The Damned Utd

Day Twenty-eight

There is no beginning and there is no end. Things just going from bad to worse; worse and worse, week by week, worse and worse, day by day, worse and worse –

Longson wants his seat on the League Management Committee, his place on the plane when England travel abroad, a word or a wave from the Duke of Kent in the Royal Box at Wembley, dinner and drinks with Hardaker and Shipman –

Longson thought you were his passport to these places, his ticket to the top, and so he gave you the keys to his car and his bungalow at Anglesey, a waste-disposal unit for your kitchen and a Burberry suede coat for your back, presents for your kids and the photograph in his wallet of the son he never had –

‘It’s in the eyes, the power Brian has over the players, power he has over me.’

Now Longson wishes he’d never looked into your eyes, into the eyes of the son he never had; the son he no longer wants; this son he no longer speaks to.

So you dictate while Peter types:

‘Due to the complete breakdown of communication, common sense and ability to have a reasonable discussion with the chairman, we find it impossible to work with Mr Longson for the good of Derby County any more. Would you please advise the best way to resolve this urgent problem?’

You both sign the letter, put the letter into an envelope and then the post.

* * *

The sun is not shining, the sky is not blue, and it’s an ugly Tuesday morning in August 1974. The lack of sleep and the lack of dreams. The excess of nightmares and the excess of drink. The hangover and the call home. To the wife and to the kids. To say I love you and I miss you and wish I was there –

There, there, anywhere but here –

The Royal Garden Hotel, Kensington High Street, London.

* * *

There is no response. No answer to your letter. No beginning and no end. Things just getting worse and worse, day by day, worse and worse, hour by hour, worse and worse –

Jack Kirkland and Stuart Webb, the new director and the new secretary, have got their feet right under the table now, your table. Kirkland and Webby have unveiled their plans for a new 50,000-capacity stadium, a 50,000-capacity stadium with a sports and leisure centre attached, a 50,000-capacity stadium that means no more money for transfers, no more money for players and no more money for you.

You would protest to the chairman, but he is not speaking to you. You would protest to the board, but they are not speaking to you; no one is but Jack Kirkland:

‘I’m going to give you some good advice,’ he tells you. ‘No matter how good you are, or how powerful you think you are, the chairman is the boss, then come the directors and the secretary, then come the fans and the players, and finally and last of bloody all comes the fucking manager.’

But you’ve already got your fingers in your ears and your eyes on the clock; hour by hour, minute by minute, things just getting worse and worse –

Fingers in your ears, your eyes on the clock –

There is no beginning. There is no end.

* * *

There is no one in the dining room when I get down there. Breakfast has finished. The waiters clearing away the cups and the plates. The team gone. I sit down and drain the last dregs from a cold pot of tea and scrape a last bit of butter over a cold slice of toast. The waiters watching me from the doors to the kitchen –

‘Have a seat,’ I tell them. ‘Pull up a pew and let’s have a chat.’

But the waiters stay where they are by the door to the kitchen, watching me.

‘I’ll tell you this story, shall I?’ I ask them. ‘Frank Sinatra was once in this bar late at night in Palm Springs, just him and the barman, the barman tidying up and getting ready to shut up shop for the night when, suddenly, the door opens and in runs this woman and says, “Excuse me! Excuse me! Do you have a jukebox in here?” And Frank Sinatra turns around and looks her right in the face and says, “Excuse me? What did you say?” And so the woman says again, “Do they have a jukebox in here?” So Frank looks around the room and then turns back to her and says, “Doesn’t look like it but, if you want, I’ll sing for you.” And the woman says, “No thanks.” And she turns and walks out. So, anyway, the barman is very embarrassed and he says, “She obviously didn’t recognize you, Mr Sinatra.” But Frank just shrugs and says, “Or maybe she did.”’

The waiters walk over to my table by the window. The waiters have found their courage now, their pens and their pieces of paper –

‘He met me, you know,’ I tell them, as I sign my name for them –

‘Who did?’ they ask.

‘Frank Sinatra.’

* * *

You have been told there is no money. You have been told not to buy any new players. You have been told there is no money for transfers. But you lose 1–0 at Coventry and you know you have to buy some new players. You make a telephone call. You drive down to London. To the Churchill Hotel.

‘I hear you are interested in winning a Championship medal?’

‘Who wouldn’t be?’

‘Someone who already had one.’

Bobby Moore smiles. Bobby Moore grins. Bobby Moore, captain of West Ham and England. Bobby Moore, World Cup winner and national treasure.

‘Would you play for Derby County?’ you ask him.

