A new column from sports reporter Dave Thomas: Tea, biscuits and football with a legend

“Come in, son,” welcomed the familiar, rasping voice over the grizzling of a small but feisty terrier. “Shut up, Scamp! Don’t mind the dog – he’s just saying hello. Sit yourself down in there, and make yourself comfortable,” he said, pointing to the small living room.
There were some shirts and socks drying on a steel grille in front of the coal fire.
“My wife (Nessie) is at the bingo, so I’ll make us a cuppa tea. You do like tea, don’t you? Any sugar?”
And there I was, a nervous trainee reporter, sitting in the parlour of a modest semi-detached house in West Derby, the home of Liverpool manager Bill Shankly.
I was surprised how small this ‘giant’ was (Shankly was 5ft 8in). He was wearing a collarless ‘grandad’ shirt.
Earlier that winter’s day in 1971 Eric Hughes, the Northern sports editor of the Daily Mirror, had called me over to the ‘top table’. The paper was doing a series on leading sports personalities’ exploits in WWII, and I was to head from Manchester, down the East Lancs Road, to collect some photographs that Shankly had of his days as a boxer in the RAF.
Like many other professional footballers of that time, Shankly (Carlisle, Preston North End, Scotland) – he started his working life as a 15-year-old miner in the East Ayrshire coalfield – had lost many of the best years of his playing career to the war.
The piece wasn’t due in the paper for another day or so, but I wasn’t to hang around. Shankly wouldn’t want to waste his teatime with the likes of me. Shankly brought in two mugs and a plateful of digestive biscuits. They were his favourites.
He had a selection of photos ready – evocative, black-and-white poses, including one of him shaking gloves before a bout. He recalled them fondly, as I carefully noted down the details. “I wasn’t bad, you know, even if I say so myself. Have you ever done any boxing, son?” I said I had as a schoolboy, adding that I could jab, but I could never hit hard enough.
“Ha, good on you. It was the other way round with me – I could punch, aye, but I used to get hit too often,” he said with a guffaw. “They don’t call it the Art of Self Defence for nothing, you know. Have another biscuit – they’re good for you.”
I must have been there for nearly an hour when he asked: “And where do you come from, son? You’re not from around here.”
I told him I came from Torquay, and he quickly replied: “Torquay, you say – that’s a long way away. Tell me, do they have a football team down there?” I assured him that they did, and near the top of the old Third Division (League One) too. “Ah, I was only joking,” laughed Shankly, and he then proceeded to reel off the whole Torquay side. “And who’s your best player?” When I suggested midfielder Tommy Mitchinson, Shankly replied: “Aye, that Mitchinson is a good player – pity, he cannae tackle.”
He was right as well. “Who do you think will win the First Division then?”
“I’m not just saying it, but I think you will.”
“Mmm – you may be right, son, and let’s hope so. But what about Leeds United?”
“I hope you finish above them.”
“Aye, they have a good team, but they don’t worry me as much as Derby County.
“I know what Don Revie will do most of the time, but I never know what that Brian Clough’s going to get up to.”
Four months later Derby won the title by one point from Leeds, with Liverpool third on goal average. “You’ve been very kind, but I really should be going,” I lied.
“Aye, son – your boss’ll be wondering where you are, and I should be taking the dog for his walk.”
I gathered up his photos, we put on our coats and scarves, shook hands in the little front garden and said our goodbyes.
“Do you know,” he said. “Everton’s training ground is just down the road, and some people think I take the dog there to let him do his business.
“What rubbish! How could anyone could think that I’d let my dog do his business on any football pitch, let alone Everton’s?
“Look after yourself, son. “You’ll be busy of a Saturday, I expect, but if you fancy coming to a game, leave a message with my secretary and she’ll sort it for you – I mean it now.
“And keep supporting that team of yours. You should always stick with your team.” And off he headed into the frosty winter evening, Scamp tugging eagerly at his lead.
l Footnote: The following season (1972-73) Liverpool won the First Division again, their third title under Shankly. He had brought the club up as Division Two champions in 1962 and, by the time he suddenly retired in 1974, after 15 years there, they’d also won two FA Cups, the UEFA Cup, three FA Charity Shields and he’d driven a transformation of run-down Anfield and the Melwood training ground. In 783 games under him Liverpool won 407 and lost only 178, and they would go on to even greater glories under his assistant and successor Bob Paisley. Made an OBE in 1974, Shankly died seven years later – he was only 68.