The Damned Utd (28 page)

Authors: David Peace

‘
Please don’t bloody go, Brian. Please don’t fucking go
.’

But you and Peter drive away from the Baseball Ground, drive away to a
garage to have the tyres on your club car changed and the tank of your club car
filled up on the club account, and then you and Peter drive on to Peter’s house
–

To the silence in his sitting room. The silence and the cup of tea
–

‘What will you do now?’ you ask him
.

‘
I think I’ll catch a bloody plane to Majorca,’ he says. ‘What about you?
’

‘I haven’t a fucking clue,’ you tell him
–

It is Tuesday 16 October 1973, and you are out of a job
.

Day Thirty-one

Under another bloated grey Yorkshire sky, they are dirty and panting again, dirty and panting in their purple tracksuits with their names on their backs. There are still no smiles. There is still no laughter. Just the stains on their knees, the stains on their arses. I have given up on smiles here. I have given up on laughter now.

Maurice and Sydney stand to one side, heads together, crooked and hunched, whispering and muttering, whispering and muttering, whispering and muttering.

Jimmy stands in the middle, doing a bit of this, doing a bit of that, a joke here and a joke there. But no one is smiling. No one is laughing. No one is even listening –

Except the press and the fans. Behind the fence. Through the wire –

Their eyes are on me now, inspecting and examining, watching and observing me, staring and staring and staring at me –

No more zombies
, I’m thinking.
No more fucking zombies, Brian
.

I walk up to Maurice and Sydney. I take the whistle off Sydney. I take the bibs off Maurice and I get some five-a-sides going; me on one side, Clarkey on another.

I know they all want to tackle me, to tackle me hard, to bring me down, down to the ground, back down to earth, to see me fall flat on my face or my arse again –

Bruised and aching, aching and hurting, hurting and smarting
…

But I read the move and I collect the pass, collect the pass with my back to the goal, back to the goal and I shield the ball from McQueen, shield the ball from McQueen and I hold it, hold it and I turn, turn and I hit it, hit it on the volley, on the volley straight into the top corner, into the top corner and past Stewart’s hand, past Stewart’s hand as it flails around, as it flails around and the ball hits the back of the net –

The back of the fucking net, the fucking net –

But there’s no applause. No adoration. No love here –

No smiles here. No laughter here
.

‘Two-hundred and fifty-one goals,’ I tell them again. ‘Beat that!’

But they’re already walking off the training pitch, back to the dressing room, taking off their bibs and their tracksuit tops, throwing them to the ground –

Dirty and panting, panting and plotting, plotting and scheming
.

The press and the fans. Behind the fence. Through the wire –

Their eyes on me, inspecting and examining me, watching and observing me, staring and staring and staring at me, but only when I look away –

I feel like death. I feel like death. I feel like death
.

John Giles walks over to me. John Giles tells me, ‘I’ll be meeting up with the Eire squad on Sunday and then I’ll be going to go see the Spurs.’

‘Are you asking me or telling me, Irishman?’

‘Telling you, I suppose.’

‘Fingers crossed then,’ I tell him. ‘Fingers crossed.’

‘And there was me thinking you weren’t a superstitious man,’ he laughs.

* * *

It takes you a moment to remember. To remember why the phone is ringing. To
remember why the doorbell is ringing. To remember why the press and the television,
the pens and the microphones, the cameras and the lights, are all camped
outside your house
–

To remember why your three children are hiding in their rooms, under their
beds with their fingers in their ears, their eyes closed
–

It takes you that moment to remember you are no longer the manager of the
Derby County Football Club, that you are out of a job and out of work
–

But then you remember you’re not out of work. You do still have a job. You still
have television. Still have ITV. England vs Poland. The World Cup qualifier
–

The match they must win. Tonight. The biggest story since 1966
–

Bigger even than the resignation of Brian bloody Clough
.

* * *

Bones. Muscles. Broken bones. Torn muscles. Flesh and meat. Carcasses and cadavers. The Friday lunchtime press conference; there should be no post-mortems here, only prophecies; no excuses, only optimism; confidence, not doubt; hope and never fear:

‘I only wish I had a fit Duncan McKenzie, a fit Paul Madeley, a fit Michael Jones, a fit Eddie Gray and an available Billy Bremner to take on Manchester City.’

‘Would you also like an available Hartford?’ they ask me; ask because Manchester City’s Asa Hartford was involved in an on-off transfer with Leeds back in 1971, a transfer Don pulled out of on medical grounds –

A hole in the heart; Hartford, not Revie
.

