Authors: David Peace
Derby County say they have a tradition. But it’s not much of one; of entertainment,
not success, bar the 1946 FA Cup-winning side of Jack Nicholas,
Raich
Carter and Peter
Doherty
. Derby County say they have a history. But
not much of one; relegated from the First Division in 1953; relegated from the
Second in 1955. Back now in the Second Division. But only just. Derby
County also say they have a curse. But not much of one; just the old belief that
the club was cursed by the gypsies who were turned off the site of the Baseball
Ground, them and every other club
–
Curses. History. Tradition
–
Derby County don’t know the meaning of the bloody words, not in the
fucking Midlands. Middlesbrough, Sunderland and Newcastle, these are the
places where curses, tradition and history mean something; in the north-east.
You already think you might have made a mistake leaving home, leaving home
and coming here
.
Your very first game as manager of Derby County is on the 1967 pre-season
tour of West Germany. Derby County are rubbish. Bloody rubbish. Utter
fucking rubbish
–
Now you know you have made a mistake, now you know you should have
stayed at Hartlepools, should have stayed at home
.
Sam Longson is stood beside you and Peter on the touchline
–
‘
What do you expect me to do with this bloody lot, Mr Chairman?
’
Sam Longson lights another cigar. Sam Longson says, ‘It’s in your hands
.’
‘
Good,’ you tell him. ‘In that case, I’ll sack the fucking lot of them
.’
* * *
I can’t get out of bed. Not with this head. This job. I can hear the wife and the kids downstairs. The dog barking at the radio. But I can’t get
out of bed. I reach for my watch, but it’s not there. Sod it. I get out of bed, get washed and get dressed. I go downstairs –
‘What time did you get in last night?’ asks the wife.
‘Too late,’ I tell her.
She rolls her eyes and asks us, ‘Do you want any breakfast?’
I shake my head. I tell her, ‘I best be off.’
‘Drive carefully,’ she says. ‘And call if you’re going to be late.’
I nod and turn to the boys. ‘Who wants to go to work with their dad today?’
The boys look down at their hands. Their fingers and their nails.
My wife comes up behind me. My wife kisses me on the cheek. My wife says, ‘Don’t force them, love. Not if they don’t want to.’
‘And what if I don’t want to?’
She looks at me. She shakes her head. She starts to speak –
‘Just kidding,’ I tell her and open the front door. ‘Just kidding.’
* * *
A manager is always at his strongest in his first three months at a club. Get all
the unpleasant stuff out of the way then, because you’re never stronger than in
your first three months. Things like that are hard work to other managers but they
are not hard work to you. Things like discipline, coaching and training. You have
got your mind set on football and you know just how to approach it. Doesn’t
matter if it’s Manchester United or Liverpool. Leeds United or Derby County
–
You tell the players that they have three weeks to make an impression on
you or they’re out. Three weeks later, you sack sixteen of the playing staff, the
chief scout, four groundsmen, the secretary, the assistant secretary, a couple of
clerks and the tea ladies. You take down the photographs of Jack Nicholas,
Raich
Carter and Peter
Doherty
–
No more tradition. No more history. No more curses
–
You want a bloody revolution. You want a future. You want it now
.
You stand up before the Rotary Club of Derby and you tell them, and the
newspapers, and the television cameras, ‘Derby County under me will never
finish as low as they did last season
–
‘
I promise you they will always finish higher than seventeenth
.’
* * *
The manager’s office on a Monday morning and it all starts again. Building, building, building. To Saturday. Like Taylor used to say, if you’re wrong on a Monday then you’re wrong on a Saturday. But Taylor isn’t here. Not today. Today there’s just a pile of shit on my brand-new desk. A pile of shit and no secretary. A pile of shit that includes hate mail, death threats and the promise of legal action from Don Revie –
For the things I said, the many public things I said
–
‘On that show you did last Friday?’ asks Jimmy Gordon.
‘Aye,’ I tell him. ‘Didn’t think they could get
Calendar
down at Lancaster Gate.’
