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were always bigger than any one player.
    One day, I read with interest Tommy Smith’s column in the Football Echo . ‘You can’t take a world-class player out of your side and not suffer for it,’ Tommy wrote. ‘It is essential that Liverpool win something this year to take the pressure off Dalglish – and off Liverpool for selling Keegan.’ I understood Tommy’s point, but the pressure was always on Liverpool to accumulate silverware. That was the Liverpool philosophy, the reason why we worked hard. Winning was everything. Tommy was central to the success of that creed, as Kevin had been, and I was determined to be. I just had to make the move work. Just before Liverpool were due at Parkhead for Jock’s testimonial in 1978, my father-in-law, Pat, called.
    ‘What are you doing about the game?’ he said.
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘You’re going to get some stick.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Honestly, the Celtic fans have been practising.’
    ‘You’re winding me up.’
    ‘No.’
    I hadn’t realised Celtic fans would be that angry. I thought they might have simmered down by now.
    ‘Is your dad going?’ Pat said.
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘Right. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll put him in the middle of us. I’ll sit one side and we’ll get some of the boys from the pub to sit the other side, make sure he’s all right.’
    After thanking Pat, I put the phone down, seething. After all I’d done for Celtic, didn’t I have a right to decide where my career went?
    Bob made me captain for the occasion, giving me the honour of leading Liverpool out at Celtic Park. As I ran out on to the pitch, there was a pipe band straight ahead that I had to skirt around. Engrossed in making sure I didn’t bump into any of the musicians, I failed to realise I was alone as the rest of the Liverpool boys stopped in the tunnel, leaving me to face the wrath of Celtic Park. Amid the thunderous reaction from the 62,000 present, I’m sure I heard a few fans clapping me. Otherwise, my ears were assailed with boos.
    ‘Thanks, boys,’ I shouted at the Liverpool players when they finally came out of the tunnel, laughing their heads off.
    ‘Hey, Kenny,’ Tommo said, ‘they love you up here. You must have done them a great turn as a player.’
    Celtic supporters were entitled to be angry but they should also have remembered what I did for them. Celtic received £440,000 for a player who cost nothing and who left them with the Double – not a bad return. I never betrayed Celtic, as some claimed I had. Celtic Park’s unpleasant reception made me angry, so I took great joy in scoring twice. Surely the Celtic fans could understand my celebrations? I was only doing for Liverpool what I’d done for them. Celtic had been my home. Now it was Liverpool.

3
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    ANFIELD
    R ELISHING the new start, I confided to Marina, ‘I will not be superstitious this year. I’m just going to get up on the day of the game and see what happens.’ Marina smiled. She knew how obsessed I was with ritual. Fans see the player for 90 minutes but never know how complicated match-day preparation can be, particularly for somebody as superstitious as I am. At the start of every season at Liverpool, I promised myself I’d relax, relinquish my usual customs and just go with the flow. Every August I tried, I honestly did, but I couldn’t shake the habits. Call it superstition, call it pre-match routine, but everything had to be done in the same order – otherwise, Liverpool would lose and I’d consider myself responsible.
    The established procedure started the day before the game when we’d meet at Anfield and hop on the bus to Melwood for a team meeting with Bob. Arriving with my own superstitions, I soon realised Liverpool had their own long-running convention, a tradition passed down from generation to generation. I not only got Kevin’s shirt, I inherited his seat. In the dressing room, all the fixed benches were shaped in a U around the treatment table and