Bobby Moore lights another fag. Bobby Moore laughs, ‘Why not?’

‘That’ll do for me,’ you tell him and take him for lunch in the restaurant.

‘I’m afraid,’ begins the maître d’hôtel at the door, ‘that Mr Moore is not dressed appropriately for our restaurant …’

‘Listen to me,’ you tell him. ‘My team will never stay here again if my player can’t sit in this restaurant, my player who has won the World Cup for this country, my player who has done more for this bloody country than any other person you have ever had in your fucking little restaurant!’

‘I don’t play for you yet,’ whispers Bobby Moore.

‘Shut up!’ you tell him. ‘You’re my player. I’ll ring Ron straight after lunch.’

* * *

The team will be training, having their rub-downs and their massages, lunch back at the hotel and then a short nap. I meet the London press in the hotel bar. I confirm that Madeley and McKenzie are still injured and will not play tonight. I admit that Yorath will. I deny any interest in Burnley’s captain Dobson. I refuse to talk about Bremner and Giles and tomorrow’s FA Disciplinary Committee. I have a couple of drinks with a couple of journalists and then a long, long lunch with David Coleman. Half an hour late back to the hotel, I go up to my room, throw my clothes in my case and take the coach with the team to Loftus Road.

* * *

You do not make an appointment. You do not telephone. You go straight to Upton Park. You do not wait in line and you do not knock on Ron Greenwood’s door. You just walk right into his office and tell him, ‘I’m here for a chat. Now, have you got any whisky?’

Ron Greenwood gets to his feet. Ron Greenwood gets you a whisky.

‘Any water?’ you ask him. ‘I am driving.’

‘The kitchen’s just round the corner,’ he tells you.

You go off to find the kitchen. You get the receptionist to take you up to the directors’ box. You ask her all sorts of questions about West Ham United, about Ron Greenwood and Bobby Moore –

Twenty minutes later, you’re back in Ron’s office –

‘I’ve been having a good look around this place,’ you tell him. ‘Isn’t it lovely? All nice and spruce. You don’t know how lucky you are, a nice place like this.’

‘Glad you like it,’ says Ron Greenwood. ‘Was there anything else?’

‘Yes,’ you tell him. ‘I want to sign Bobby Moore and Trevor Brooking.’

‘You can’t be serious, Brian?’

‘Every man’s got his price,’ you tell him. ‘And I’d make sure it was a nice big bloody price, with a nice big fucking piece of it for you and for Bobby and Trevor.’

‘They’re not for sale,’ says Ron Greenwood.

‘How about we start at £300,000 for the pair of them, plus your slice?’

‘They’re not for sale,’ he says again.

‘Well then, how about £400,000 for the pair of them, plus your slice?’

‘Brian,’ says Ron Greenwood, ‘they are not for sale.’

‘Well listen then, if I can’t have Moore, can I have Brooking? Or how about this? If I can’t have Brooking, can I have Moore?’

‘They’re not available,’ he says again. ‘But I’ll pass your offer on to the board.’

‘How about £500,000?’ you ask. ‘£500,000 for the pair of them? Not forgetting your slice of the cake for all your toil and trouble. Can’t say fairer than that, now can we, Ron?’

Ron Greenwood is on his feet again, the door to his office open –

‘Any chance of another whisky then?’ you ask him. ‘One for the road?’

* * *

It’s only six days since Queen’s Park Rangers beat Leeds United 1–0 at Elland Road. My first home game, to a warm reception. Just six days ago, just last week. It feels like six years ago, another lifetime –

‘This lot came to your house last week and they beat you,’ I tell the visitors’ dressing room at Loftus Road. ‘They beat you in your own house, in front of your own fans; the League Champions, in their own house, in front of their own fans. They beat you because you couldn’t handle Gerry fucking Francis. Yorath will handle him tonight so the rest of you can forget about him, because you won’t see him. But remember this, the lot of you, every bloody one of you — they beat you in your own house last week, in front of your own fans. Now in my book there’s only one bloody answer to something like that and I hope you don’t need me to fucking tell you what that is — do you?’

They look up from their boots. From their socks and their tags. Their eyes blank –

‘Do you?’

They shake their heads. They nod their heads –

‘Right then, well bloody well get out there and show me that fucking answer!’

They stand up from the benches. They file out of the dressing room –

Into the corridor. Down the tunnel. Onto the pitch –

The grass and the earth. The soil and the dirt –

The heavy, heavy mud.

