Liverpool's manager is not as hostile towards his old
adversary as many believe. In fact, he used to cadge a lift off
him
.
.
Key chapters of
Kenny Dalglish's career have been devoted to crossing tactical
and psychological swords with Sir Alex Ferguson, but their first clash proved by far the most
bruising. The year was 1969, the location Glasgow and the
occasion an Old Firm reserve game in which the 18-year-old Dalglish
was deployed out of position at centre-half by Celtic. His task was
to mark Ferguson, an expensive centre-forward suddenly surplus to
Rangers' requirements, yet possessing an uncompromisingly combative
edge.
"My biggest memory is Fergie's elbows, they were a real
nuisance, but I have to say he never really gave me a problem,"
says a smiling Dalglish as he, very deliberately, opens and
examines a coat pocket before adding: "He'd better come out of
here."
By then the pair were already well acquainted. After his family
moved from a home close to Parkhead to a flat near Ibrox, Dalglish
befriended a young Rangers player called Alex Miller and it was not
unknown for him to skive off school in order to hang around the
club before cadging favours from a senior pro. "We stayed across
the road from Ibrox and I was friendly with Alex," Dalglish
recalls. "Fergie used to give us a lift into town. He had such a
big car."
Ferguson took little notice of the then puppy-fat-prone
striker's oft expressed desire to become a professional footballer,
telling friends: "That plump wee Dalglish boy won't make a player."
Imperceptibly, that opinion changed. By the time, a couple of years
later, they met in the reserves, Manchester United's future manager had heavily criticised
Rangers for allowing such a prodigy to slip into enemy hands.
If Celtic were still not quite aware of exactly how big a talent
they had snared, Dalglish's temporary defensive role was
deliberate. "I was put there for educational purposes," he says. "I
thought we won that reserve game 2-0 but I've read somewhere that
Fergie said he scored. I don't remember it that way but we
definitely beat them."
Ferguson recalls an unexpectedly exacting personal duel. "Kenny
man-marked me and I warned: 'You'll need a doctor,'" he has
recounted. "Kenny just looked at me, and got stuck in. He was a
great player but people often forget that the one quality great
players need is courage. Kenny was as brave as a lion. He would
take a kick from anyone and come back for more."
The two have always harboured a mental as well as physical edge
– while Ferguson's is more overtly aggressive, Dalglish's spikiness
invariably features cutting sarcasm – but both appreciate some
battles are pointless. Significantly, neither ever had any truck
with the sectarianism that scarred Glasgow during their respective
upbringings. Although a Protestant, Dalglish was perplexed by
religious divisions and grew up alongside close Catholic friends.
Unusually, in extremely Protestant Govan, Ferguson was the product
of a "mixed" marriage, his father having broken a widespread taboo
and married a Catholic.
In later years Manchester United's manager would tap,
productively, into the emotional energy fuelled by his club's
supporters' "hatred" for Liverpool, but that Govan upbringing had imbued him
with an ability to grasp a bigger picture. Immediately after the
Hillsborough disaster in 1989 he followed up a phonecall to
Dalglish by dispatching a deputation of wreath-bearing United fans
on a respect-paying mission to Merseyside.
His disregard for Glasgow's traditional religious/footballing
demarcations also explains how Dalglish's father-in-law, among
other things, taught Ferguson how to fry fish. Unconcerned that the
Beechwood was a bar-restaurant popular with both the Catholic
community and Celtic players, he and his wife, Cathy, became
regular patrons. Over time his ambitions to run a pub were nurtured
by Pat Harkins, the father of Dalglish's wife, Marina, and the
Beechwood's part owner. With Harkins offering informal work
experience stints Ferguson learned not just about preparing fish,
but the intricacies of Italian cooking, bartending and beer barrel
care. When he was finally granted a licence to open his own pub –
Burns Cottage in Govan – such lessons proved invaluable.
Life as a landlord soon became eclipsed by an overriding desire
to run winning football teams and, in this respect, Dalglish soon
started representing an awkward obstacle. By the time he scored for
Liverpool in a crushing 4-0 European Cup demolition of Ferguson's
Aberdeen in 1980, "the wee plump boy" had long since matured into a
most dangerous enemy.
Once the 1986 World Cup in Mexico came round they were both,
supposedly, on the same side, Ferguson having taken over as
Scotland's coach. When the then Liverpool player-manager's big pal
Alan Hansen was controversially dropped and the star striker
swiftly pulled out citing knee trouble the headlines cried "feud".
Not so, says Dalglish, who maintains he was seriously injured.
Soon the two Glaswegians were M62 rivals. During Ferguson's
underwhelming early Old Trafford years Dalglish, busy
choreographing three league title triumphs and two FA Cup
successes, was more preoccupied with then ascendant Everton, but he
did take time to address cynical reporters at a Football Writers'
Dinner, urging them to offer United's beleaguered manager the
benefit of then considerable doubt.
Ferguson did not return the compliment when, furious with the
refereeing during a 3-3 draw at Anfield in 1988 he launched into an
extraordinary anti-Liverpool rant. Cradling his then six-week-old
daughter Lauren in his arms, an unruffled Dalglish responded by
telling an interviewer: "You'll get more sense out of my baby than
him." Lauren is due to attend Sunday's game and Dalglish said,
joking: "She'll be there to haunt Fergie again."
Tellingly, Liverpool's manager, who turns 60 on Friday, is
noticeably more mellow with the media than in a sometimes publicly
tetchy, privately warm past. If his older daughter's Kelly's job
sports broadcasting career has perhaps softened his attitude
towards journalists it is still quite a surprise to discover that
Dalglish, who for so long actively cultivated an air of mystery,
Marina and their children are all on Twitter. The idea of Ferguson
following suit remains unthinkable, although just imagine the
highly charged tweets he and Dalglish could have exchanged on those
infamous occasions when they fell out over the respective pursuits
of Roy Keane and Alan Shearer.
If their rivalry is characterised largely by mutual respect and
intertwined heritage it has certainly prompted moments of
incandescence on both sides. While Dalglish, when managing
Blackburn, did not find the idea of Keane enjoying a game of
snooker with Ferguson remotely amusing, a newspaper cartoon
portraying the former as a cool, cunning strategist and the latter
a spouting volcano went down appallingly at Old Trafford. Aided by
Dalglish's amalgam of tactical acumen and sheer stubbornness
Blackburn had just ignored Ferguson's suggestion that they might
"do a Devon Loch" and won the 1995 title.
Accepting the joke was on him, Ferguson penned a generous
congratulatory letter with the postscript: "Devon Loch is a horse
... I'm sure your Dad must have backed it. Mine did."
They may be two very different, in many ways totally
contrasting, types of Glaswegian, but a bond first forged during
far distant 1960s car rides from Ibrox remains uniquely
powerful.
