From St John to Salah – The Glorious Line of Liverpool Goalscorers”

Article by Jerry.

Now listen here, son — ye cannae talk about Liverpool Football Club without speakin’ about the men who put the ball in the back of the net. Because while defenders win you titles, aye — goals win you hearts, and at Anfield, we’ve had some of the finest to ever lace up a pair of boots.

Let me take ye back to the beginning of the golden era. When I came in 1959, we needed spark, flair — someone to lift the roof off the place. And that man was Ian St John. Wee Saint — I paid £37,500 for him, and it was daylight robbery. He wasn’t tall, but he had a lion’s heart, and feet like magic wands. The lad could head a ball like a cannon and still dribble past a defender like he was a ghost.

He scored in the 1965 FA Cup final — our first ever FA Cup, mind you — and he lifted that trophy like it belonged to every man, woman and child in Liverpool. Saint was a working-class genius, and he started the line.

Then came the ‘70s and ‘80s — the dynasty years. And what did we have? Kevin Keegan — sharp as a blade and tough as a welder’s boots. He ran himself into the ground every game and made the number 7 shirt sacred.

When Keegan went to Hamburg, folk thought the magic might go. But in came Kenny Dalglish — King Kenny. Now there’s a player I wish I’d signed myself. Kenny wasn’t just a forward — he was an orchestra in a pair of boots. He played with vision, guile, and grace. Scored screamers, slid in passes that’d make Mozart cry. The man was Liverpool, plain and simple.

Then there was Ian Rush — the goal machine. Looked like a lad who worked at the post office, but put a football in front of him and he became a predator. He didn’t just score — he haunted defenders. He sniffed out goals like a bloodhound. I swear to you, he could score blindfolded on a foggy night in January at The Dell.

Now, listen — John Barnes. You talk about poetry in motion, you talk about grace stitched into muscle and sinew — that was our Digger. He didn’t run, he glided. He didn’t beat defenders, he bewitched them. And I tell ye, when he had the ball at his feet, it was like watching a hymn being written on grass. A genius, aye, but not the kind that floats above you — the kind that makes you believe you could do the same, if only you’d laced your boots tighter that morning.

He brought more than goals — he brought soul. He brought Jamaica to Anfield, he brought rhythm to the roar. In a time when the terraces were colder in ways I need not name, he warmed them with fire and brilliance. He stood tall, in every sense. A man of principle, a man of people, and by God — a Liverpool man.
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As time rolled on, the game changed, but the fire never died. Robbie Fowler came — the Toxteth Terror. Natural as they come. Left foot, right foot, head — didn’t matter. He had that street footballer swagger. Scored for fun, like he was back in the park with his mates.

Then came Michael Owen — lightning in a pair of boots. The boy ran past defenders like they were standing still. He made grown men gasp at Wembley when he was still a teenager. Could finish like a veteran at 18.

And Torres — ah, Fernando. El Niño. That lad arrived like a storm from Spain with golden hair and feet that danced like they were lit from underneath. There was a hunger in him. A striker’s hunger — not just to score, but to hurt the net, to make defenders wish they’d stayed in the tunnel.

For a time — and I say this with no hesitation — he was the finest number nine in the world. He tore through Premier League defences like a blade through silk. One touch, one turn, and the ball was in the back of the net before the crowd could even rise to its feet.

But more than that — he understood what it meant to wear our shirt. He didn’t just play for the club — he felt for it. He gave us moments that live in the soul of this place. That goal against United — you know the one — where he left Vidic twisted and the world breathless? That wasn’t just a goal. That was Liverpool.

Fast forward to Luis Suárez — now there was a wild one. Mad as a box of frogs but brilliant beyond belief. He played like he had fire in his boots and thunder in his lungs. Nutmegs, volleys, screamers — the lad was chaos with a purpose. Loved to torment defences like it was personal.

And now? Now we’ve got Mohamed Salah — the Egyptian King. Let me tell ye: he’s not just fast, he’s fearless. He glides past defenders like they’re not there. He scores from angles that shouldn’t exist. And he does it week in, week out. He’s humble, he’s hungry, and he’s written his name in the history books in gold letters. Over 200 goals and still going. That’s legend status, lad.

But here’s the truth: from Saint to Salah, these fellas weren’t just strikers. They were symbols. Of belief. Of brilliance. Of the fire that burns in this club from generation to generation.

Ian St John lit the flame.
Kenny carried the crown.
Rush brought the thunder.
Fowler brought the street.
Suárez brought the madness.
And Salah? Salah brings the magic.

It’s not just goals. It’s a legacy. And it lives on in every roar from the Kop.

So next time you see a red shirt go charging down that wing, think of them — the great ones who made Anfield sing.

— Bill Shankly