THE Mersey wind sweeps across the school playground, the rain puddles testimony to the darkening evening as another year approaches its end. Huddles of parents and grandparents gather their hats and coats against the wind, waiting expectedly for their young charges to be released from the clutches of the teachers, school finished and “in loco parentis” over for another day.
The young lads rattle the door of their year-six classroom, impatient to be free, free to be out there to the green playing field beyond the grey of the playground. The green grass, their field of dreams, their chance to be themselves, but also to imitate their idols, to be the boys in RED! To be like the boys they love despite their young years, the boys in RED they see on the silver screen or on their iPhones but they know them implicitly, the boys in RED, their idols.
As I wait for my grandson Sam to emerge, coat askew and bags in hand, I recognise one grandparent who’s here most schooldays. A lonely figure in the grey light now, but this figure once shone like a beacon under much brighter floodlights, nearly 60 years ago. A slightly shrunken man now, shuffling in his carpet slippers with elastic bands along the tarmac, his knees only capable of minimal flex, shuffle shuffle shuffle. Shrunken but proud, undiminished, never beaten, a man of IRON, Tommy Smith, the Anfield Iron!
A man for all seasons, a man for all weather, a man who bestrode the green grass, not any old grass but the green grass of Anfield, the grass of every First Division pitch, green fields across the whole of Europe. This man was a colossus, a bastion of defiance, of skill married with tenacity, skills that would elevate him to play once for England but skills to play 638 games for his beloved REDS, his beloved hometown team. This defiance would eventually reduce him to the slippers with the elastic bands, defiance and skill that would not be matched until we saw the likes of Steven Gerrard, Smith was the type of man who defines teams, defines champions, defines life.
The type of man that Shankly needed, no shirking in the face of adversity, no pleading injury, the type of man who would accept Shanks saying: “Son, that’s not your knee that’s sore, battered and swollen……that’s Liverpool’s knee”. “Yes boss,” he’d reply.
The type of man who didn’t look for trouble but would never walk away from trouble. The man, a Liverpool man born within a few miles of Anfield who’d rise from his school football team to captain his city’s team and eventually captain his club. The type of man brought up to respect others until. Until they failed to respect him, respect his team, respect his Liverbird upon his chest, then there would be trouble. Ambulances would be necessary he told his opponents, ambulances to carry away the foolhardy who showed no respect, those who failed to understand the code, this simple message… It’s a game, boys, all equal, play hard yes, but do not cross the line, but do not spit at me, otherwise ambulances are required.
But any dreadnought requires cruisers and destroyers in the fleet, other men with the same skills, other men to help defend, run, harry, chase and score, carry out the boss’s rules. Ron Yeats, Ian Callaghan and Ian St John would be among Tommy’s first compatriots, and especially his hometown friend Chris Lawler. They would come and go but the younger Smith would lead a new revitalised 1970s team as captain, captain of the boys in RED, his boys at last, his Brothers in Arms. Imagine facing a moustachioed Smith, looking like a Mexican bandit with his Liverpudlian hard man Jimmy Case alongside, what a combination in that steely midfield.
Opponents like Norman “bites your legs” Hunter would challenge the Anfield Iron, try to vanquish him but eventually accept parity, both men respectful of each other, gladiatorial with no diving, no spitting, no ambulances required. This was an era before players’ agents, Sky, cheats (except for Franny Lee of Manchester City) MONEY MONEY MONEY, as Abba once sang.
Tommy Smith started in 1960 for £7-a-week for which he was grateful, his father having died when he was 15 and money was tight. He started as an “apprentice”, playing for the junior A, B, or C teams but mainly cleaning up the dressing room after the Saturday match. He may have been destined to become an integral part of Shankly’s team, and later Paisley’s, but painting The Kop during the close season was his first job. He helped dig up the sacred pitch in front of The Kop to help the drainage, or was it to let the blood seep into the ground?
Luckily for Liverpool FC it wasn’t the paintbrush or the spade that picked him out, but his boots, out on the green grass was where his talent shone, able to command himself and others, controlling midfield, ready to prompt in attack and deter in defence. There are two particular film excerpts that feature Tommy’s attributes, the first in the 1974 FA Cup final where he’s the central figure in the seven passes that cut through the Newcastle defence to make it 3-0, with Tommy playing the advanced full-back role 40 years ago. The second is the 1977 European Cup final where he makes the dash into the penalty area to bullet Steve Heighway’s corner into the net and effectively end Borussia’s fightback. Who can forget Barry Davies’s almost unbelieving cry “It’s Tommy Smith!!” His final goal for Liverpool but what a goal, what a man. If ever there was an OMG Man, it was Tommy.
I met Tommy a few years ago at one of the many “an evening with” events, although he himself didn’t hold many, preferring to let his record do his talking. He sat quietly describing his best memories and I had the pleasure to get a signed photo of him which hangs with pride in my Liverpool FC collection.
Bill Shankly said of him: “Tommy was born a man, he was never a boy”. Tommy Smith was born to play for Liverpool, born at the time when he could display his tenacity and skills. Tommy sits at home now, with his artificial kneecaps for company, still watching his LFC: “I was lucky enough to play for Liverpool FC,” he says, “I didn’t want to let them down”. He can be sure he never did!
