Authors: David Peace
Two long halves and ninety minutes later, Derby County have lost 5–0
thanks to two from Giles and one each from Bremner, Clarke and Lorimer
–
‘
They didn’t even play that fucking well,’ says Pete. ‘They’re not that good
.’
But you’re not listening; you’ve had enough of him, the team, the game
–
These fields of loss and fields of hate, these fields of blood and fields of war
.
* * *
The long rope. The sharp knife. The loaded gun. The press here, here to watch me parade McGovern and O’Hare, here to listen to me parade my lies and my deceits:
‘I stick by what I said a fortnight ago, that nobody will be leaving Leeds for a long, long time. Invariably when people talk about unloading they mean the very players you would least want to let go. I can honestly say that unloading any of these players has never come into my mind. The two new signings were out of necessity. I am very conscious of the fact that Leeds United are the Champions and that I
cannot afford to bring any ragtag and bobtail players here. They have to be the right type of man as well as good players, and I am sure McGovern and O’Hare are tailor-made for this club.’
A question from the front: ‘Any news about Eddie Gray?’
‘It could be another lengthy spell out,’ I tell them. ‘And obviously there’s a question mark over the lad’s fitness.’
A question from the back: ‘There have been reports of behind-the-scenes rows between yourself and Syd Owen; have you any comment to make on these reports?’
‘These reports are disgraceful,’ I tell them. ‘Utterly disgraceful. I have never had differences with anyone at the club staff-wise, none whatsoever. Syd has worked like a slave for me since the day I took over. He is totally honest, he is dedicated and exactly the type of man to get on with me.’
A question from the side: ‘So absolutely no one at all is leaving Elland Road?’
‘There’s a job for everyone here,’ I tell them. ‘Even me.’
* * *
You go to Portugal to watch Benfica. To spy. You don’t take Peter. You take your
wife and kids instead. You are glad to go. To get away. You’ve had enough of
England. Had enough of Derby fucking County too; their bloody directors and
their fans; their ungrateful directors and their ungrateful fans
:
‘
They only start chanting at the end, when we’re a goal up,’ you tell the
papers. ‘I want to hear them when we’re losing. They are a disgraceful lot
.’
Benfica are shit too and are lucky to draw
–
You have no doubts. Have no fears
–
Not about the Eagles of Lisbon
–
You know you can win
–
Know you will win
.
* * *
I never learn; never bloody learn. Never did and never fucking will.
Back in the bar at the Dragonara when I should be back at home in Derby with my wife and my kids. Here in the bar with Harry, Ron and Mike; blokes I’d never met two weeks ago, never even bloody heard of, now my new best mates and pals for life –
‘A drink for all my friends,’ I shout. ‘Another fucking drink, barman.’
On the chairs and on the sofas of the Dragonara Bar –
‘Play “Glad to Be Unhappy”,’ I shout at Bert the pianist.‘“Only the Lonely”.’
On the tables and on the floors –
‘“In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning”.’
On the chairs and on the sofas. On the tables and on the floors. In the lift and in the corridor. In my modern luxury hotel room, in my modern luxury hotel toilet –
Because I never learn; never bloody learn; never did and never fucking will; why I failed my eleven-plus and haven’t got a certificate to my name, not a bloody one; why I scored 251 goals in 274 games but won only two England caps and not any fucking more –
Why I won the Second Division and the league titles; why I reached the semi-finals of the European Cup and why one day very soon I’ll win the bloody cup itself –
Because I never learn; never bloody learn. Never did and never fucking will –
Because I’m Brian bloody Clough. Face fucking down on the floor tonight –
The future bloody manager of England, face fucking down on the floor.
Here is Europe again; your hopes and your dreams. The hopes and the dreams
that keep you here, home to Benfica
–
Derby County vs Benfica in the second round of the European Cup
.
