Kenny Dalglish in his own words: Agony and relief on the day I quit Anfield

Five hours before kick-off in the FA Cup fourth round derby at Everton, I made up my mind.

Whatever happened at Goodison, I would tell the chairman I had to go.

The pressure was too much. Driving home after games, I was nipping away at my kids Kelly and Paul.

The atmosphere at home wasn’t good and I was to blame. My state of mind was unfair on the kids,

I was a mess. The previous December, I’d come out in big red blotches all over my body. I went to the office Christmas party covered in blemishes.

To ease the rash, Liverpool’s doctor pumped me with Piriton at Anfield every other day, alternating the cheeks on my backside, so in a fortnight I felt like a pin cushion.

As Piriton made me drowsy, I’d fall through my front door then slump into a deep sleep on the couch for hours.

I wasn’t an alcoholic but I found a few glasses of wine took the edge off me.

Having stopped playing, there wasn’t the professional necessity to stay in and stay fit. I’d been at work all day, so it was nice to go out and have a meal and a drink.

The nation’s amateur psychologists claimed it was the strain of that extraordinary Cup tie at Goodison that tipped me over the precipice. It wasn’t.

My nerves were shredded long before February 20, 1991. Recalling the seesaw sequence is still distressing.

Liverpool kept taking the lead, but Everton kept equalising. When Digger curled in a fourth after 102 unbelievable minutes, I thought that might be that. Job done.

“Let’s shut up shop,” I said to Ronnie Moran. “Let’s stick Jan Molby back to sweeper.”

“Hold on,” said Ronnie.

“Just leave it,” I shrugged.

At that instant of indecision, I knew the emotional conclusion I’d reached that afternoon was justified.

I should have put Jan back there but I froze. Time to go.

When Tony Cottee again exploited our defensive disarray, my failure to shift Jan back was punished.

In the dressing room afterwards, the mood veered from frustration to fury. Having gone in front four times, it was criminal to let the lead slip four times. I was speechless – helpless.

At least the pain would soon end. The dressing-room storm went on around me and I was there in body but not mind. The process of leaving had begun.

The following morning I drove into Anfield for a routine meeting with Peter Robinson and chairman Noel White.

“I want to resign.”

“Pardon?” said Noel.

“I’ve had enough. I need a break. I just feel as if my head is exploding.” They were shocked.

“Why?” Peter asked.

“It’s the pressure. I’ve been feeling this for some time. You knew last summer the reservations I had. I’ve soldiered on, but no more. My health is suffering. I want to go now. Today.”

“Are you sure you don’t want a sabbatical?” asked Peter.

“I’m out. I’m shot. I’ve got to go.” Liverpool’s solicitor Tony Ensor walked in.

“Kenny, Peter’s right. Why not have a sabbatical? Take some time off, then come back.”

“Tony, how can I go on holiday and know I’m coming back?”

It wouldn’t be a holiday. I couldn’t walk out on a club, leave Ronnie and Roy to take the team for Saturday, not knowing whether I would be fit to return. It left everybody in limbo.

It’s the middle of the season, we’re top of the League, still in the Cup, with a replay with Everton, so how could I have a sabbatical?

My mind was made up. I needed a clean break. It was over. Tony sighed.

“OK, Kenny. Now I have to talk to you as the club solicitor. If you go, first you have to read this and sign it.”

He pushed what looked like a contract across the table, to cover Liverpool for compensation if I pitched up elsewhere. “Tony, I’m not even going to read it. I’ll sign it because I don’t care what the conditions are. I’ve just got to go.”

At 4pm Liverpool held an emergency board meeting at which they reluctantly accepted my resignation.

Later I read a comment from Peter Robinson saying that “watching Kenny walk out of Anfield was the saddest moment of my life”. Well, I wasn’t best pleased either. Nor were Kelly and Paul. Sensibly, Marina had kept them off school.

“I’ve resigned,” I told them. They burst into tears and so did I. The kids were distraught I’d turned my back on the club we all loved. Paul had turned 14 three days before. Happy birthday, wee man, you can’t go back to Anfield. Telling the players was almost as hard.

I reached the ground at 10am and headed straight to the dressing room. “I’m finished here. I’m just going upstairs to announce it. Thanks very much.” With that, I turned and walked out. What more could I say?

Alan Hansen knew what was happening. I always kept Al abreast of things. He told me later that he went in the dressing room and said “I’m the new manager – there are going to be big changes”. The players looked at him, wondering if they’d be bombed out. “Only kidding,” he said. Upstairs, I was forced to go through the nightmare of a Press conference.

I sat there, not understanding why I had to be there. Liverpool were just prolonging my agony. They could have announced it and I could have been heading to a beach with Marina and the kids.

Everybody in football knew I’d rather face a firing squad than the Press. My ordeal deepened as I spoke. “The main problem is the pressure I put on myself because of my strong desire to succeed. The stress that comes right before and after games has got the better of me,” I said

Honesty underpinned my every word, but the Press still hunted for alternative motives and I found that hurtful.

Inevitably, the fancy columnists weighed in, trampling over my reputation. Michael Parkinson berated me in the Sunday Telegraph, claiming I knew nothing about pressure.

“Pressure is something nurses know about, or people who grind out a living in a factory, or men who dig a coal mine underground,” he wrote.

“Pressure is being poor or unemployed or homeless or hopeless. What it’s not is being paid £200,000 a year to manage one of the world’s greatest football clubs.”

Parky talked crap. The money and the profession were irrelevant. Some people are more prone to pressure, some people had jobs where they could take time off, but I couldn’t. Managing Liverpool was relentless.

Did Parky work every day of the week? What did he want anyway? For me to grind myself down? For my kids to have a stressed-out dad? I just thanked God I got out in time.

The kids’ tears soon dried. “Can we go to Disney?” Paul asked. So we did and it felt good to focus on the kids. I’d neglected them due to my obsession with Liverpool.

If Liverpool had asked me to carry on as manager the moment I returned from Florida, I’d have jumped at the chance because my batteries were recharged. Sadly, they never asked.

While in Orlando, I received a phone call to tell me Graeme Souness had got the job and I felt a twinge of regret.

Liverpool were my club, my job, my home. Now it was someone else’s.

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