‘He’ll be wanting to show off against us,’ I tell them. ‘Lots of players want to.’

But they don’t smile. They don’t laugh. They just look down at their notebooks, their spiral-bound notebooks, and they flick and click the tops of their ballpoint pens, flick and click, flick and click –

In and out. In and out. In and out –

Something in their eyes again
–

Carcasses, cadavers and death.

* * *

The day after your resignation from Derby, the England team are out on the pitch,
warming up in the Wembley night, waving to their families and friends, posing for
the official photographs, steadying their nerves, their stomachs and their bowels
.

You walk down from the gantry, across the pitch, that hallowed turf, to the centre
circle, to Roy McFarland, to David Nish, to Colin Todd, to Kevin Hector,
and you stick out your hand and tell them, ‘Don’t worry, lads. It’ll all work out
.’

And they shake your hand four times but look at you in confusion and in
despair, doubt and fear, with worry in their wide eyes, worry on their open
mouths, for the things they’ve seen, the things they’ve heard
–

The things they feel but do not understand
.

But then you’re gone. Back across that pitch, that hallowed turf, up into
your gantry to sit and stare down in judgement on them
–

On England and on Alf Ramsey
.

But tonight as you sit and stare down on Alf Ramsey, you feel regret, regret
for all the things you’ve said, you’ve said on television, on panels such as this
one, all the things you’ve said that have hurt Alf, hurt him and you know it
–

‘How is it he can’t pick a team from 2,000 players?’ you asked on television,
on a panel such as this, after England had lost in Italy last year
–

These things that have hurt him, hurt him and stripped him and left him
bare; bare and raw to the whispers and rumours that say you should be the next
manager of England, that say it is only a matter of time, should the unthinkable
occur, should England lose, should England draw
–

Should England not qualify
–

Then would be your time. Then would be your hour, should England lose.
England draw. England not qualify for the World Cup finals
–

That hope you’d never dare to utter. This hope you’d never dare to say:

‘
England will walk it,’ you assure the whole nation on Independent
Television. ‘That Polish keeper’s a clown, an absolute clown
.’

England do dominate the first half, camped in the Polish half of the pitch,
but that clown, that absolute clown, makes save after save after save from
Madeley, from Hughes, from Bell, from McFarland, from Hunter, from Currie,
from Channon, from Chivers, from Clarke and from Peters
.

Then, ten minutes into the second half, Poland finally get out of their own
half and break upfield. Hunter misses his tackle and Lato is away down the
left, away down the left and free to cross the ball to Domarski, who shoots
straight under Shilton
–

And there is silence, absolute silence. In the stands and on the pitch, silence
–

Except for you up in your gantry, on the television, on your panel, your
mouth opening and closing. But no one is listening. Not even to you
–

Up in the gantry. In judgement on England. In judgement on Alf Ramsey
–

Ramsey rocking back and forth on the bench down below
.

But ten minutes later England have equalized after Peters was fouled and
Clarke coolly converted the most important penalty in the history of English
football. But England still need to score again, score again to win, to win and
to qualify, and so Alf, rocking back and forth below, Alf brings on Hector. Hector
on his début for those final two minutes. Hector whose shot is cleared off the
line and then hears the final whistle
–

That final, final whistle and the end of an era
.

It is the first time that England have failed to qualify for the World Cup
since they first entered the competition in 1950. The first time since 1950 that
England won’t be at the World Cup, won’t be in West Germany. Not in 1974.
Not after this night
–

This night that ends everything. Ends everything. Everything
.

From up in the gantry you sit and stare down as Bobby Moore walks across
the pitch to put an arm around Norman Hunter, Norman Hunter who blames
himself, and you watch as Harold Sheperdson does the same and leads Hunter
from the pitch
–

‘
Hunter lost the World Cup! Hunter lost the World Cup!
’

And then you see Ramsey and you watch Ramsey, watch him walk away
down that long, long tunnel into that long, long night and again you feel regret
–

Regret. Regret. Regret
–

Regret not only for the things you’ve said, the things you’ve said on television,
those things you know have hurt him, but also for those things you’ve thought
–

Those things you’ve thought and dreamed of, dreamed and dared to hope for
–

For England to lose. For England to draw. England not to qualify
–

For Alf Ramsey to lose his job as England manager
–

For you to take his job as England manager
.

But now, this night, you feel regret, regret and hate, hate for yourself
.

You walk down from the gantry, across the pitch, that hallowed turf, down
that tunnel and into the England dressing room
.

