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A neighbour remembers modest Bill Shankly
It is 50 years this week since Bill Shankly first arrived at Anfield, when Liverpool were languishing in the second division, writes Martin Roberts.
The Scotsman soon turned them into a team feared across Europe, and set up a managerial system with enough momentum to carry on after his shock 1974 resignation and make the club the most successful in English footballing history.
For those of us who used to bump into Shankly as his neighbours, however, the anniversary is about far more than hero-worship or nostalgia brought on by cringing defeats prompted by beach balls.
Nor is it simply a yearning for a time when Shankly’s Red Army used to pound the opposition and amass silverware, season in, season out.
Shankly evokes a not-too-distant but very different time when a manager at the top of the game would be content to live in a modest semi, drive a Ford Capri and feel guilty if the team’s followers saw a draw in return for paying two pounds at the turnstiles.
He lived among his supporters and was a good neighbour, true to his upbringing in a closely-knit coal-mining village.
If only Mr. Shankly could see how Rafa Benitez is handling his beloved Reds, he would surely turn in his grave. . .