You can’t sleep. You can’t eat. You don’t believe in luck. You don’t believe in
prayers, so you can only plot, only plot and scheme
:
You had the groundsman pump half the river Derwent onto the pitch the
night before, turning the Baseball Ground into a bog. You have Kevin Hector
carried down the narrow corridor into the treatment room. You have the team
doctor pump Kevin Hector full of cortisone an hour before
kick-off
; the hour
before the Eagles of Lisbon are supposed to feast upon the Rams of Derby
–
The press have given you no chance. The press have written you off
:
Hard luck, Cloughie,
they all write
. This time you’re out of your class.
Pete pins up these cuttings in the dressing room; this is where you and Pete
are at your best, in the dressing room, beneath these cuttings, with ten minutes
to
kick-off
. You’ve asked Pete to run through their players, who to watch for and
what to watch them for, something you never usually do, never usually give a
fuck about.
Tonight’s
no different. Pete looks down at the piece of paper in his
hand then he looks back up at your team, your boys, and he screws up that
piece of paper
–
‘
No sweat,’ he says. ‘You’ve nothing to worry about with this lot
.’
Pete’s right, you’re right; this is one of those nights you’ve dreamt of; one of
those nights you were born and live for, and, despite your comments, despite
your criticisms, over 38,000 people are here to share this night with you, this
night when you sweep aside Benfica and Eusebio from the first minute to the
last, from the minute McFarland climbs above their defence to head home
Hinton’s
cross, from the minute McFarland nods down another Hinton cross
for Hector to score with a left-foot shot into the top corner, from the minute
McGovern takes hold of a Daniel lob to score from the edge of the area, from
the first minute to the last –
‘Unbelievable,’ Malcolm Allison tells you at half-time. ‘Fucking unbelievable
.’
You put your head around that dressing-room door and you simply tell
them, ‘You are brilliant, each and every one of you
.’
Boulton. Robson. Daniel. Hennessey. McFarland. Todd. McGovern.
Gemmill. O’Hare. Hector and Hinton
–
Derby County; your team, your boys
.
Tonight is everything you’ve ever dreamed of. Everything you’ve ever
worked for. Everything you were born and live for. Plotted and schemed for
–
Tonight is
vindication. Tonight
is justification
–
Tonight is your revenge, revenge, revenge
–
Tonight is Derby County 3, Benfica 0
–
25 October 1972
–
Tonight you have only one word for the press after this game, one word for
your team, your boys, and tonight that word is ‘Magical
’.
* * *
This is another of
his
traditions, another of
his
bloody routines, another of
his
fucking rituals. Tonight is my first home game at Elland Road; home to Queen’s Park Rangers. But we don’t meet at Elland Road; we meet at the Craiglands Hotel, Ilkley –
Fucking
Ilkley
; middle of the moors, middle of bloody nowhere
.
A little light training and a little light lunch; bit of bingo, bit of bowls; chat with the coaches and a discussion with Don; then back to Elland Road –
‘Every home game,’ says Maurice Lindley. ‘Been this way for a long time.’
‘Well, it’s the last fucking time,’ I tell him. ‘They’d be better off having an extra couple of hours at home with their wives and kids, not sat around on their arses up here, twiddling their bloody thumbs or gambling their fucking wages away, waiting and worrying like a load of little old ladies.’
‘It’s valuable preparation time,’ says Maurice. ‘Helps them focus on the game.’
‘It’s a waste of bloody time and a waste of bloody money,’ I tell him.
‘It cost me a fucking fortune to get up here in that bloody taxi.’
‘The lads won’t like it,’ he says. ‘They don’t like change. They like consistency.’
‘Tough fucking shit then,’ I tell him and head inside the place to the deserted, silent restaurant; deserted but for the first team, sat staring into their tomato soup, waiting for their steak and chips.
Billy Bremner’s here, Sniffer and Hunter too, even though all three are suspended. I go up to Billy Bremner, put an arm around his shoulder, pat him on his back and say, ‘It’s good of you to come, Billy. Much appreciated. Thank you, Billy.’
