The Damned Utd (15 page)

West Brom who last week helped put pay to the ambitions of Leeds United
and Don Revie; Leeds United and Don Revie who have lost the league by a
single point to Arsenal; Arsenal who have not only won the league but also the
cup and become only the second-ever team to win the Double
–

Tottenham being the only other team. Tottenham and Dave Mackay
.

Two minutes from the end, from the end of his last match, a match Derby
are winning 2–0, and Dave Mackay is still rushing to take a throw-in; still
clapping urgently, demanding concentration and 100 per cent
–

He has played all forty-two games of this season. Every single one of them
.

Then the final whistle of his final match comes and off he goes, running from
the pitch with a quick wave to the 33,651 here to see him off, off down that tunnel,
down that tunnel and he’s gone
–

Irreplaceable. Fucking irreplaceable
.

Derby County have finished ninth, scoring fifty-six and conceding fift
y-
four, drawing five at home and five away, winning sixteen and losing sixteen
–

The symmetry being no bloody consolation whatsoever
–

Because there is no fucking consolation
–

No consolation for not winning
–

That’s irreplaceable
.

* * *

I don’t go back to the Dragonara. Not tonight. I go back home to Derby. Past the Midland Hotel. Past the Baseball Ground. But I don’t stop. Not tonight –

Tonight, I get back to the house, the lights off and the door locked. I put away the car and I go inside the house. I put on a light and I make myself a cup of tea. I switch on the fire and I sit down in the rocking chair. I pick up the paper and I try to read, but it’s all about Nixon and resignation, resignation, resignation:

‘
I have never been a quitter. To leave office before my term is complete is
abhorrent to every instinct in my body
…‘

I put down the paper and I switch on the telly, but there’s nothing on except documentaries and news programmes about Cyprus, Cyprus, Cyprus:

Deceit and division; division and hate; hate and war; war and death
.

I switch off the telly and I switch off the fire. I wash up my pots and I switch off the lights. I go up the stairs and I clean my teeth. I look in my daughter’s room and I kiss her sleeping head. I look in my sons’ room and my eldest one says, ‘Dad?’

‘You still awake, are you?’ I ask him. ‘You should be asleep.’

‘What time is it, Dad?’ he asks me.

I look at my watch, but it’s not there. I tell him, ‘I don’t know, but it’s late.’

‘You going to bed now, are you, Dad?’

‘Course, I am,’ I tell him. ‘I got work tomorrow, haven’t I? You want to come?’

‘Not really,’ he says. ‘But will you tell us a joke? A new one?’

‘I don’t think I’ve got any new jokes.’

‘But you’ve always got jokes, Dad,’ he says. ‘You know loads of jokes.’

‘All right then,’ I tell him. ‘There’s this bloke walking about down in London and suddenly London gets hit by an A-bomb …’

‘Is this the joke, Dad?’ he asks me.

‘Yes,’ I tell him. ‘Just listen …’

‘Is it a funny joke?’

‘Just listen to me, will you?’ I tell him again. ‘So there’s this bloke walking about and London gets hit by an A-bomb and now this bloke is the only man left in the whole of London. So he walks around and around London, the whole of London, and it takes him four or five days, until finally he realizes that he must be the only person left in the
whole of London and he suddenly feels very, very lonely because there’s nobody else to talk to. Nobody else but him. So he decides that he’s had enough, that he doesn’t want to be the only man left, and so he climbs up to the top of the Post Office tower…’

‘The Post Office tower’s all right then, is it, Dad?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘After the bomb,’ he says. ‘It’s still all right, still there, is it?’

‘Yes, it’s fine,’ I tell him. ‘Don’t worry about the Post Office tower. So anyway, this bloke, he climbs all the way up to the top of the Post Office tower and then he jumps off the top and he’s falling down, down and down and down, the sixteenth floor, the fifteenth floor, the fourteenth floor, and that’s when he hears the phone ringing!’

‘When?’

‘When he’s passing the fourteenth floor!’

‘But you said everybody else was dead?’

