The Damned Utd (11 page)

‘You ever play at Wembley did you, Mr Clough? You ever play at Wembley, Mr Clough? You ever play at Wembley?’

You played there just the once. Just the once but you know it should have
been a lot more, a lot, lot fucking more; you were sure it would have been and
all, after Munich in 1958 and the death of Tommy Taylor, the effect it had on
Bobby Charlton. You know it would have been a lot, lot more too, had it not
been for your own bloody coach at Middlesbrough, your own fucking directors;
everybody telling the selectors you had a difficult personality, that you spoke
your mind, caused trouble, discontent. Still, they couldn’t not pick you, not after
you played a blinder for England in a ‘B’ international against Scotland in
Birmingham, scoring once and laying on two more in a 4–1 victory. You were
bloody certain you would go to the World Cup in Sweden then, fucking convinced,
and you were picked for the Iron Curtain tour of Russia and
Yugoslavia in May 1958, just one month before the World Cup
–

That number 9 shirt down to just Derek
Kevan
and you
.

The night before the tour, you were that nervous that you couldn’t sleep. You
got to the airport three hours early. You hung around, introduced yourself
–

But no one wanted to know you. No one wanted to room with you
–

‘Because he bloomin’ never stops talking football. Drives you bleeding barmy.’

But Walter
Winterbottom
, the England manager, sat next to you on the flight
east. ‘I want you to play against Russia,’ he told you. ‘Not Derek. You, Brian
.’

You believed him. But you didn’t play. England lost 5–0
.

‘I want you to play against Yugoslavia,’ he told you the next day. ‘You, Brian
.’

You believed him again. But again you didn’t play. This time England draw
1–1, thanks to Derek fucking
Kevan
.

After the Yugoslavia game, Walter sat you down and Walter spelt it out for
you. ‘You won’t be going to the World Cup, Brian,’ he told you. ‘Not this time
.’
You didn’t believe him. You had travelled to Russia. You had travelled to
Yugoslavia. You hadn’t had a single kick. Not a touch. Not a single one
–

‘
I scored forty-two goals in the league and cup this last season,’ you told
Walter. ‘They bloody count in the fucking matches we play for Middlesbrough
but apparently it’s not enough for you lot, not nearly enough
…’

The manager and the selectors shook their heads, their fingers to their lips
–

‘Don’t burn your bridges, Brian. Bide your time and your chance will come.’

You’d bide your time, all right. You’d take your chances
–

Five in the first match of the 1958–59 season; five against the League of
Ireland for the Football League; four on your twenty-fourth birthday
–

There was public clamour and press pressure now. But you still had to bide
your time for another year until you finally got your chance
–

Until you were picked to play against Wales at Cardiff
.

You forgot your boots and spilt your bacon and beans all down you, you
were that nervous, that nervous because that was what it meant to you, to play
for your country
–

And now that is all you can remember about your England
début
at
Ninian
Park; how bloody nervous you were, how fucking frightened
–

But, eleven days later, you were picked to play against Sweden at Wembley
–

‘You ever play at Wembley did you, Mr Clough? You ever play at Wembley, Mr Clough? You ever play at Wembley?’

The dreams you’d had of that turf, at that stadium, in that shirt, for that
badge; the goals you’d score on that turf, at that stadium, in that shirt, for that
badge, in front of your mam, in front of your dad, in front of your beautiful new
wife, but that day
–

28 October 1959 –

You hit the crossbar and laid on a goal for John
Connelly
, but it wasn’t
enough. You were heavily marked and you couldn’t escape. You found no space
–

‘His small-town tricks lost on the big-time stage of Wembley Stadium.’

On that turf, at that stadium. For that badge, in that shirt
–

The Swedes took you apart; the Swedes beat you 3–2; it wasn’t enough
–

Not enough for you. Not enough for the press. Not enough for Walter
–

‘
How can I play centre-forward alongside Charlton and Greaves?’ you told
him. ‘We’re all going for the same ball! You’ll have to drop one of them
.’

