The Damned Utd (21 page)

* * *

Fifteen minutes into the game, Harvey moves to get his body behind the ball, to take it on the first bounce, but the ball slips through and under him, into the net –

Two games. Two defeats. No goals
.

‘Bad luck, lads,’ I tell the dressing room. ‘Didn’t deserve to lose, not tonight. There are things to work on tomorrow, things to take care of before Birmingham; but we can sort it out on the training pitch and get it right on Saturday. There’s no need to panic and there’s no need to blame yourselves. Just a matter of confidence, that’s all.’

‘Aye-aye-aye,’ mumbles Syd Owen from the back of the room. ‘Never heard such a load of fucking rubbish.’

I bite my bloody tongue, bite it till it fucking bleeds, and I go outside, outside to the corridor, to the press and the cameras, the vultures and the hyenas, and I tell them all:

‘We did not play with confidence.’

‘
Aye-
aye-
aye. Never heard such a load of fucking rubbish
.’

‘We badly missed Bremner, Clarke and Hunter.’

‘
Aye-
aye-
aye. Never heard such a load of fucking rubbish
.’

‘I was very sorry for David Harvey, but it is essential he forgets it.’

‘
Aye-
aye-
aye. Never heard such a load of fucking rubbish
.’

‘We created enough chances, but we could not put them in.’

‘
Aye-
aye-
aye. Never heard such a load of fucking rubbish
.’

‘It is a bad start by anybody’s standards, particularly by Leeds’s standards.’

‘
Aye-
aye-
aye. Never heard such a load of fucking rubbish
.’

‘But we will be here in the morning, working like hell.’

‘
Aye-
aye-
aye. Never heard such a load of fucking rubbish
.’

‘This is all you can do. Goodnight, gentlemen.’

Then I walk away, away from the press and the cameras, the vultures and the hyenas, round the corner and down the corridor to the office, the telephone and the bottle:

If only you could see me here. If only you could hear me now
…

I miss my wife. I miss my kids. I wish I wasn’t here. I wasn’t me –

If you could only hold me here. If you could only help me now …

The things I’ve bloody done. The things I’ve fucking said –

‘
Never heard such a load of fucking rubbish
.’

All these things I’ve said and done.

* * *

You have been invited to speak at the Yorkshire TV Sports Personality of the
Year dinner. You have not won it, just been invited to speak about the winner
–

Mr Peter Lorimer of Leeds United
.

The Sports Personality of the Year dinner is being held at the Queen’s
Hotel, Leeds. It is being screened by Yorkshire Television, who have organized
it in conjunction with the Variety Club of Great Britain
–

Mr Wilson, the former and future Prime Minister, is the guest of honour
–

But he does not impress you, Wilson. Not these days. Just another bloody
comfortable socialist, out to feather his own fucking nest, the nests of his mates
–

‘We’re all out for good old Number One,’
you start to hum, you start
to sing
. ‘Number One’s the only one for me …’

You are drunk when you stand up to speak; drunk and do not give a fuck
:

‘
Right then,’ you tell Harold Wilson and this roomful of Yorkshire tuxedos.
‘I’ve had to sit here and listen to a load of crap for the last hour, so you lot can
all sit here and wait for me while I go and have a bloody pee
.’

You go and have your pee. You make your way back. You say your piece
:

‘
Despite the fact that Lorimer falls down when he has not been kicked.
Despite the fact that Lorimer demands treatment when he has not been injured.
Despite the fact that he protests when he has nothing to protest about
…’

The booing starts. The jeering starts
–

‘
If you don’t like it, if you can’t take it, invite Basil bloody Brush next time
–’

The chairs scrape and the evening ends
–

‘
Boom-
fucking-
boom
.’

First Division Positions, 22 August 1974

I curse you, I curse you, I curse you –
I throw handfuls of rue at the television set and I shout,
‘I am the last truly Cunning person left!’
Beware! Beware!
She will eat you like air!
I throw handfuls of rue at the television set and I swear,
‘May you rue this day as long as you live.’