‘But they’re not. That’s the joke.’

‘I don’t get it, Dad,’ he says.

‘That’s good,’ I tell him. ‘I hope you never do.’

Times change. Faces change. One season ends and another one starts
–

New season, new hope, and your first game of the 1971–72 season is at home
to Manchester United; a crowd of over 35,000 and a pre-match thunderstorm. It
is also your first game without Dave Mackay; Roy McFarland injured as well
.

Half-time and you’re two down; soft goals from Law and
Gowling
, both
from Charlton corners. Soft, soft fucking goals. You go into that bloody dressing
room and you let them have it, both fucking barrels
:

‘
Fucking rubbish the lot of you. You might as well get dressed and bugger off
home now, the bloody lot of you. Useless every last fucking one of you. First day
of the bloody season and you’re playing like this; first fucking day. You bloody
lose today and you’ll lose every fucking day and you’ll be doing it in empty
grounds and all. There are over 35,000 folk here to see you, bloody paid to see
you, good money, hard-earned fucking money; you think they’ll be back next
week? Will they bloody hell. Now get out there and show all them 35,000 folk
and that team of old men and so-called superstars what you’re bloody made of,
how you earn your big wages, and if you’re still losing at that final fucking whistle
don’t bother coming back into work on Monday morning because you’ll not
have a bloody job to come to. Be the real world for the lot of you
–

‘
Now fuck off, out of my sight!
’

Five minutes later, Hinton floats a ball into their box;
Wignall
charges in
and goes up with
Stepney
for it; the ball runs loose and Hector stabs it in. Ten
minutes after that, Hennessey robs
Georgie
bleeding Best and passes the ball
out to Hinton, who sends in another centre for O’Hare to head against the
crossbar and
Wignall
to then bury. That’s how it ends,2–2
.

‘
Carry on playing like that and they’ll get me the sack,’ you tell the world
.

Times change, faces change but the doubt remains. The fear remains
–

Round every corner. Down every corridor
–

Every match, every day, the doubt and then the fear
.

* * *

I hate injured players. I don’t want to hear their bloody names. I don’t want to see their fucking faces. I stay out of the treatment rooms. I stay out of the bloody hospitals. I can’t stand the fucking sight of them –

‘I’m not taking you to Stoke,’ I tell Eddie Gray, and then I watch his face fall; this face that has taken so much pain; worked through it; smiled through it all; the initial breaks and the many operations; the verdicts and the second opinions; the frustration and the depression; the rehabilitation and the therapy; the training and the cortisone –

I watch it fall to the floor and crawl across the carpet to the door.

* * *

Here is where League Championships are won and lost; here at Leeds Road,
Huddersfield. Not White Hart Lane. Not Anfield or Highbury. Not Old
Trafford in front of 50,000 crowds and the television millions
–

Here, in this filthy Yorkshire town on a filthy Saturday in November in front
of 15,000 filthy Yorkshire folk calling you every filthy fucking name they can
bloody think of; here is where Championships are won, won and lost
–

And Derby have just lost. 2-bloody-1. You look around this filthy fucking
dressing room, these filthy fucking players, soaked to their bloody skins and covered
in filthy fucking Yorkshire mud
–

And you ask Colin Boulton, ‘You want to get me the fucking sack, do you?
’

‘
No, Boss,’ he says
.

‘
Well, you fucking will because you’re a useless cunt of a keeper
.’

You ask Ronnie Webster, ‘You want to get me the fucking sack, do you?
’

‘
No, Boss,’ he says
.

‘
Well, you fucking will because you’re utter fucking shite. Bloody rubbish
.’

You ask John Robson, ‘You want to get me the fucking sack, do you?
’

‘
No, Boss,’ he says
.

‘
Well, you will because you’re the worst fucking defender I’ve ever seen
.’

You ask Colin Todd, ‘You want to get me the fucking sack, do you?
’

‘
No,’ he says. ‘I don’t
.’

‘
Well, the amount of bloody money I fucking paid for you, I must have been
bloody pissed out of my fucking skull. You can’t even bloody keep on your fuck
ing feet
.’