* * *

Everyone has heard about your adventures in London; the chairman, the directors, the players and the fans. You made bloody sure they did. You might not have got Bobby Moore, you might not have got Trevor Brooking, but you still got what you wanted; no way for the board to refuse you transfer money now, so you got your new signing: Henry Newton for £120,000 from Everton –

And all this talk of new signings, of trips to London, of Bobby Moore and Trevor Brooking, all this talk means there’s no need for a team talk today –

Saturday 22 September 1973; Derby County vs Southampton:

There’s a penalty after seven minutes and, on the retake, Alan Hinton scores. Twenty minutes later, Roger Davies brings down a Hinton cross on his chest to score the second. Ten minutes after that, Hinton crosses again and this time Kevin Hector scores. Southampton pull one back before half-time, but it doesn’t matter. Ten minutes into the second half, Hinton leaves two Southampton players standing and crosses again for Hector to make it 4–1. Southampton then pull another back, but again it doesn’t matter. Hector sets up Davies for the fifth and then Davies sets up Hector for his hat-trick.

It is the first time Derby County have scored six since they beat Scunthorpe United in April 1963. Kevin Hector’s hat-trick was also Derby’s first in the league since 1969 and means Hector has now broken Jack Parry’s post-war league scoring record with 107 goals in 287 games –

Derby County are now back up to second, Leeds United still first.

* * *

It was a good game, the best yet. They played for their pride and they played with their hearts. Especially in the first half as Lorimer, McGovern, Giles and Yorath passed the ball the length and width of the field, opening Queen’s Park Rangers up so that Yorath scored one and McGovern had one cleared off the line by Terry Venables. Rangers then equalized early in the second half, but it was still a good game. The best yet –

‘We have come on a ton tonight,’ I tell the microphones and the pens, the cameras and the lights, on the pitch and in the tunnel. ‘And when you get it into perspective, when you remember we still have men like Bremner, McKenzie, Madeley and Jones out, it was marvellous. We should have really wrapped it up in the first half, we were that much on top. But at least there are no further injuries.’

It was a good game, the best yet. They played for their pride and they played with their hearts. But there are still no smiles on the team coach out of Loftus Road. No smiles and no laughter. Just the murmurs and the whispers, the paperback books and the packs of cards. I plonk myself down next to Syd Owen again –

‘Do you think I should wear this every match day, Sydney?’ I ask him.

‘Wear what?’

‘Wear this,’ I tell him, pointing at my old green Leeds United goalkeeping jersey.

‘Why?’

‘I think it might just be my lucky jumper,’ I tell him. ‘My lucky colour.’

‘I thought you didn’t believe in luck, Mr Clough? In superstition?’

‘Well, you know what they say?’ I ask him. ‘When in Rome …’

‘Are you going to wear it tomorrow then?’

‘Tomorrow?’ I ask him. ‘What’s tomorrow?’

‘Just the FA disciplinary hearing.’

* * *

You have been beaten 1–0 by Tottenham Hotspur at White Hart Lane, drawn at home with Norwich City and watched Henry Newton struggle in both games. The board have refused Peter permission to write for the Derby Evening Telegraph. The board have refused your wife and Peter’s wife tickets for the game at Old Trafford this Saturday.

It is Thursday and you are late again for the weekly board meeting. In your absence, Sam Longson has called for your sacking –

‘For bloody breach of fucking contract?’ you repeat.

‘There is a clause in your contract,’ states Longson, ‘that requires you to give your whole time and your whole attention to the affairs of Derby County Football Club.’

‘Hypocrites! Bloody hypocrites! When I was invited to sit on the last World Cup panel, three years ago now, you lot bloody told me I must do it. And in those days I even fucking took him with me,’ you tell them, rail at them, pointing at Longson –

‘And he bloody lapped it up, fucking loved it he did!’

‘Stop him doing television,’ Peter tells them, ‘and you’ll take away part and parcel of his management job from him. That’s unfair. Brian’s right, you were the ones who encouraged him in the first place. Egged him on.’

‘Not me,’ says Jack Kirkland. ‘You’ll not be laying that one at my door.’

‘Well then, what about this?’ asks Longson and hands out a piece of paper –

It’s an invoice for your expenses for your trip to Amsterdam; your trip to Amsterdam to watch Poland play Holland, the warm-up for the England game –

The England game you will be watching and speaking about for ITV.

‘That’s a mistake,’ you tell them. ‘A genuine mistake. The TV pays for that.’

This time the board believe you. This time Sam Longson loses the vote to sack you. You have lived to fight another day –

But Jack Kirkland still has the last word:

‘Stay off the bloody television and cut down the newspaper work,’ he tells you. ‘And get on with the fucking job we’re paying you for.’

It is Thursday 11 October 1973.