Here comes another morning; another morning after the defeat of the night before –

The sun is shining in my modern luxury hotel room, through the curtains and across the floor to the modern luxury hotel bed in which I haven’t slept a bloody, fucking wink, just lain here replaying last night’s match in my head, on the inside of my skull, reliving every touch and every kick, every pass and every cross, every tackle and every block, over and over, again and again, player by player, position by position, space by space, over and over, again and again, from the first minute to the last –

The things I saw and the things I missed –

The many, many bloody things I fucking missed –

It’s just another morning; another morning when I wish I wasn’t here.

* * *

You beat Manchester United 3–1 at the Baseball Ground on Boxing Day.
Manchester United and Tommy Docherty. You move up to seventh and United
go bottom. You’d thought it was a turning point, another turning point, like
Benfica, like Arsenal. But you were wrong again. It was no turning point
.

You pick up the phone. You dial Longson’s number. You scream down that
line: ‘If Peter bloody Taylor isn’t at fucking work by Friday, I shan’t be going
to Liverpool with the fucking team. I’ll fucking walk out and all, I will!’

‘
What in heaven’s name is wrong with you?’ asks Sam Longson
.

Money, money, money, that’s what’s wrong; that’s all that’s ever fucking
wrong with Peter Taylor; money, money, money
–

You hang up. You go round to Longson’s house. You beg Longson to sack
Taylor. You throw your drink at his kitchen wall when he refuses
–

‘
I’m getting bloody nowhere with you fucking buggers!’ you shout
.

‘
But what’s wrong?’ asks Sam Longson
–

Money, money, money, that’s what’s wrong; that’s all that’ll ever be fucking
wrong with Peter Taylor; all that Peter ever goes on about, on and on about
:

‘
I just want my slice of the cake,’ he’d said again. ‘Just my fucking slice
.’

‘
You get your slice,’ you told him. ‘You get your slice and more
.’

‘
Do I fuck.’ he said. ‘Where’s my new bloody coat? My waste-disposal unit?
Where are my fucking Derby County shares then, eh?
’

‘
Your bloody what? What you fucking talking about now?
’

‘
Don’t fuck me around, Brian,’ he said. ‘Webby’s told me all about it
.’

‘
All right then,’ you told him. ‘You have the whole fucking cake if you want
it, if that’s what’s fucking bothering you, because I can bloody do without it,
without all this fucking bollocks. But I’m telling you this: you won’t last a
fucking minute, not a single fucking minute out there, on your own, in front of
all them cameras, them crowds, you can’t even buy a pair of bloody socks in
town, you’re that fucking afraid of being recognized, of someone speaking to
you who you don’t bloody know but, go on, if that’s what you want, that’s
what you fucking want, you fucking take it because I’m telling you now, I’ve
had enough, enough to fucking last me a bloody lifetime
.’

That was ten days ago; the last you saw of him, saw of Pete; Webby phoned
the next day and said Peter was feeling a bit chesty. Ten days ago, that was
–

‘
A bit chesty?’ you asked Webby. ‘A bit fucking chesty?
’

‘
Chesty, you know?’ said Webby. ‘Under the weather
.’

‘Under the bloody what?’ you asked
.

‘The weather,’ said Webby, again
.

That was ten fucking days ago now; that’s how this year begins
–

This new year you’ll wish had never happened
–

Nineteen hundred and seventy-three
–

The worst year of your life
.

* * *

Under skies. Under bloated skies. Under bloated grey skies. Under bloated grey Yorkshire skies, I walk from the taxi straight up the banking and onto the training ground.

Six days into the new season and the team already look like they need a week off. But there are no weeks off, no days off now, not now; Birmingham at home on Saturday, the day after tomorrow. Queen’s Park Rangers again, three days after that. No days off –

‘They can get here on bloody time,’ says Syd. ‘Why can’t he?’