You ask McFarland, ‘You want to get me the fucking sack, do you, Roy?
’

‘
No,’ he says
.

‘
No, what?
’

‘
No, Boss. I don’t want to get you the sack
.’

‘
Well, I don’t fucking believe you,’ you tell him and then turn to Terry
Hennessey, ‘You want to get me the fucking sack and all, do you?
’

‘
No, Boss,’ he says
.

‘
So where the bloody hell were you this afternoon? You might as well have
fucking stopped at home, use you were to me out there
.’

You ask John McGovern, ‘You want to get me the fucking sack, do you, John?
’

‘
No, Boss,’ he says
.

‘
Well, you remember that open goal, that open bloody goal you should have
stuck that fucking ball in?
’

‘
Yes, Boss
.’

‘
Well, that looked like a deliberate miss to me, to get your manager the sack
.’

‘
I’m sorry, Boss,’ he says. ‘It wasn’t
.’

‘
Fuck off,’ you tell him and turn to Archie Gemmill. ‘You want to get me
the fucking sack and all, do you, Scotsman?
’

‘
No, Boss,’ he says
.

‘
Come on, admit it,’ you tell him. ‘You liked it better back in the Third
Division, didn’t you? Come on, admit it
.’

‘
No, I didn’t,’ he says
.

You shake your head and turn to John O’Hare and ask him the same ques
tion: ‘You want to get me the fucking sack, do you?
’

‘
No, Boss,’ he says
.

You point at Hinton and ask O’Hare, ‘You know how many centres he sent
in?
’

‘
I’m sorry, Boss,’ he says
.

‘
No, you’re not,’ you tell him. ‘Or you’d be out there now fucking practising
.’

You ask Kevin Hector, ‘You want to get me the fucking sack, do you?
’

‘
No, Boss,’ he says
.

‘
Really?’ you ask him. ‘Didn’t bloody look like that to me. Not when they
took the lead and you had that chance – not chance – that fucking sitter when
you landed flat on your bloody arse. They’ll be laughing about that in
Huddersfield all fucking season
.’

You turn to Alan Hinton. You tell him, ‘You played well, Alan. Thank you
.’

You leave them to Peter; for Peter to kiss them all better. You step out into
the corridor and light a fag; there’s Sam Longson, your chairman
–

‘
Did you hear all that?’ you ask Uncle Sam
.

‘
You can’t talk to people like that,’ says Longson
.

‘
Can’t I?’ you ask him. ‘You just bloody watch me
.’

* * *

‘Jones injured. Gray injured. Bates injured. Yorath injured. Clarke suspended. Hunter suspended. The odds are already stacked against us,’ I tell them as I pour the drinks –

For Harry from the
Yorkshire Post.
For Ron from the
Evening Post –

‘I’d have liked to have had a full squad available against Stoke because it is essential for us to start the season well. But being under strength does not mean I will abandon my open-play policy –’

Another round
–

‘Attack is my only policy –’

And another
–

‘This Saturday, every Saturday –’

And, go on then, twist my arm then, one last one for the road then
–

‘I cannot play the game any other way.’

* * *

The day after Boxing Day 1971 and you lose to Leeds. Again
–

Again, just when you were beginning to believe; after losing at
Huddersfield, you’d beaten Manchester City at home, then lost at Anfield but
beaten Everton at home. You were beginning to believe again; to banish the
doubt and the fear, slowly
–

But then you come to Elland Road. Again. The doubt and the fear. Again
–

You saw the doubt and the fear in the eyes and the hearts of your players,
saw the doubt and the fear when Gemmill was downed early on, saw their eyes
and their hearts go down with him. But today you don’t swear; today you
don’t shout or strip the walls of the visitors’ dressing room. Today you will buy
them steak and pints on the way back to Derby. You will sit next to them on
the coach, put your arms around them and tell them that they are the best players
in the country, the very best
–

Because your team, your boys, do not pull shirts, do not nudge people in
the box, do not protest every decision, feigning innocence and then outrage
–

Because your boys do not lie and your boys do not cheat
.