‘Don’s house is only round the corner,’ says Jimmy. ‘He’s back all the time.’
‘Why do you think I’m getting the fucking locks changed,’ I tell him.
* * *
‘
I’ve seen one,’ Peter tells you and off you set, no questions asked, because this
is how it works, you and Peter, this is the chemistry, the magic
–
Observe. Expose. Replace –
This is Peter’s talent; spotting players. This is Peter’s hard work, how he
earns his brass; travelling down to Devon on a Saturday in August to watch
Torquay
United vs Tranmere Rovers; to watch a centre-forward vs a centre
-
half; to watch Jim
Fryatt
vs Roy McFarland; to sneak out of the ground to find
a phone box to ring you up – at the club, in a pub, at your home – and say,
‘I’ve found one
.’
Because that’s all it takes, three little words, and off you set
–
Derby to Liverpool. Liverpool to Tranmere
.
The directors’ box at
Prenton
Park is overflowing with managers and scouts.
They all ask you, ‘Who you after then, Brian?
’
The Tranmere manager knows the moment he sees you both. Dave Russell
says, ‘Don’t beat around the bush now, lads, it’s my young centre-half that’s
brought you all the way up here, isn’t it, lads?
’
You both nod. You say, ‘You can’t kid a kidder
.’
‘
Well then, you’ll both be happy to know that he’s available for the right
price. How much you got to spend, lads?
’
You cough. You take out your handkerchief. You tell
him,‘£9,000
.’
‘
Fuck off,’ he laughs
–
This is how it begins. How it always begins
–
When you get to
£20
,000 you ask Dave Russell if you can use his phone,
‘Because this is getting so bloody high that I’ll need sanction from the chairman
.’
You go over to his desk. You pick up the phone. You dial an empty office. You
plead down the line to the ringing bell, ‘Please, Mr
Longson.£24,000
. That’s
what they’re asking
…’
‘
They might want more … That’s your limit, I understand … I’ll tell him
then.
£24,000
and not a penny more
…’
You hang up on the ringing phone. You look over at Dave Russell
–
You know Dave wants more. You know you could go as high as
£50
,000
–
But he doesn’t and he never will.
You tell Dave, ‘You heard the chairman;
£24,000
. Not a penny more
.’
Dave Russell sighs. Dave Russell shrugs his shoulders
–
You shake hands with Dave. But then Dave says
–
‘
If he wants to go to Derby, that is
.’
‘
Course he bloody will,’ you tell him. ‘Don’t you fucking worry about that
.’
It’s gone midnight as you drive through the Mersey Tunnel. You park outside
a small terraced house and bang on its door. But Roy’s not here. His father
tells you to try such-
and-
such a club where he sometimes goes. Roy’s not there
either. You drive back to the small terraced house and bang on its door again.
Roy’s here now but Roy’s in his bed. You get his father to bring him downstairs
in his red-
and-
white striped pyjamas
.
‘
These gentlemen are from Derby County,’ Dave Russell tells young sleepyhead. ‘I have agreed a fee with them, Roy. So, if you want to go – and you don’t
have to – but, if you want to go, you can become a Derby County player
.’
But he doesn’t want to play for Derby. He wants to play for Liverpool
–
For Bill Shankly.
Roy has spent his childhood on the Kop; his adolescence waiting for the call
–
But
Bill’s
not called. Peter Taylor and Brian Howard Clough have
.
‘
I don’t care how long you take or how many questions you want to ask.
We are going to create one of the best teams in England and I’m not going
anywhere until you decide you want to be a part of that team
.’
Roy’s father remembers you; remembers one of the goals you scored
–
‘
It was a beauty,’ he tells his son. ‘Even the Kop chanted his name and, if
Brian Clough wants you for Derby County this much, I think you should go
.’
You take out a contract. You take out a pen. You put it in Roy’s hand
–
Peter has the eyes and the ears, but you have the stomach and the balls
–
Not Peter and not Bill Shankly
–
Brian Howard Clough.