‘It sets a bad example,’ adds Maurice. ‘A very bad example, in fact.’

Jimmy jogs up to me. Jimmy in his Admiral fucking tracksuit. And Jimmy says, ‘I think they’ve done enough for today, Boss.’

I shake my head. I shout, ‘Let’s start again. From the fucking top.’

From the fucking top with the running and the lifting, the passing and the shooting, the free kicks and the corners, the goal kicks and the throw-ins, the set plays to plan and the walls to build, attack against defence, defence against attack, attacks to sharpen and defences to stiffen, stiffen and make resolute under these skies. These bloated skies. These bloated grey skies. These bloated grey Yorkshire fucking skies.

* * *

Soon there will be European nights again, soon there will be sunshine again. No
one walks away from Europe. No one walks away from sunshine. Taylor showed
up in the snow at Anfield and you drew 1–1 on a miserable, miserable day
.

‘
It’s this bloody weather, Pete,’ you told him. ‘We’re warm weather creatures,
you and me. Marjorca, that’s us. We ought to fucking migrate each bloody winter
.’

‘
And the board will help us bloody pack,’ said Pete. ‘Way things are going
.’

But then things, these things that are always going, these things start to look
up; Derby go on a little run, a little run to keep you warm in these long, dark
winter months. You beat West Brom in the league and then draw against
Tottenham in the cup, going on to win the replay 5–3 after extra time
–

Back from 3–1 down with just twelve minutes to go; back with a Roger
Davies hat-trick; back to beat QPR 4–2 in the fifth round
.

But all good things, these good things, must come to an end and you go and
get Leeds United in the quarter-finals of the FA Cup. This means Derby have
to play Leeds twice in two weeks, once in the league and once in the cup, and
these are not just any two weeks; you have to play Leeds United four days
before you meet Spartak Trnava in the quarter-finals of the European Cup;
then you have to play Leeds again, four days before the return leg against
Trnava. If you were a superstitious man, you’d think Lady Luck had deserted
you, turned her back against you
–

But you’re not a superstitious man and you never will be
.

If you were a religious man, you’d think God had deserted you, turned his
back against you. But you’re not a religious man and never will be. You don’t
believe in God
–

You believe in football; in the repetition of football; the repetition within
each game, within each season, within the history of each club, the history of
the game
–

That is what you believe in; that and Brian Howard Clough
.

* * *

The sharp knife and loaded gun. The long rope. The post-mortem. The press conference: Not since Leeds United returned to the First Division in 1964 have Leeds United lost their opening two games of the season –

‘We are not gloomy,’ I tell the press. ‘We will just have to work harder.’

Not since Leeds United returned to the First Division in 1964 have Leeds United lost their opening two games of the season –

‘Certain players have been badly missed,’ I tell them.

Not since Leeds United returned to the First Division in 1964 have Leeds United lost their opening two games of the season –

‘I am delighted that Clarke and Hunter will be available for Saturday.’

Not since Leeds United returned to the First Division in 1964 have Leeds United lost their opening two games of the season –

‘We are not gloomy,’ I tell the press again. ‘We will just have to work harder.’

Not since Leeds United returned to the First Division in 1964 have Leeds United lost their opening two games of the season; the door and the exit. The corners and the corridors. The office. The long rope. The sharp knife. The loaded gun. The door. The exit.

* * *

The winter is almost gone and Europe is here again. But Europe will be gone
too, if you do not win tonight. For these have not been a happy two weeks
–

For the first time in Europe, you were drawn to play the first leg away, away
in a small, provincial Czechoslovakian town that’s home to Spartak Trnava
:

‘The Derby County of Czechoslovakia,’ you joked, but it wasn’t funny and
you were lucky to lose only 1–0 to the Czech Champions, the Czech
Champions four years out of the last five, seven years unbeaten at home in
their own league and boasting 164 caps between them
–

‘
That wasn’t luck,’ you told the press. ‘That was our keeper, Colin Boulton
.’