But Walter loved Bobby. Walter loved Jimmy. Walter did not love you
–

Walter dropped you and so those two games, against Wales at Cardiff and
Sweden at Wembley, those two games were your only full England honours
–

‘You ever play at Wembley did you, Mr Clough? You ever play at Wembley, Mr Clough? You ever play at Wembley?’

Two-hundred and fifty-one bloody league goals and two fucking caps
.

Twenty-four years old and your international career over, the next morning
you boarded the train to Brighton with the rest of the Middlesbrough lads. You
did not score in that game either. The day after, Middlesbrough travelled up to
Edinburgh to play the Hearts. For six hours you sat in a compartment with
Peter and you analysed your England game. No cards. No drink. Just cigarettes
and football, football, football
–

Football, football, football and you, you, you
–

Because you knew then you would return
–

Return as the manager of England, the youngest-ever manager of England;
because you were born to manage your country; to lead England out of that
tunnel, onto that pitch; to lead them to the World Cup
–

A second, a third and a fourth World Cup
–

Because it is your destiny. It is your fate
–

Not luck. Not God. It is your future
–

It is your revenge
.

Bed, breakfast and ignore the papers. Shower, shave and ignore the radio. Kit on, car out and ignore the neighbours. Goodbye family, goodbye Derby. Hello motorway, hello Monday fucking morning; the Monday fucking morning after the Saturday before –

Leeds and Liverpool disgrace Wembley; soccer stars trade punches
…

Here comes that fucking book, thrown at them – at us all – with a vengeance. There’s even talk of fans having Bremner and Keegan charged with breach of the peace; all they need now is a willing bloody magistrate, a hanging fucking judge –

Well, here I bloody am; ready and more than fucking willing
…

The players should have had the day off today. To recover from Saturday and to rest for Tuesday. But not after Saturday. Not after what they’ve put me through; the headaches they’ve given me and the headaches I’ve got coming; the board meetings and the press conferences; the bloody team to pick for tomorrow night and the fucking contract to write for that bloody Irish fucking shithouse –

I hate bloody
Mondays
, always fucking have
.

* * *

Time does not stand still. Time changes. Time moves fast. Derby must not
stand still. Derby must change. Derby must move fast
–

The cast remains the same but the scenery changes and the Ley Stand goes
up, towering over the Pop Side and the Vulcan Street terracing; it should be the
bloody Brian Clough Stand because it would never have left the fucking drawing
board had it not been for you, because it was you who raised the expectations
of the town, who raised the demand for tickets in the first place. You who
envisioned a new stand to take the capacity of the Baseball Ground to 41,000
,
who looked at the original plans and saw there wasn’t enough space. You who
then went to see the managing director of
Ley’s
steel factory, who told him you
wanted eighteen inches of his property for your new stand. You who promised
to build him a new fence and move back his pylons, who told him to fuck off
at the mention of compensation; that his compensation would be the name of
the new stand and season tickets for life. You who’s still got plans to buy all the
houses on the opposite side of the ground, because it’s only you who can see further
than 41,000, who can see gates of 50,000, can see gates of 60,000, see the
First Division Championship, the FA Cup, the European Cup
…

It’s only you who has the stomach for this job, who has the balls
–

No one else, not Peter, not Longson either, just you
–

You and your stomach. You and your balls
.

It’s been sixteen years since Derby were in the First Division and the expectations
are such that the demand for tickets still cannot be met. Priority is given
to folk willing to buy tickets for not one but two seasons. Behind the scenes
there are some changes too
–

Jimmy Gordon replaces Jack Burkitt as trainer and coach
–

‘
It’s a ready-made job,’ says Jimmy. ‘The players are here and the discipline
is here. The
Boss’s
job is to determine the method of playing and my job is then
to get it going on the field
.’

Time does not stand still. Time changes. Time moves fast
–

So Derby changes. Derby moves fast
–

You pushing and pulling, pushing and pulling her all the way, all the way up
the hill, up the hill to the very top, and you’ll never forget those first few weeks
at the top, those first few weeks in the First Division, that first Saturday
–

Home to Burnley, Burnley who finished mid-table last season. Home, in
front of 29,000 supporters. That’ll change with the results. Soon be gates of
40,000 or more; 40,000 or more to watch
your
team,
your
boys
:

Green, Webster, Robson, Durban, McFarland, Mackay, McGovern, Carlin,
O’Hare, Hector and Hinton
.

