The Damned Utd

Day Twenty-six

You are out of the European Cup. You are out of the league title race. You are out of the FA and the League Cups. The only way Derby County can now qualify for next season’s UEFA Cup is if Derby beat Wolverhampton Wanderers tonight and then Leeds United beat Second Division Sunderland in the FA Cup final tomorrow or Leeds beat AC Milan in the Cup Winners’ Cup final. You beat Wolves. You do it in half an hour –

First Roy McFarland tucks in a ball from John O’Hare, next O’Hare centres for Roger Davies to lash into the roof of the net, then Davies pounces again to send home the rebound from a David Nish shot; the job done in half an hour, your eyes are on the roof of the stand, the fingers of grass on the pitch, the hands on the face of your watch –

Because these are the last few minutes of the 1972–73 season. The last few minutes you are League Champions. The final whistle will blow and Bill Shankly and Liverpool will be the new Champions, not you –

But who watches Bill Shankly on the box? Who reads his columns?

Does Mike Yarwood impersonate Bill Shankly on his show?

You know you annoy as many people as you amuse on the television; On the Ball and The Big Match. They might kick the screen, they might kiss the screen, but you know no one switches it off while you’re on. They bloody watch it. The same with your columns in the newspapers: the Sunday Express and the Sun. They might screw them up and stick them in their bin, they might cut them out and stick them on their wall, but you know no one turns the page. They bloody read them. The same with directors. You know you annoy as many directors as you impress. But you also know most would love to have you managing their club, know most would have you at the drop of a hat.

Just like you annoy as many managers as you inspire. But you know they’d all like a bit of what you’ve got, have a bit of what you’ve got, give their right arm for it.

The same with the bloody players; you know there are more who loathe you than love you. But you know not one would ask for a transfer, over their dead fucking body –

You have seen the tears in their eyes. Heard their pleas for mercy.

Because on your day, on your day there is no stopping you. On your day, you can do no wrong; walk on water, then turn it into wine –

Just like today; even after you’ve been knocked down and robbed blind by Juventus, even after you’ve been cheated out of the European Cup, cheated out of your destiny by that black-and-white old whore, even after all that, you’ve still gone out and fucking won the last three bloody league matches of the season –

Still scored nine goals, still conceded only one, still got six points out of six –

Beating Everton 3–1, Ipswich Town 3–0, and now Wolves 3–0.

But now it all stops. The season over. Champions no more. Europe no more –

You have done your job. The season over. It is out of your hands now –

Your empty hands. No trophies. Your season now over –

Between the fingers, the fingers of grass –

In the soil. In the dirt. In the mud –

Everything bad, bad, bad –

It hits you anew every day. Every time you close your eyes, that’s all you ever see, her face in the kitchen. In the doorway. In the garden. In her hat. In her nightie. In the hospital. You wish you’d buried your mam, not cremated her. Now there is no grave, no place to go. But if you had buried her, if there had been a grave, you’d go every Sunday –

But there’s no place to go but here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here –

Here where the crowd’s all gone home, here where there is no crowd –

No crowd. No trophies. No one. No one here now, now, now –

‘I’ve lost my mam,’ is all you can say, over and over –

No spirits here. No ghosts here. No saints here –

‘I’ve lost my mam,’ is all you can repeat –

Only devils are here. Only demons now –

‘I’ve lost my mam,’ all you can say –

Devils and demons. Here, now –

Now, now your mam is dead.