sport news How Sportsmail made sure Bill Shankly got to 1977 European Cup final

The alarm was set for five minutes to seven o'clock of a spring morning 42 years ago. There was a call of high importance to be made precisely on the hour.

There were two periods in a day when Shanks preferred speaking on the telephone. At 7am or shortly before midnight. Times when he could be sure of being at home with his beloved Nessie. Unless of course he was on an away trip with that other abiding passion of his life.

Sir Matt Busby and Don Revie were accustomed to being kept chatting long into the wee small hours. Often, curiously, on a Friday night before his boys played Manchester United or Leeds on the Saturday.

Bill Shankly (left) sits next to Sportsmail's Jeff Powell at the 1977 European Cup final in Rome

Bill Shankly (left) sits next to Sportsmail's Jeff Powell at the 1977 European Cup final in Rome

The habit persisted long after his sad exit from Anfield but I wanted to catch him early, to gather his views on the imminent final in Rome in which Liverpool were destined to win their first European Cup.

We talked for almost an hour and as we were about to hang up I said: 'Thanks, Bill. See you in Rome.' There was a brief silence. Then he answered: 'Not me, son. Not invited.' What? Not invited? Bill Shankly? The manager whose genius had transformed that sloping field and a tin hut into a home fit for the champions he had incarnated from the muddied depths of the old Second Division?

So profound was the shock that it took me a day to recover. Alright, he had fallen out with the board when retiring in haste three years earlier. Okay, Bob Paisley whom he had anointed his successor had grown uneasy with him still turning up at the Melwood training ground.

But not so much as a ticket for the Stadio Olympico? Let alone a seat on the plane?

I called him back the next morning, at seven: 'Listen, Bill. You're coming to Rome with me. The Mail will fix a press pass for the game. I'll get back to you with the travel details.' 'Are you sure, son?' 'Absolutely.' 

The arrangements were made but at 7am on the Friday morning five days before the Final he called back: 'Hello, son. I thought you should know the club have been on saying to go with them.' 'Not to worry, Bill. I understand it's nicer for you to be with the party. Especially with the lads.' 'No, no. They've only asked me because they heard I'm going with you and they're embarrassed. You invited me and I'm still coming with you. If that's alright.' More than alright.

We met at Heathrow on the Monday morning. He arrived early. In a grey suit, his Liverpool tie, his red and white Liverpool scarf around his shoulders, carrying a small, battered weekend bag. A cluster of fans mobbed him at the check-in.

Only One Bill Shankly.

Emlyn Hughes is all smiles as he lifts the European Cup in 1977 at the Stadio Olimpico in Rome

Emlyn Hughes is all smiles as he lifts the European Cup in 1977 at the Stadio Olimpico in Rome

Those on the same plane took turns coming to his seat and he talked and chuckled with them throughout the flight. Our taxi driver from Fiumicino airport recognised him instantly and refused to accept a fare for the ride.

We were booked into the Excelsior, on the Via Veneto. Historic resting place of prime ministers, presidents and kings. Home from home for Sophia Loren, Marcello Mastroianni, Gina Lollobridgida and Isabella Rossellini. Scandalised watering hole for Anita Ekberg during the filming of La Dolce Vita.

In 1977 this was the grandest of all Roman hotels. Cut-glass chandeliered. Bedecked in velvet and gold. At the desk they presented two ornate keys with long tassles. Shanks looked at his and asked: 'What's this for?' I told him two rooms were reserved. Finest in the house. On the first floor with tall French windows leading onto balconies overlooking Via Veneto.

'Why two?' he asked, with a hint of anxiety. 'They're adjoining,' I tried to reassure him.

'But I share a room on trips,' he said. 'Always have done. Since I was a wee lad in the reserves. At every club. And as manager. Always.' I asked the receptionist about the lay-out of the rooms. The best, with one vast four-poster and a sitting room, would have been for him. The other had two large double-beds.

'We can take the second,' said Shanks. Fine by me. An honour, in fact.

Before unpacking his few essentials, he stepped onto the balcony. The word was spreading already. Dozens of Liverpool fans had gathered on the pavement below. For by no means the last time in the coming days he gave his benediction. If not exactly in the manner of the Pope at St Peter's.

There was that familiar bite on his knuckle. Two thumbs up. Then the fist clenched on high, to roars from the throng.

Only One Bill Shankly.

The pre-match interview for the Mail was conducted over pasta that evening in a small trattoria: 'Do you nae like the red and white table-cloths? These Italians know their football.' Although he had long-since admitted his regrets at handing over the reins impetuously but a few short weeks after winning his second FA Cup — so excruciatingly was he missing the game in all its glory - he was sure of this: 'Bob

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