Shankly never chased fame and fortune... he just made the people happy

By Patrick Collins

PUBLISHED: 16:03 EST, 24 August 2013 | UPDATED: 04:14 EST, 25 August 2013

The gods of the game may be found on the touchline. They pace, they pose and they ceaselessly point. They bellow orders and demand to be obeyed. They are the managers of English football, men whose wealth is measured in multiples of millions and whose fame exceeds that of all but a few of the sweaty scufflers in their charge.

Such is their status that even the most arcane details of their lives are common knowledge.

We know, for instance, that Brendan Rodgers has a large portrait of himself on his living room wall and that Andre Villas-Boas owns five motorcycles and is a descendant of the Viscount of Guilhomil.

Kop idol: Bill Shankly stood in front of one of the most famous terraces in football history

We know that there are at least eight Twitter accounts and a Facebook group devoted to Arsene Wenger’s winter coat, and that Harry Redknapp owns a bulldog called Rosie, after whom he once named a Monaco bank account.

We greet such trivia with a smile and a shrug, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if football managers had always existed in a parallel universe peopled by soap stars and the victors of television talent contests. Sometimes, I wonder what Bill Shankly might have made of it all.

Shankly would have been 100 years old on September 2. He came from the west of Scotland, the football heartland which gave us the wise and gentle Matt Busby, the shrewdly inspirational Jock Stein and, later, the force of nature that is Alex Ferguson.

Those of us who knew him, however slightly, will forever treasure the association, for he was a captivating figure who was only vaguely aware of his greatness.

Trophy life: Shankly (right) with the FA Cup after Liverpool beat Newcastle in 1974

He never sought celebrity but it tracked him down all the same. He never sought immense wealth, either; which was just as well because he never found it. His values were those of one born into the direst poverty, leaving school at 14 and toiling for two years in an Ayrshire pit before seizing the escape route which football was offering.

In time, he would win caps for Scotland and an FA Cup with Preston North End but the Second World War claimed the finest years of his playing career and, in hindsight, we see it was simply the prologue to something more significant and far more enduring.

Shankly possessed a rare passion for the game but passion was not an uncommon virtue. More importantly, he possessed insight, awareness, a knowledge of how football clubs are run and how football teams are made.

And when he became manager of Liverpool in December 1959, it was as if he’d been given the keys to the kingdom. The club were depressed, neglected, bereft of hope and talent, with little more than a proud tradition and a public that yearned for radical restoration. Some saw an institution in terminal decline. Shankly recognised the opportunity he had craved. He also recognised the difficulties.

Peter Robinson, who would become Liverpool chief executive and one of the most accomplished administrators English football has ever known, would tell of entries in the boardroom minutes book which recommended that the club should never pay more than £12,000 for a player, that every potential recruit should be assessed by at least two directors before he was signed and that, if possible, they should all be in excess of six feet tall.

Shankly transformed that fossilised culture and in doing so he changed the face of the modern game. The foundations were laid; solidly, painstakingly. And the results emerged in staggering profusion. The championship of the old Division Two was followed, within a dozen years, by three League titles, two FA Cup triumphs and a UEFA Cup victory. And as each landmark was reached, so the implications of extravagant success became more apparent.

A city was finding its voice; initially through its music, then through the thrilling rejuvenation of a truly important football club. And the fans were playing a central part in the revival, energising their team through the fervour of their songs. An afternoon at Anfield was no longer a mere football match, it was a full-blown event. And the spirit of Shankly was at the heart of it.

My father, a journalist, knew him quite well and, as a young reporter, I was often taken to meet the great man when Liverpool played in London. We would share the pre-match meal at a Surrey hotel; the players clad in jackets and ties, sitting in silence as Shankly pronounced on the subject of the day.

Mostly, it was instructive; occasionally, it was quite surreal. I recall his gravelly tones extolling the superiority of Scottish pitches. ‘Hibs, Dundee United! Proper pitches! Kilmarnock, St Mirren. Ach! St Mirren! Professional grass!’ And the players munched their toast and nodded, uncomprehendingly. Yes, boss. Whatever you say, boss.

