The Damned Utd

Day Twenty-two

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.

* * *

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.’