Читать книгу Goals to Gold - Lee Sandford - Страница 23

Being promoted to the First Division in the 1986-87 season meant we would now be playing the country’s top clubs. In the mid-80s, the greatest club in the land was undoubtedly Liverpool.

In 1986, Liverpool was at the top of the top division and had held the title for three consecutive years shortly before that. In the season just before we were promoted they had won “the double” (the league and the FA Cup). They were untouchable. When I realised I was going to be playing at Anfield, I could hardly believe it. For years I’d been watching players like Ian Rush, Alan Hansen, Mark Lawrenson and my all-time favourite, Kenny Dalglish, playing on TV. These guys were my football heroes. Now I was going to be meeting them face-to-face. I had never felt so much pressure.

As I came down the steps in the tunnel and saw the famous This is Anfield sign for the first time, my knees were already shaking. As usual, we had arrived a couple of hours before the game and were headed out on to the pitch to do our pre-match warm up. At an hour and a half before kick off in most football clubs in England, you won’t find a soul in the stands. At Anfield, as we emerged from the tunnel to go and warm up, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The Kop (the stand where Liverpool’s most passionate supporters congregate) was completely full.

Another distinctive thing about Liverpool fans is that they don’t boo the opposition, they whistle at them. In some ways it’s almost more unnerving. And I’m sure it contributed to creating what turned out to be the worst moment of my career to date.

I was marking the Australian midfielder, Craig Johnston (who went on to design the popular Predator football boot made by Adidas). He wasn’t that tall, but his mass of black curly hair made him seem taller and more threatening. He had an imposing presence about him. Looking back now, I can identify it as unshakeable confidence, something I sorely lacked as I waited for kick-off.

By the time the referee blew his whistle and the game got started, I was in a state of shock. I froze. I literally got stage fright. The next 90 minutes were a blur. I completely bottled it. I never went anywhere near the ball. I felt like I had lead boots on; it was a struggle to get one foot in front of the other.

Luckily, because we were getting so badly hammered by the home team, my abysmal performance wasn’t so noticeable, but I was shattered by it. I felt terrible. Any confidence I had ever possessed had disappeared and I was left with nothing but my fears. Play for England? Me? “Don’t be stupid,” my inner voice was saying. “You’re not even good enough to play at Anfield. Who do you think you are?”