for a particularly bad tackle. Sometimes I got my retaliation in first.
My most shameful act came at White Hart Lane. Chasing Ray Kennedy’s ball down the left wing, I found myself closely attended by Steve Perryman next to the touchline and the full-back Don McAllister on my right. Their elbows were raised but not malevolently, just pumping forward and back like pistons as they raced me for the ball. I’d been here before, feeling an elbow suddenly crashing into my face from an unscrupulous opponent, so my survival instinct kicked in. Fearing an elbow, I took pre-emptive action. This was crazy, I accept now, because there was no signal from the Spurs players that they planned anything malicious. Perryman wasn’t a dirty player and nor was McAllister. My violent response lacked logic as well as humanity. As we closed on the ball, I punched McAllister, who went out like a light, spark out on the grass. Perryman knocked the ball out for a throw-in. Yards away, the Spurs fans who’d seen my crime screamed blue murder. Luckily for me, there was none of the close television scrutiny that instantly detects any misdemeanour nowadays. If the cameras had caught me, I’d have been hung, but as the referee didn’t notice, I escaped. As the Spurs fans seethed, I grabbed the ball and threw it to Terry Mac. In those days, teams didn’t stop for an injury. Even if somebody was dead, we played on. Fortunately, McAllister got to his feet. Slightly sheepishly, I muttered a few contrite words when our paths crossed shortly afterwards.
‘Listen, I was out of order. I know you’re going to have a boot at me. Make it a good one. You’ve one free shot then that’s us quits.’ McAllister was never going to decline my offer and I was duly clattered. No problem. At the final whistle, McAllister and I shook hands. When we met at Anfield a few months later, I went down the right, pushing hard to catch the ball and went over on my ankle. When I limped back on, a cocky voice greeted me.
‘By the way, that wasn’t me!’ It was Don McAllister and he was smiling broadly. Fair enough. Respect flowed more freely then. Sadly, grudges fester in modern football.
During an international against Belgium, I exacted a particularly vengeful price on Michel Renquin, the Standard Liege defender. For 45 minutes, Renquin kicked me, attempting to inflict as much damage as possible. Renquin was as merciless as the referee was hopeless. After the fourth bad kick, my patience was close to snapping.
‘One more and I’ll have him,’ I promised myself. The fifth assault was not long in coming. Taking possession with my back to Renquin, I shaped to go inside and then flicked it outside. As I turned, my Belgian tormentor came in hard, burrowing into my Achilles. I rolled on the ground, guaranteeing his booking. Renquin deserved it and should have been cautioned far earlier. He didn’t learn. As he pulled my shirt moments later, I swung my elbow back and caught him in the mouth. BANG. Take that. All my anger at his persistent fouling poured into that swing of the elbow. Renquin went down, squealing in pain and spurting blood. No remorse invaded my conscience. Renquin should have thought of the ugly consequences before trying to kick me out of the game.
In the dressing room at half-time, I said to the doctor, ‘My arm’s sore, Doc.’
‘Take your shirt off,’ the doctor instructed. It had long sleeves and I struggled to lift my arm to slip it off.
‘Your arm’s swollen, Kenny,’ said the Doc when I finally removed the shirt. ‘You’ve got two puncture holes just above the elbow.’ I didn’t want to admit that Renquin’s teeth must have been the cause.
‘Just strap the arm up, Doc, and get me back out.’
In the second half, I tried to inspect Renquin to see the damage I’d inflicted but he never came close. He’d learned his lesson and my ordeal was over. At the final whistle, Renquin did come across.
‘Good game,’ he said. As Renquin
My most shameful act came at White Hart Lane. Chasing Ray Kennedy’s ball down the left wing, I found myself closely attended by Steve Perryman next to the touchline and the full-back Don McAllister on my right. Their elbows were raised but not malevolently, just pumping forward and back like pistons as they raced me for the ball. I’d been here before, feeling an elbow suddenly crashing into my face from an unscrupulous opponent, so my survival instinct kicked in. Fearing an elbow, I took pre-emptive action. This was crazy, I accept now, because there was no signal from the Spurs players that they planned anything malicious. Perryman wasn’t a dirty player and nor was McAllister. My violent response lacked logic as well as humanity. As we closed on the ball, I punched McAllister, who went out like a light, spark out on the grass. Perryman knocked the ball out for a throw-in. Yards away, the Spurs fans who’d seen my crime screamed blue murder. Luckily for me, there was none of the close television scrutiny that instantly detects any misdemeanour nowadays. If the cameras had caught me, I’d have been hung, but as the referee didn’t notice, I escaped. As the Spurs fans seethed, I grabbed the ball and threw it to Terry Mac. In those days, teams didn’t stop for an injury. Even if somebody was dead, we played on. Fortunately, McAllister got to his feet. Slightly sheepishly, I muttered a few contrite words when our paths crossed shortly afterwards.
‘Listen, I was out of order. I know you’re going to have a boot at me. Make it a good one. You’ve one free shot then that’s us quits.’ McAllister was never going to decline my offer and I was duly clattered. No problem. At the final whistle, McAllister and I shook hands. When we met at Anfield a few months later, I went down the right, pushing hard to catch the ball and went over on my ankle. When I limped back on, a cocky voice greeted me.
‘By the way, that wasn’t me!’ It was Don McAllister and he was smiling broadly. Fair enough. Respect flowed more freely then. Sadly, grudges fester in modern football.
During an international against Belgium, I exacted a particularly vengeful price on Michel Renquin, the Standard Liege defender. For 45 minutes, Renquin kicked me, attempting to inflict as much damage as possible. Renquin was as merciless as the referee was hopeless. After the fourth bad kick, my patience was close to snapping.
‘One more and I’ll have him,’ I promised myself. The fifth assault was not long in coming. Taking possession with my back to Renquin, I shaped to go inside and then flicked it outside. As I turned, my Belgian tormentor came in hard, burrowing into my Achilles. I rolled on the ground, guaranteeing his booking. Renquin deserved it and should have been cautioned far earlier. He didn’t learn. As he pulled my shirt moments later, I swung my elbow back and caught him in the mouth. BANG. Take that. All my anger at his persistent fouling poured into that swing of the elbow. Renquin went down, squealing in pain and spurting blood. No remorse invaded my conscience. Renquin should have thought of the ugly consequences before trying to kick me out of the game.
In the dressing room at half-time, I said to the doctor, ‘My arm’s sore, Doc.’
‘Take your shirt off,’ the doctor instructed. It had long sleeves and I struggled to lift my arm to slip it off.
‘Your arm’s swollen, Kenny,’ said the Doc when I finally removed the shirt. ‘You’ve got two puncture holes just above the elbow.’ I didn’t want to admit that Renquin’s teeth must have been the cause.
‘Just strap the arm up, Doc, and get me back out.’
In the second half, I tried to inspect Renquin to see the damage I’d inflicted but he never came close. He’d learned his lesson and my ordeal was over. At the final whistle, Renquin did come across.
‘Good game,’ he said. As Renquin
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