Billy Bremner doesn’t turn round. Billy Bremner just stares into his soup and says, ‘Didn’t have much fucking choice now, did I, Mr Clough?’
* * *
Derby travel to the Estadio da Luz in Lisbon for the second leg on
8
November 1972. You don’t train. You don’t practise. You grill sardines and drink
vinho verde –
DRINKMANSHIP,
screams the
Daily Mail.
They’re right
:
Just four days ago you went to Maine Road and Manchester City hammered
you; off-sides, own goals and fucking Marsh again. You conceded five
against Leeds. Three against Manchester United. Now four against City
–
‘
And they didn’t even play that well,’ Pete said. ‘They’re not that good
.’
‘
Just like you then,’ you snapped back. ‘Because that’s all you ever say
.’
The doubt. The fear. The trouble. The tension.
You went round later. You knocked on his door. You shouted through his letterbox.
You waited until he put down his Nazi history books and finally
answered his front door. Then you kissed and made up, and now here you are,
side by side again, in Lisbon
–
In the Estadio da Luz with 75,000 Benfica fans; with the walls and walls
of bodies, the walls and walls of noise; the waves and waves of red shirts, the
waves and waves of red shirts from the first whistle to the last
–
But your team, your boys, they stand firm and Boulton has the game of
his life, saving time after time from Eusebio, from
Baptista
, from
Jordao
, until
half-time comes and the Eagles of Lisbon begin to fall to the ground, time
against them now
–
The Mighty Rams of Derby against them now
–
No fear. No doubt. No trouble. No tension.
There are whistles at the end, but not for you, not for Derby County, whistles
and cushions hurled onto the pitch of the Estadio da Luz, but not for you
and Derby County
–
In the last twelve seasons of European football, only Ajax of Amsterdam
have ever stopped Eusebio and the Eagles of Lisbon from scoring, only Ajax
and now Derby
–
For you and Derby there is applause. For you and Derby there is respect
–
For you and Derby there are the quarter-finals of the European Cup
.
* * *
The team bus brings us back to Elland Road for half five and there are already folk about, queuing for their tickets and buying their programmes, eating their burgers and drinking their Bovril. I hide in the office, down the corridor and round the corner, through the doors and under the stand. I hide and I listen to the feet above me, climbing to their seats and taking their places, sharpening their knives and poisoning their darts, clearing their throats and beginning to chant, chant, chant; chant, chant, chant –
Leeds, Leeds, Leeds. Leeds, Leeds, Leeds. Leeds, Leeds, Leeds
–
I put my head on the desk. My fingers in my ears. I close my eyes. In that office. Down that corridor. Round that corner. Through those doors. Under that stand and under their feet, feet, feet –
There’s a knock on the door. It’s John Reynolds, the groundsman –
‘There you go, gaffer,’ he says and hands me my watch. ‘Look what turned up.’
‘Fucking hell! Where did you find that?’ I ask him.
‘It was over behind the goals on the practice pitch,’ says John. ‘Bit mucky like, but I’ve cleaned it up for you. Nice bloody watch that; still going and all.’
‘You’re a saint,’ I tell him and take out a new bottle of Martell from my drawer. ‘And you’ll have a seat and a drink with me, won’t you?’
‘Go on then, gaffer,’ he smiles. ‘Purely for medicinal reasons, of course.’
‘Summer colds,’ I laugh. ‘They’re the bloody worst, aren’t they?’
John Reynolds and I raise our glasses and have our drink, and then John asks, ‘Can I say something to you, gaffer?’
‘You can say what you like to me, John,’ I tell him. ‘I owe you that.’
‘Well, I know you want to make changes here,’ he says. ‘That one or two players and one or two of the staff might be on their way out but, if I were you, I wouldn’t rush it, gaffer. Don’t be in too much of a hurry, especially not here. They don’t take easily to change, so just take your time. Rome weren’t built in a day, as they say.’