You’re lucky to draw 0–0 and you
would’ve
lost had it not been for the
quick reflexes of your keeper Les Green, who saves a penalty
–

But it’s not luck. Not today. Not ever
–

You play good methodical football; on the ground, to feet, passed forward
–

You are not out of your depth. You have no vertigo here
–

Not today; this first Saturday, these first few weeks, this first month: the
first Tuesday away at Ipswich and your first win. Down to Coventry the following
Saturday for a draw. Home to Ipswich again and another win. More
draws against Stoke and Wolves. Then the 2–0 win away at West Brom
–

Next comes the trip back up to Hartlepools in the League Cup
–

Time has stood still here. Time has not changed here. Not moved fast:

Still more weeds than grass on the pitch at the Victoria Ground, still as even
as a cobbled street, still no floodlights until the eightieth minute. But
Hartlepools throw themselves into the match and at half-time it’s only 0–0
–

Second half and McFarland and Carlin score, but Hartlepools pull one back
before Hinton finishes things off with a penalty
–

This is how far you have come. This is who you are now:

You are named
England’s
Manager of the Month for August. You are given
a
£50
cheque and a gallon bottle of Scotch whisky:

‘
His Derby County team is probably the first side since Ipswich under Alf
Ramsey or Leeds under Don Revie to make such an immediate impact on the
First Division,’ says the spokesman for the sponsors of the award. ‘Clough has
succeeded in restoring genuine enthusiasm to one of the great traditional strongholds
of football and in re-establishing the soccer prestige of Derby County and
the Midlands
.’

You go on to beat Everton 2–1 in front of the
Match of the Day c
ameras.
Then Southampton 3–0 and Newcastle 1–0 away, and you are still unbeaten.
Next come Tottenham and the 5–0 win in front of a record gate of just under
42,000
–

Easy. Easy. Easy,
they chant
. Easy. Easy. Easy –

The Tottenham of Jimmy Greaves and Alan
Mullery
. Of Bill Nicholson
–

‘
They humiliated us,’ says Bill Nicholson. ‘They are very talented and they
don’t just run, they know where to run and when. Dave Mackay? If I wanted
all this to happen for anybody it would be him. Six Dave
Mackays
and you
wouldn’t need anybody else. An inspiration to everybody and a credit to the
game. One of the all-time greats
.’

‘
I am happy for the team because everybody played so well,’ says Dave
Mackay. ‘Not because it was Spurs we beat but because you can’t be anything
but happy when you are in a team which plays like that. It is the best we have
played since I came here
.’

And you? The Biggest Mouth in Football? What do you say?

‘
You don’t need to say anything after that. I was very proud of the lads
.’

This is how far you’ve come. This is who you are. This is where you are
–

The First Division, the very top. You don’t ever want to leave here
.

* * *

The sun never shines at Elland Road. Not on the training ground. Not since I’ve been here. No wonder the kids don’t want to come to work with me. The wife too. Just wind and shadow, mist and rain; dogshit and puddles, purple tracksuits and purple faces –

They’ve had enough of me and I’ve had enough of them –

But they’ve made their beds. Their own fucking beds:

‘I’m only going to say this once,’ I tell them. ‘I don’t care what you were told before, what little tricks and little tactics, little deceits and little cheats your old manager and your old coaches taught you, but there’s no room for them in my team. None whatsoever. So there’ll be no repetition of the kind of things that went on at Wembley on Saturday. None whatsoever. I was embarrassed to be associated with you, with this club, the way some of you – most of you – behaved, and I’ll not have it. Not at this club, not while I’m the manager –

‘So any repetition and you’ll not only be finding the money to pay your own bloody fines, you’ll also be finding another fucking club to play for and all!’

* * *

You bring your team, your boys, to Elland Road on Saturday 25 October
1969 to play the Champions, the First Division Champions
.

This will not be the same as last year. Not the same as those three cup
defeats. This time you are in the First Division too
–

This time will not be the same
–

This time he will notice you. This time he will respect you
.