Four days before that game Don Revie and Leeds United had beaten you
3–2 at home in your own league; your much vaunted, talented and expensive
Derby defence conceding two silly penalties and a daft goal in the course of being
kicked, punched, grappled and wrestled off the park, Mick McManus-style
–

‘
You should be in the book for that, Cherry,’ you shouted from the side
–

Tackle after tackle, foul after bloody foul, crime after fucking crime
–

‘
McQueen!’ you screamed. ‘You’re not fit to play in this bloody league
.’

You were incensed, you were bloody outraged, you were fucking furious
because you know exactly why Leeds played like this, why Revie told Leeds to
play like this, because Derby won the league and they didn’t, you did and he
didn’t
–

Daylight Robbery. Daylight Robbery. Daylight Robbery –

Because you’re in the European Cup and he’s not
–

‘
You’re an animal,’ you shouted and screamed. ‘A fucking animal, Hunter!
’

You did not shake Revie’s hand after the game and you never will again
.

Then, four days before this game tonight, ten days after you lost in
Czechoslovakia, Leeds beat you again, beat you 1–0 at home in the FA Cup
–

Fields of loss. Fields of hate. Fields of blood. Fields of war –

Fuck Lorimer. Fuck Revie. Fuck Leeds. Fuck them all
.

There was no Hinton for these last three games. Tonight there’s Hinton:

21 March 1973; Derby County vs Spartak Trnava
–

The quarter-finals of the European Cup, second leg; nigh on 36,500 here at
the Baseball Ground to see it
–

See it. Hear it. Smell it. Taste it. Bloody touch and fucking feel it
–

The tension. The tension. The tension. The tension
–

Two goals or you’re out of Europe, your hopes and your dreams buried, and
while Alan Hinton might well be back for you, bloody Kuna is back for them
–

The tension. The tension. The tension
–

The fresh lines. The new ball
–

The tension. The tension
–

Two goals or out
–

The tension, then the whistle and it starts, starts at long, long fucking last
and you hope, you even pray, for an early goal, but it doesn’t come and you
know now Trnava are the best team you’ve played this year, better than bloody
Benfica, better than fucking Leeds; they hold the ball, they keep it close and
they don’t let go, second after second, minute after minute, they don’t let go,
don’t let go until Adamec does and Gemmill’s there, there to take it away, away
with a pass to McGovern, who centres it for Hector to hit low into that beautiful,
beautiful fucking net and bring the scores level on aggregate, level at 1–1;
level at 1–1 for two minutes, just two minutes until Hinton crosses and Davies
is knocked to the ground in the box and the whole area freezes expecting the
whistle, expecting the penalty, the whole area but for Hector, who leans back
into that bouncing bloody ball to volley that fucking thing home from fifteen
yards and from then, from then on you can only look at your watch, the only
place you can stand to look
–

Not at the bloody pitch, the pitch the last fucking place you can look
–

Not at the pitch when Hector is brought down, not at the pitch when
Davies is pushed over, not when the whole of the bloody Baseball Ground is
screaming and screaming and screaming for a penalty; not when Boulton sends
Martinkovic flying and the whole of the fucking ground goes silent, silent,
silent, expecting a penalty for Trnava, a penalty that would bring the scores
level again at 2–2, level at 2–2 but give Trnava an away goal, a penalty the referee
does not see, just like you with your eyes on your watch, and so the fucking
score stays at 2–1 and you
–

You just look at your watch, just look at your watch, look at your watch
–

The only place, the only place, the only place you can stand to look
–

Not at Webster’s last-ditch tackle, at Nish’s vital, vital tackle
–

You just look at your watch, just look at your watch
–

Until finally, finally, finally Signor Angonese, the Italian referee, looks at his
own watch and raises his right hand and slowly, slowly, slowly Signor
Angonese, the lovely, lovely, lovely Italian referee, puts his beautiful, beautiful
,
beautiful black whistle to his red, red, red lips and blows that final, final, final
whistle that puts Derby County
–