You get back home with the dawn. You ring the
Evening Telegraph –
You get the home phone number of the Sports Editor. You get him out of bed
–
‘
I’ve got a scoop for you,’ you tell him. ‘I’ve just signed Roy McFarland
.’
‘
Who the fuck is Roy McFarland?’ he asks. ‘And what bloody time is it?
’
* * *
No one says good morning. No one says hello. I stand at the edge of the training pitch and watch Jimmy put them through their paces –
Running. Running. Running
.
I call Frank Gray over. I tell him, ‘Need to have a chat about your contract.’
‘Been nice knowing you,’ shouts one of them –
Running. Running. Running
.
But no one laughs. No one says another word.
* * *
You have bought Roy McFarland and you have bought John O’Hare from
Sunderland. You have got rid of some of the deadwood and you win the opening
game of the 1967–68 season against a Charlton side managed by Bob Stokoe
–
‘
Come on,’ Stokoe once laughed at you, laughed at you in the mud, in the
mud and on your knees, on your knees that were shattered and shot, fucked
and finished for ever
–
Bob Stokoe who told the referee, ‘He’s fucking
codding
is Clough
.’
You win that game but lose the next. Win the next and then the next
–
Lose the one after that but win the next and the next again
–
This is how it goes, this life of yours
–
Win one, lose one. Win the next
–
The performances improve and the attendances increase, but if the performances
deteriorate then the gates go with them
–
Then you’ll be next, you know that
–
You’ll be next, fucked and finished for ever
.
* * *
I don’t knock and they don’t offer me a drink, so I help myself. Then I sit down, spark up and tell them, ‘I’ve seen one.’
‘One what?’
‘Player, name of Duncan McKenzie,’ I tell them. ‘And tomorrow I’m going to buy him from Nottingham Forest for
£
250,000.’
‘Now just one bloody minute,’ says Bolton.
‘We haven’t got one,’ I tell them.
‘One what?’
‘One minute or, for that matter, one centre-forward.’
‘Now just a –’
‘Allan Clarke is bloody suspended and Jones is fucking injured,’ I tell them all. ‘So I don’t know who you think is going to score you the goals you’ll need to retain the league or win you the European Cup.’
‘There’ll have to be a discussion,’ says Bolton. ‘We know nothing about this Duncan McKenzie and you’re asking us to part with a quarter of a million bloody quid.’
‘Twenty-eight goals last season,’ I tell him. ‘What more do you need to know?’
‘I’d like to know who else you’re planning to buy?’ asks Percy Woodward.
‘A goalkeeper and a centre-half,’ I tell him. ‘This team needs rebuilding from the back. This team needs a new spine.’
‘And who would this new spine be then?’
‘Peter Shilton and Colin Todd.’
‘And what about Harvey and Hunter?’ asks Bolton. ‘They are both full internationals.’
‘So are Shilton and Todd.’
‘But are they for sale?’ asks Cussins.
I laugh. I tell him, ‘Everyone’s for sale, Mr Cussins. Surely you know that?’
‘Quite a long list you’ve got there,’ says Bolton. ‘Papers also say you’re interested in Derby’s John McGovern.’
‘You shouldn’t believe everything you read,’ I tell them. ‘But he’s a good player. Known him since he was a lad.’
‘We have Billy Bremner,’ says Bolton. ‘We don’t need John McGovern.’
‘You might be right,’ I tell him. ‘You might be wrong. But you pay me to be right every Saturday and I’m telling you, you need new players because some of the lot you’ve got have bloody shot it.’
‘They’re the League Champions,’ says Woodward.
‘Last season,’ I tell him. ‘Last season.’
‘Look,’ says Cussins. ‘The first priority is the contracts of the players we have. The ones we want to hang on to. There are still eight to be signed.’
‘These contracts?’ I ask them. ‘Why weren’t they done before I got here?’
‘It was difficult,’ says Cussins. ‘What with the World Cup and the close season.’