(Special contributions from Bernard Nevin)
Pics: David Rawcliffe-Propaganda Photo
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A wonderful tribute and testimony to a player so immense for LFC that words – even the inspired ones such as those the author has penned – cannot begin to accord him justice. That said, many many thanks for composing such a fine piece Mike.
Tommy’s arrival in ’64 as twin centre back [number 10 shirt] alongside Big Rowdy in a hitherto little known back four line-up came about 5 years after I’d begun watching the Reds from the Boys Pen as Shanks mounted his escape plan from Division Two.
I’ve never been totally sure whether the deployment of Smithy in that role was a true tactical masterstroke by Shanks or whether he was merely mimicking a tactical innovation of other sharp footballing minds elsewhere. I’d love it to have been Shanks’s own flash of tactical inspiration and it was certainly not deployed by every team back then. However, whatever the case, for LFC it not only ensured the securing of those ensuing historical mid ’60’s league and FA cup triumphs but also provided our formation blueprint for many years to come .
I’ve often said it to friends and family but I’ll repeat it here now as a most appropriate place to reiterate it. The Tommy Smith who bestrode domestic and European arenas back in those mid ’60’s adventure was the finest centre back I’ve ever witnessed bar Franz Beckenbauer.
Yes, better than any others. For me, despite the inevitable blue-eyed blond incarnation of the undoubtedly majestic Bobby Moore courtesy of the prevailing southern media and, in the eyes of our very own rewritten history, our own two subsequent greats in that position – Hansen and Lawrenson, it was only the performances I saw of Beckenbauer in that centre back role which have ever transcended those of Smithy in the same role.
Mike Nevin references Tommy’s cameos in ’74 and ’77 as testaments to his greatness. And I fully understand why he does so as they certainly do provide worthy substantiation of his abilities at that time. However, in order to gain insight into the version of Tommy Smith that I put on the pedestal of true world class greatness as a lean mean machine of outstanding strength, power, game reading and, paradoxically, bewitching ball skills and creative ability, I would refer folks to the videos of the ’65 final and the ensuing incredible triumph over the reigning world champions Inter Milan. Both of these have rare cameos of the Tommy Smith we used to witness week in week out back in those halcyon days.
Sure, they show Tommy making those trademark tackles and headed clearances which, allied with a game-reading ability comparable in my opinion with that of Bobby Moore, rendered Tommy a defensive obstacle par excellence. Every Liverpudlian I’m sure knows of those. However, more revealingly they show tantalising glimpses of the immensely skilled and creative attacking footballer never content merely to destroy who would never waste an opportunity to slalom forward past opponents of whatever pedigree to prise openings for his teammates.
For let there be no mistake, around that period Tommy Smith encountered, tamed and often outclassed the very finest attacking players the British and European game could muster and left many in his surging wake. The dearth of internet writers from the time have ensured Tommy is remembered for his achievements more as the beefy right back in those superb ’74 and ’77 cameos against Newcastle and Gladbach. But let me assure everyone. They do not begin to convey one slivver of the full immensity of Tommy Smith, a player who ranks comfortably alongside Scott, Liddell, Cally, Hunt, St John, Keegan, Dalglish, Souness, Hansen, Rush, Barnes, Suarez and Gerrard in the LFC pantheon of true greats. And for many reasons can possibly be said to eclipse them all.
One final request to the author. If you do get the opportunity, do please pass on my sentiments to Tommy. I know from reading his own depictions of himself as merely the ‘Anfield Iron’ how unassuming and self effacing he is in regard to what he brought to the Anfield table. But do please let him know that there are still some of us who know the reality of his true greatness which goes infinitely beyond that hackneyed hardman summation of a true great. The mid ‘60’s Tommy Smith as an anchor to our current sparkling attacking set up would guarantee any honour we’d care to name.
Brilliant post, mate.
You should be writing on here regularly such is your eloquence.
Most kind of you to say so P.
I guess the main thing for me and I’m sure Bernard too is that by writing such stuff the true stature of Tommy Smith has been served some justice. With all due respect to so many of the recent post-internet players who have relentlessly been lauded to the heavens and were undeniably fine players, the likes of Smithy, Cally etc were on an entirely different level. I’ll mention no names as I’m sure folks can make their own deductions as to the ones I have in mind.
Brilliant piece about a legend of our great club
Me Dad wrote it.
I was just gonna say that’s the best bit of writing you’ve done till I saw your comment Mike, haha.
Brilliant and evocative writing.
I was born in 72 (82 when I’m in town chatting to girls) but if I could choose any year to be born in it’d be 1948.
It’d be good ages for the rise of the Beatles and the summer of love etc, but when I read stories of Shankly and read articles like this on Smith I get a melancholy feeling. They seem such great times and great characters. I’d love to have experienced those days. I wanted to say they appear such innocent times but when I hear Shankly and read stuff about Smith then it makes me think we’re the innocent ones really with our easy lives. They sound like troopers. Age can be cruel to some. Nice article
Great piece. Really sums up the man and the era in which he played. Thanks for that.
Great piece and fantastic comments about Tommy from Al – defo worth a watch of the 65 cup final to see Tommy at his absolute best. I was too young to see Peak Smithy but he did throw me and my mates out of his pub, in the Cavern Walks, when we were acting the goat!
What year was that Nige? [The turfing out]