But tonight you will still not sleep; tonight you’ll still sit in your rocking
chair and stare at that league table and those fixtures to come. Tonight you will
still not close your eyes because tonight you’ll see this game again, again and
again and again, over and over and over. But you still will not see the way Leeds
outwitted you on the flanks, still will not see your lack of any decent tackles, of
any physical presence, will not see the licence you gave to Lorimer and Gray
–

Tonight you will still see your team lose, but still lose only to cheats
.

You still will not see Gray beat Hennessey; you still will not see his on
e-
two with Bremner; you still will not see
Gray’s
low shot into the goal. Nor will
you see
Gray’s
crossfield
pass to Bremner; Bremner’s centre for Lorimer to score.
You still will not see Gray beat Webster and his pass to Lorimer; you still will
not see Lorimer change feet to shoot and score the third
:

‘Leeds have a nasty habit of reminding Derby how far they have yet to go.’

You will still not sleep. You’ll still sit and you’ll stare at that league table and
those fixtures to come, again and again and again, but all you will see is the
look on Revie’s face as that whistle went and the teams left that field, over and
over and over
–

The look on that face, the handshake and the smile, and that field
–

That field of loss. That field of hate. That field of blood –

You will still not sleep, but you still will dream
–

Of that field of war.

* * *

‘Brian here,’ I tell Lillian. ‘Is Pete there?’

‘Brian, it’s two o’clock in the morning,’ she says. ‘He’s asleep.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I tell her. ‘I haven’t got a watch.’

‘Go to bed, Brian,’ she says. ‘I’ll get him to call you first thing.’

‘But I really need to speak to him now.’

‘Has something happened, love?’ she asks. ‘Are you all right?’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘Where are you?’ she asks.

‘I’m in the sodding Dragonara Hotel in Leeds.’

‘What are you doing there?’ she asks. ‘Get yourself back home.’

‘I can’t; I’ve got to take Billy bloody Bremner down to London in the morning.’

‘But you’ll be able to go straight home after that, won’t you?’

‘No,’ I tell her. ‘We’re travelling to Stoke tomorrow night.’

‘But you’ll be home on Sunday, won’t you?’ she says. ‘It’s not long.’

‘Six nights a week I used to be round your house,’ I tell her. ‘Remember that? And you two just married; you must have been sick of the sight of me.’

‘No, Brian,’ she says. ‘We never were.’

‘Pete and I’d always be going off somewhere to scout some game in the Northern League and then we’d bring back fish and chips. Do you remember?’

‘Yes, Brian,’ she says. ‘I remember.’

‘Rea’s Ice-cream Parlour?’ I ask her. ‘Remember that place?’

‘Yes, Brian,’ she says again. ‘I remember.’

‘All gone now,’ I tell her. ‘The ice-cream parlours and the coffee bars.’

‘I know, love.’

‘Do you remember when me, you and Pete went to see
Saturday
Night, Sunday Morning
at the pictures? That was a good night, wasn’t it?’

‘You liked that film, didn’t you?’

‘I bloody loved it,’ you tell her. ‘
Don’t let the bastards grind you down
.’

‘You used to say that all the time.’

‘And what about that time we went to hear Harold Wilson speak? Remember that? One of the clubs in Middlesbrough, it was. Barely fifty bloody folk to hear him and all; the future Prime Minister of Great Britain. Pete’s idea. You remember that?’

‘I remember you going,’ she says. ‘But that was just you and Peter, love.’

‘You know I’d give my right arm for it to be like that again. Just me and him. This bloody lot here, they wouldn’t stand a chance if it was me and him, the two of us. There’d be no more ganging up, no more whispering, no more conspiring behind my back. Me and Pete, we’d bloody sort them out, show them who was fucking boss.’

‘I’ll go and wake him for you,’ she says. ‘You need to talk to him –’

‘Don’t,’ I tell her. ‘Not now. It’s too late.’

‘If you’re sure?’ she says. ‘But you get yourself off to bed then.’