urged me as we hurried into Ibrox one day. McMillan had this trick where he waited for a defender to drift across, blocking the keeper’s line of sight, and then he bent the ball around the defender. Seeing the ball late, the keeper usually had no chance to prevent a goal.
‘See what he did there?’ Dad said.
‘That’ll do for me,’ I replied. McMillan’s ploy served me well down the years.
After studying a few of my displays at Anfield, Ian St John remarked that I was ‘an old-fashioned Scottish inside-forward’ like McMillan, a compliment that thrilled me and my dad. At Motherwell, the Saint worked with a clever, creative inside-forward, Willie Hunter. Although such a breed usually had No. 8 or No. 10 on their backs, I wore No. 7 but operated in a similar style.
Scottish players have traditionally been associated with footballing intelligence but also, back then, with dribbling irrepressibly down the wing. Jinky at Celtic and Eddie Gray at Leeds United, real tanna-ba’ players as we called them, were brilliant at taking a ball deep into enemy territory.
For a nation not blessed with numbers, Scotland produced a lot of successful footballers. As a breed, we’re tough, capable of enduring difficult times, and I have long believed that leading financial companies often employ Scots in their sales force because the aggressive accent makes them intimidating in negotiations. On the football field, the 1970s and 1980s were eras of brutality, when centre-halves had licence to batter into forwards from behind. I envy the way skilful players are protected now. Back then, referees either turned a blind eye to the punishment meted out by defenders or simply didn’t have the laws to stop the slaughter. The tackle from behind had yet to be outlawed, so centre-halves felt they had a free hit. First minute – BANG! Every time. Defending is more of an art now, encouraging attackers and making the game more of a spectacle.
When I played, every match-day brought a different assassin. At Leeds United, Norman Hunter could play a bit but Christ could he kick, as I discovered when Liverpool played Bristol City, where he’d moved by the time I came to play in England. Similarly uncompromising opponents were encountered at Nottingham Forest – Kenny Burns and Larry Lloyd were as hard as hobnailed boots. Big Mickey Droy ploughed into me at Chelsea. Malcolm Shotton pounded my ankles at Oxford United. At times, I felt I’d strayed into a war zone in the role of target, so I dreamed up a clever means of protecting myself – stopping a yard short of where the defender expected. I knew he’d either slam on the brakes, and then I’d accelerate away, or his momentum would take him into me and I’d get a free-kick. Whichever way, it was too late for him to kick me.
Football was a game of survival and I treated the pitch as a jungle. One day, I overheard Bob saying that ‘few defenders can kick Kenny out of the game’, a judgement from the great man that filled me with pride. I knew I had to stand up for myself, otherwise defenders would walk all over me, so I fought hard and sometimes dirty. Just as I accepted that defenders would assault me, so they acknowledged the possibility of retribution
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