Full steam ahead: Shankly with his Liverpool successor Bob Paisley on a train

I once, hesitatingly, asked him if I might interview a young midfielder. He gave me another piece of toast and changed the subject. Later, he told my dad: ‘Not that one. He’s believing his own headlines. He’s mebbe forgetting he’s a Liverpool player. Tell him to ask one of the others.’

He loved coming to London football grounds; partly because Liverpool usually won, partly because it gave him the chance to demonstrate his familiarity with the media. A dozen or so reporters would assemble by the team bus in the car park after the match and Bill would gather them around him and greet them all by their first names.

‘How about that!’ he’d say, pleased with his memory. ‘How many of these London managers could do that?’ And he’d shove his hat on the back of his head and hook his thumbs in his belt, in the manner of Jimmy Cagney, and spend the next 20 minutes filling every notebook with gems.

His intensity infiltrated the minds of those who worked alongside him. Bob Paisley, a wonderful sheepdog of a man, full of tactical wisdom and common sense, would often acknowledge having been carried away by Shankly’s oratory.

And the sophisticated Robinson, just a few months after joining Liverpool and experiencing the ferocity of Shankly’s rivalry with Everton, confessed himself shocked to discover that suddenly he couldn’t stand the colour blue.

Everyone wants a piece of him: Shankly (second right) is accosted by fans before the 1974 Charity Shield - the final time he would lead out Liverpool

Managerial giants: Shankly (right) leads out Liverpool and Brian Clough (left) leads out Leeds ahead of the 1974 Charity Shield

The years of glory ended too hastily, with too little reflection. Distracted by a tax problem which should have been simply solved, he decided to retire. After 15 years as manager of Liverpool, he announced his decision shortly after winning the 1974 FA Cup. He regretted it almost immediately. ‘Terrible word, retirement,’ he would say. ‘They should abolish it from the dictionary.’ But the die was cast, the deed was done.

Some months later, I began to help ‘ghost’ his column for a new football magazine. His one stipulation was that he must not be paid a penny: ‘That’ll fool that taxman,’ he said. ‘When we get to the end of the year, he’ll say, “Got ya! You haven’t declared the money for that magazine column”. And I’ll say: “That’s because I didn’t earn any. So what d’you think about that, eh?”’

I tried to suggest that it didn’t seem the most productive arrangement but he was already cackling at his cunning ploy.

The Messiah: Shankly comes home to cheers from the crowd despite Liverpool losing to Arsenal in the 1971 FA Cup final

So a colleague and I wrote the column. Every Sunday one of us would call him at his semi-detached home at West Derby. More often than not, his wife, the beguiling Nessie, would answer the phone with: ‘Bill’s out just now. He’s in the park, playing football against the kids. He won’t be in ’til he wins.’ And Bill would call back later, breathlessly describing the winning goal he had just driven past a 12-year-old keeper.

He died on September 29, 1981, at the early age of 68. He was greatly loved and hugely lovable and his passing was mourned throughout the land but especially on his own, beloved Merseyside.

In 1997, they erected his statue, a  dramatically impressive bronze, close by the Anfield Kop. The inscription was simple yet inspired and he would have loved it. We should think of it on the day of his centenary. It reads: ‘Bill Shankly. He made the people happy.’

Legend: Shankly with the 1973 Manager of the Year trophy (left) and Sven Goran Eriksson in front of the Shankly Gates at Anfield (right)

PS David Saker is England’s fast bowling coach. As such, he was terribly miffed by the abuse which greeted his team’s time-wasting tactics on day two of the Oval Test.

Saker explained, quite ludicrously, that the lads were simply attempting to dry the wet ball, and added: ‘A mostly educated crowd might have known that.’

At a time when cricket is struggling to pay its way as a major sport, insulting the paying customers seems a hazardous policy. I do hope he knows what he’s doing.

Hazardous policy: The explanation of David Saker (right) for England's time-wasting tactics on day two could be seen as insulting the paying public