‘
For what it’s worth,’ you tell Alf, ‘you must be the unluckiest man in football,
because you could have done that lot six or seven
.’

But when Ramsey looks up at you, stares up at you from the dressing-room
floor, there is no recognition in his eyes, only hurt
–

Hurt and fear
.

* * *

Never learn; never bloody learn. Never did and never fucking will. The piano bar of the Dragonara Hotel, two in the morning, drunk as fuck; drunk as fuck with the gentlemen of the local press; those scumbags and hacks, Harry, Ron and Mike –

Something in their eyes again
…

Harry, Ron and Mike were there at training; Harry, Ron and Mike there at lunch; Harry, Ron and Mike still here with me now at two in the morning in the piano bar of the Dragonara Hotel, listening to my stories, laughing at my jokes, and pouring my drinks –

Something in their eyes
.

I stand up. I sit down. I stand up again. I point my glass across the bar and shout, ‘Don’t you have a fucking home to go to?’

But Bert the Pianist just smiles and segues straight into ‘It’s a Lonesome Old Town’.

‘I never knew how much I missed you,’ I try to sing but shout –

Harry pulling me back down onto the sofa.

But I get back to my feet and point and shout, ‘Play “Hang My Tears Out to Dry”! Play “Hang My Tears Out to Dry”! Play “Hang My Tears Out to Dry” or you’re fucking sacked!’

‘Sit down,’ Ron is saying. ‘Come on, Brian lad, sit down …’

‘So make it one for my baby,’ Mike is singing. ‘And one more …’

‘Shut up!’ I tell him, tell them all. ‘That’s the wrong fucking song.’

‘Brian,’ they’re saying. ‘Brian, please –’

‘I want “I’ll Hang My Tears Out to Dry”,’ I tell the bar, the hotel, the whole of Leeds. ‘That’s all I want. “Guess I’ll Hang My Tears Out to Dry”. Fucking wankers, the lot of you!’

But there’s no one here. No one in the piano bar –

Harry, Ron and Mike have all gone home –

Bert the Pianist has gone home too –

No one here but bloody me –

Only fucking me now –

Cloughie
.

The barman takes my legs, the waiter takes my arms, but no one takes me home.

Day Thirty-two

England have drawn. England are out of the World Cup. The press and the
television want Ramsey out. The press and the television want you in. But all
you want this morning is company. Not to be on your Jack Jones in a posh
London hotel. Not today; Thursday 18 October 1973
.

You leave the capital. You drive back to Derby. There is a man on your
doorstep. Man you’ve never met before. He says, ‘I want to help you get your
job back, Brian.’

His name is John. John writes plays. Plays about the Yom Kippur War
.

‘
Come on in then,’ you tell him. ‘Have a seat and have a drink
.’

You hand him a large scotch and water. The doorbell rings
–

‘
Brian,’ whispers your wife. ‘It’s the police, love
.’

You put down your whisky with no water. You go to your front door:

‘Hello, George. Are you coming in?’ you ask Detective Inspector George
Stewart
.

‘
Not today, Brian,’ he says. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got to mark your card
.’

‘And why’s that then, George?’ you ask him
.

George nods at the Mercedes. ‘You do know you’re not insured, don’t you?’

‘
Like hell I’m not,’ you tell him. ‘I’ve just driven back from bloody London!
’

‘
I’m sorry to have to tell you that Mr Kirkland has cancelled your insurance
.’

‘
He’s done bloody what?’ you ask him. ‘The fucking cunt!
’

‘
Aye,’ says George. ‘And I wouldn’t want you to run into one of our lot who
doesn’t know who you are, or who doesn’t give a shit who you are, or who just
wants to make a bloody name for themselves, or just plain doesn’t like you very
fucking much
.’

‘
Point taken, George,’ you tell him and shut the door in his face
.

‘
That’s bloody outrageous,’ says John. ‘Fucking diabolical
.’

‘
Fucking inconvenient and all,’ you tell him. ‘I’ve got to drive to Birmingham
.’

‘About a job?’ asks John
.

‘
I bloody wish,’ you tell him. ‘I’m down to play in a charity match tonight
.’

‘
I’ll drive you,’ says John. ‘I’d be happy to
.’

‘
In that case I’ll have another drink,’ you tell John as your wife leaves the
room to pick up the kids
–

To make them their tea. To give them their baths. To put them to bed
–

To try to lead a normal bloody life
.

