The Damned Utd

Day Twenty-five

There would have been superstition. There would have been tradition. There would have been routine. There would have been ritual. There would have been the blue suit. There would have been the dossiers. The bingo and the bowls. There would have been the walk around the traffic lights. The same route to that bench in the dug-out. There would have been no pictures of birds. No peacock feathers. No ornamental animals –

Saturday 24 August 1974.

Under the feet. Under the stand. Through the doors. Round the corners. Down the corridors. In the office with the door locked and a chair against it, I hang my daughter’s picture of an owl upon the wall; hang it above the china elephant and the wooden horse; hang it next to the photograph of the peacock and the mirror –

The cracked and broken mirror.

There would also have been the envelopes full of cash. Under the table. Briefcases and boxes of notes. Hundreds and thousands. Unmarked and non-sequential. In a brown paper bag or on a back doorstep. That would have been the stink of Don’s Saturday. The stench of Don’s Saturday –

‘Where’s the money, Don? Where’s it all gone?’

Under the feet and under the stand, through the doors and round the corners, down the corridors come their voices, knocking on the door, rattling at the lock –

‘What is it now?’ I yell. ‘Who is it now?’

Through the keyhole Syd and Maurice whisper, ‘It’s us.’

‘Bates and Cooper are out; Hunter and Clarke are back in; Jordan is on the bench; McGovern and O’Hare still starting. Now fuck off,’ I shout. ‘The bloody pair of you.’

Their laughter echoes and retreats down the corridors. Round the corners. Through the doors. Under the stands. Under the feet, 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 …

The stink of my Saturday. The stench of my Saturday –

Shit, shit, shit. Shit, shit, shit. Shit, shit, shit. Shit, shit, shit. Shit, shit, shit.

* * *

25 April 1973; the Baseball Ground; the second leg of the semi-final of the European Cup and the crowd of over 38,000 is almost on the pitch. The crowd packed in so bloody tight, tight and tense, the Baseball Ground is a fucking bear pit. You straighten your tie. You straighten your hair –

No Gemmill tonight. No McFarland tonight –

‘They did for us in Turin,’ you tell the dressing room. ‘Now we’ll do for them here tonight in Derby. Here tonight in our own house! Here tonight on our own field!’

Webster sends Zoff sprawling in the opening minutes; O’Hare shoots and Zoff saves again; Hinton’s free kick forces another save from Zoff –

But the Old Whore’s lips are sealed tonight; cold and dry, her legs are closed; she niggles at your players, she nips at your players, tickles and teases them –

Salvadore goes in the book, Spinosi and Altafini too –

The possession all yours, the resistance hers.

Finally, finally, there’s a hint of thigh; the briefest, slightest glimpse of leg beneath the Old Whore’s skirts; in the fifty-fourth minute Kevin Hector goes down. The whistle blows and Derby have a penalty. Alan Hinton steps up. Alan Hinton shoots –

Wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiide!

‘Fucking hell,’ you shout. ‘Fucking useless piece of fucking shit.’

You will eat Hinton for dinner, spit him out, prostrate on the dressing-room floor, this fucking useless piece of fucking shit, this fucking useless piece of fucking shit who has stolen victory from you, robbed you of the European Cup.

But you do not give up. Yet. You refuse to give up. Yet. You will never give up –

You look at your watch. You look at your watch. You look at your watch –

There is still time. There is still time. There is still time –

Until Roger Davies explodes and headbutts Morini –

Until Roger Davies gets bloody sent off –

‘Fucking useless piece of fucking shit.’

This fucking useless piece of fucking shit, this fucking useless piece of fucking shit who has stolen victory from you, robbed you of the cup –

Down to ten men with twenty-four minutes to go.

Twenty minutes from the end, you take off Peter Daniel, stick on John Sims, your striker from your reserves; this is the extent of the hand you have to play –

Boulton saves from Anastasi. Boulton saves from Longobucco –

Your empty, empty bloody hand and then the empty, empty fucking sound of that last and final whistle as black-and-white arms punch the air —

Black-and-white flags flood onto the pitch —

Black-and-white chequered flags –

Pull you under, finish you off –

Finish and drown you.

You drew 0–0 with Juventus. You won thirteen corners and twenty-nine free kicks but it is no consolation; no consolation that only Manchester United have gone any further than you, only Manchester United have reached the final –

Only Manchester United have lifted that cup –

Drunk from that European Cup –

No consolation whatsoever.

No consolation that Juventus will be beaten 1–0 by Ajax of Amsterdam in the final in Belgrade next month. No consolation that the Portuguese referee, Francisco Lobo, will tell UEFA that an attempt was made to bribe him before tonight’s game, that he was offered $5,000 and a Fiat car if he would allow the Italians to win the second leg. No consolation that five years ago you were losing at home to Hull City, in front of 15,000 people, sixteenth in Division Two –

It is no fucking consolation whatsoever –

There can be no consolation.

These days and these months, this year and this time will always be with you, never leave you, never leave you, never leave you –

The blackest two months of your whole life, months that still haunt and hound you, that will always haunt and hound you, always haunt and hound you –

March and April 1973; the end of anything good, the beginning of everything bad.

* * *

I go into the dressing room and the dressing room goes silent. I stare at David Harvey. I stare at Paul Reaney. I stare at Trevor Cherry. I stare at John McGovern. I stare at Gordon McQueen. I stare at Norman Hunter. I stare at Peter Lorimer. I stare at Allan Clarke. I stare at John O’Hare. I stare at John Giles and I stare at Paul Madeley –

‘You’re going to win today,’ I tell them. ‘You’re going to win.’

Then I leave that dressing room and walk down that tunnel and out into that stadium and make my way to that bench in the dug-out, where I take my seat on that bench between Jimmy Gordon and Joe Jordan –

No one says, ‘Afternoon, Cloughie.’

No one says, ‘Best of luck, Brian.’

No one says anything; the crowd is quiet and down 9,000 on the corresponding day last season; it might be the holiday weekend; it might be the violence on the terraces at some grounds; it might be Leeds United’s results so far –

It might just be me.

The doubt and the fear. That stink of Saturday. The whistle –

Birmingham have not come to defend. They have come to attack –

Four times they almost score. Through Francis. Through Burns. Through Hatton. Through Kendall. But four times they miss –

Hunter at the back. Hunter back from suspension. Hunter makes the difference –

McGovern has played better. McGovern has played worse –

O’Hare plays well beside Lorimer. O’Hare plays well beside Clarke –

Clarke up front. Clarke back from suspension –

Clarke makes the difference.

The Birmingham clearance hits the referee. The ball spins backwards into the path of a young, debutant Birmingham defender. Clarke is too quick for him –

1–0! 1–0! 1–0! 1–0! 1-fucking-fucking-0!

I’m off the bench and out the dug-out with a big, big kiss for Allan Clarke. A smacker, right on the chops –

No one in England could have scored it better than the way Clarkey did. It is one touch of class above all others –

Nothing lucky about it –

No blue suits. No dossiers. No bingo and no bowls. No ritual walks around the traffic lights or lucky routes to this bench in the dug-out. No envelopes full of cash. No gamesmanship or cheating –

Just football …

Not superstition. Not bloody ritual and not fucking luck –

Just good, clean, honest football.

‘There will be no stopping us,’ I tell the press. ‘No stopping us now.’