But suddenly things have not been going as well for you. Perhaps things had
been going too well for you, perhaps you were becoming complacent; you were
the last unbeaten side in Division One until you lost to Wednesday, then you
drew with Chelsea and Palace and lost at home again to Manchester City.
Now Robson is out injured and the rest of the team are only playing thanks
to cortisone injections
–

Cortisone to mask the pain, to mask the bloody fear, to mask the fucking doubt
:

Derby County have not won a game since you beat Manchester United 2–0
–

Beat Manchester United with Charlton, Best and Kidd
–

But that was then and this is Leeds, Leeds, Leeds:

Sprake. Reaney. Madeley. Bremner. Charlton. Hunter. Lorimer. Clarke.
Jones. Bates and Gray
–

Leeds United, First Division Champions, 1968–69.

There are 45,000 here at Elland Road to watch them beat you 2–0 with two
trademark Leeds United goals; the first from Clarke as the linesman flags for
a foul throw from Bremner; the second three minutes later as Bates plays the
ball forward to Clarke, who is at least three or four yards offside
–

But the flag stays down and the goal goes in
.

At half-time your team, your boys, protest. You tell them to shut their
bloody mouths. You tell them to listen and fucking learn:

‘
They are ruthless,’ you tell them. ‘They fight for every ball. They brush off
every challenge. Now I want to see your courage and I want to see them defend
.’

Leeds don’t get a sniff for the entire second half. Not a single one. But you
don’t get a goal either. Not a single one
–

In the tunnel, Revie shakes your hand. Revie says, ‘You were unlucky
.’

‘
There’s no such thing as luck,’ you tell him. ‘No such thing, Don
.’

* * *

The Irishman puts the top back on his new pen, puts his pen back in his jacket pocket. The club secretary picks up the new contract, puts the contract in his drawer.

‘Pleasure doing business with you, gentlemen,’ says the Irishman.

‘Likewise,’ I tell him.

He laughs. ‘You wanted me gone and you still do and you might yet get your wish. But you’re also smart enough to know you need me now, now with all the injuries and the suspensions you’ve got, the start
of the season upon you. You’ll be bloody glad of me come Saturday, sure enough.’

‘Sure enough,’ I tell him.

‘Be bleeding ironic though if Mr Nicholson agrees terms with us before then, now wouldn’t it, Mr Clough?’

‘You read my mind,’ I tell him.

* * *

You still have not won again, not won again since 4 October; already there are
the doubters and the
gloaters
, on the terraces and behind the dug-out, outside the
dressing room and in the corridors, the boardrooms and the bars, the ones who
were right all along, who knew it wouldn’t last, just a flash in the pan, another
false dawn, all this talk of a Golden Age, a Second Coming at Derby County
–

But however loud the voices in the stands and in the streets, in the newsrooms
and the boardrooms, they are never louder than the ones inside your head
–

The voices that say the same, the voices that say you’ve shot it
–

‘You’re all washed up, Brian. You’re finished, Clough.’

These are the voices you hear morning, noon and night; every morning,
every noon and every night. These are the voices you must silence; the voices
you must deafen
:

‘I will win, I will not lose. I will win, I will not lose…’

On 1 November 1969 Bill
Shankly’s
Liverpool come to the Baseball Ground
:

Lawrence.
Lawler
. Strong. Smith. Yeats. Hughes. Callaghan. Hunt.
Graham. St. John and Thompson; their names are a poem to you, their manager
a poet
–

‘Win. Win. Win. Win …’

But you have been too long at this
master’s
knee; now the pupil wants to
give the teacher a lesson, needs to
:

‘Win. Win. Win …’

The first goal comes from McGovern after quarter of an hour; from the right
-
hand edge of the penalty area, he hits the ball with the outside of his right foot,
curving it around a mass of players and inside the far post
.

The second goal comes forty-seven seconds later; Hector takes the ball off
Strong’s
toes, races into the box and puts it between Lawrence and the near post
.

‘Win. Win …’

For the third, McGovern turns the ball inside to Durban so he can deliver
the pass that sends Hinton clear, who, just as the challenge comes in, chips the
ball towards the far post for Hector to bury
.