Later, much later that night, John is driving you back home from
Birmingham, from the charity match and the nightclub: the Talk of the
Midlands, where you shared a stage with Mike bloody Yarwood and appealed
to the people of Derby for their support
–

The people of Derby who gave you a standing fucking ovation
–

John is driving you back home when he asks, ‘Are you going to the game?’

You open your eyes. You ask him, ‘Which one?’

‘
The bloody Derby–Leicester one,’ he laughs. ‘On Saturday
.’

You shake your head. You tell him, ‘I daren’t.’

‘
You what?’ he says. ‘Cloughie scared?
’

You nod your head. ‘That’s right.’

‘
Listen to me,’ he tells you now. ‘If you were to walk around that running
track on Saturday afternoon, you’d get an ecstatic reception. The television will
be there. Be on all the news programmes. Think of the visual impact. The
impact on the public.
’

‘
I can’t do it,’ you tell him. ‘They might throw me out
.’

‘
They won’t throw you out,’ he laughs. ‘You created that team. You’re a hero
.’

‘
Well, I’ve not got a bloody ticket either
.’

‘
You leave that to me,’ says John. ‘You leave everything to me
.’

* * *

Saturday comes again, welcome or not, it comes again like it always does, welcome or not, wanted or not, another judgement day –

The chance to be saved, the chance to be damned.

I sit alone at the front of the coach on the motorway to Manchester and I already know today’s result before we’ve even arrived –

No mystery. Not today. Not there. Not at Maine Road.

I’ve not been to a game yet when I haven’t already known the result
before my team has got changed, before one whistle has been blown or one ball has been kicked; I know the result, know the answer –

Because I look into their eyes, I look into their hearts –

No mystery. Not today. Not any day. Not there –

Not in their eyes. Not in their hearts –

No mystery there. Just answers –

In the eyes. In the hearts –

Because in our eyes and in our hearts we have already lost, we are already damned.

* * *

It is Saturday lunchtime. You are at the Kedleston Hall Hotel, your new headquarters,
having a long lunch with John, his mate Bill Holmes, your mate Dave
Cox and Peter
–

Peter who looks like he’s died twice in the last two days
.

You’re all smoking and drinking more than you’re eating; knocking back the
booze; knocking back the Dutch courage
–

Laughing and joking more than you’re talking
.

Then John looks at his watch. Then John says, ‘It’s time, Brian.’

You finish your drink. You pat Pete on his knee. You both stand up. You leave
the restaurant of the Kedleston Hall Hotel. You go out into the car park. You
get into the Rolls-Royce. The front seat of the golden Rolls-Royce. You turn the
key. You start the engine and off you set through the streets of Derby. Pete on
the back seat, you at the wheel. Through the deserted streets of barricaded houses
and police reinforcements, deserted but for the police and the demonstrators
and their banners. The demonstrators who have boycotted the match, their banners
demanding, ‘BRING BACK CLOUGHIE!’

Through the deserted, barricaded streets to the Baseball Ground
.

It is five minutes to three o’clock when you park the Rolls and the policeman
asks, ‘How long do you intend staying, Brian?’

‘Five minutes, no longer,’ you tell him
.

‘
So you’re not stopping to watch the match?
’

‘
Believe it or not,’ you tell him, ‘I’m just nipping in to say cheerio
.’

The policeman lets you park the Rolls, lets you leave Pete on the back seat,
so you can nip through the demonstrators, through the cameras and the lights,
past the bewildered steward and through the turnstiles, into the ground on your
borrowed Derby County season ticket, where you then head off towards the
players’ entrance, but here the commissionaire blocks your way and thwarts
your plans to appear on the running track, so you run instead out beneath the
main stand and then up, up, up the steps you go and along the row to your borrowed
seat, just along from the directors’ box
–

And there you stand, risen, your arms outstretched
–

Immaculate in your new grey suit
–

Your arms outstretched
–

Immaculate and back.

The players stop their warm-up, the Derby County players and the
Leicester City players, as the Derby crowd applaud their hero
–

Applaud, adore and love their hero
.

Just along from you, Longson now gets to his feet as his fellow directors and
the season-ticket holders behind the directors’ box applaud him
–

But it’s too little and too late. Much too late
–

The real applause, the real adoration, the real love is for you
–

‘Cloughie! Cloughie! Cloughie!’

Then the referee blows his whistle and you’re gone, gone again, down the
stairs. Through the turnstiles. Past the same steward
–

Across the deserted street. Into your golden Rolls-Royce and away
–