I stare at John Reynolds. Then I stand up, stick out my hand and I tell him, ‘You’re a good man, John Reynolds. A good man and an excellent bloody groundsman. Thank you for your advice, for your friendship and for your kindness, sir.’
* * *
You never want to leave this place. You never want this feeling to finish
–
The applause of the Benfica fans. The respect of the Benfica fans
–
These nights you dream of, nights you were born and live for
–
Drink and drink and drink and drink for
.
In the restaurant, at the celebration, you stand up to speak, stand up and
shout: ‘Hey, Toddy! I don’t like you and I don’t like your fucking missus!
’
There’s no laughter, no applause and no respect now; just a cough here,
embarrassed and muffled. Tomorrow you will telephone Mrs Todd. Tomorrow
you will apologize and send her flowers. Tomorrow you will try to explain
.
But tonight Longson hides his face while Kirkland taps his glass with his
knife, slowly, slowly, slowly. Tap, tap, tap. Slowly, slowly, slowly
–
‘I am going to bury you,’ Jack Kirkland whispers, his hate fresh upon his
breath. ‘Bury you,’ he promises you
–
You want to go home. You want to lock your door. You want to pull your
curtains. Your fingers in your ears, your fingers in your ears
–
You never want to leave your house again
.
* * *
I am scared. I am afraid. Frightened and shitting bricks. I wish I had my two boys here, here to hold my hand, to give it a squeeze. But they’re back home in Derby, tucked up in their beds under their Derby County posters and their Derby County scarves, not here with me tonight at Elland Road, here with me tonight in front of 32,000 Yorkshiremen. Tonight it’s just me on my Jack bloody Jones in front of 32,000 fucking Yorkshiremen –
Tetley
Bittermen, says the sign. Join ’em
…
I take a deep breath and I swallow, I swallow and walk down that tunnel, walk down that tunnel and out into that stadium, out into that stadium to make my very, very long, long way to that bench but, as I make my way to that bench, tonight these 32,000 Yorkshiremen in Elland Road, tonight they rise as one to their feet and applaud me as I make my way to that bench in the dug-out, and I wave to the crowd and bow ever so slightly as I make my way, I wave and bow and then take my seat on that bench in the dug-out, take my seat on that bench as the manager of Leeds United; Leeds United, the Champions of England –
Tetley
Bittermen, says the sign. Join ’em
.
‘Welcome to Elland Road, Mr Clough,’ shouts a man from behind the dug-out. ‘Best of luck,’ shouts another, and Jimmy Gordon, Jimmy in his brand-new Leeds United Admiral tracksuit with his bloody name upon his back, he gives me a little nudge and a little wink, and I glance at my watch, my watch that is back on my wrist, and for the first time, the first time in a very long time, I think that maybe, just maybe this might work out.
* * *
The whispers. The whispers. The whispers. The whispers. The whispers. The
way things are going, you’ve got to keep winning games, keep winning games
otherwise that lot in the boardroom will slaughter you
–
Slaughter you. Bury you.
So that’s what you do to Arsenal; you slaughter them, you bury them, 5–0;
McGovern (21), Hinton (37), McFarland (40), Hector (42) and Davies (47)
.
‘
I do not accept that was our best performance of the season,’ you tell the
press and the cameras, the columns and the panels. ‘That was at
Goodison
on
August the twenty-ninth when we lost 1–0 and you lot bloody wrote us off;
slaughtered and buried us. That’s when the doubts crept in, the doubts and the
fears that we could play that well and still lose. Well, today those doubts and
those fears have been banished
.’
It’s over three years since you hit Tottenham for five, three years since you
and Dave Mackay slaughtered and buried Bill Nicholson and Tottenham
.
Arsenal don’t leave the visitors’ dressing room for a full forty-five minutes
after the match, locked in
–
Slaughtered and buried –
Just like you know you will be, you will be if you slip, if you lose
–
If you ever take your bloody eye off that fucking ball
.