The Damned Utd

Day Thirty-one

Under another bloated grey Yorkshire sky, they are dirty and panting again, dirty and panting in their purple tracksuits with their names on their backs. There are still no smiles. There is still no laughter. Just the stains on their knees, the stains on their arses. I have given up on smiles here. I have given up on laughter now.

Maurice and Sydney stand to one side, heads together, crooked and hunched, whispering and muttering, whispering and muttering, whispering and muttering.

Jimmy stands in the middle, doing a bit of this, doing a bit of that, a joke here and a joke there. But no one is smiling. No one is laughing. No one is even listening –

Except the press and the fans. Behind the fence. Through the wire –

Their eyes are on me now, inspecting and examining, watching and observing me, staring and staring and staring at me –

No more zombies, I’m thinking. No more fucking zombies, Brian.

I walk up to Maurice and Sydney. I take the whistle off Sydney. I take the bibs off Maurice and I get some five-a-sides going; me on one side, Clarkey on another.

I know they all want to tackle me, to tackle me hard, to bring me down, down to the ground, back down to earth, to see me fall flat on my face or my arse again –

Bruised and aching, aching and hurting, hurting and smarting …

But I read the move and I collect the pass, collect the pass with my back to the goal, back to the goal and I shield the ball from McQueen, shield the ball from McQueen and I hold it, hold it and I turn, turn and I hit it, hit it on the volley, on the volley straight into the top corner, into the top corner and past Stewart’s hand, past Stewart’s hand as it flails around, as it flails around and the ball hits the back of the net –

The back of the fucking net, the fucking net –

But there’s no applause. No adoration. No love here –

No smiles here. No laughter here.

‘Two-hundred and fifty-one goals,’ I tell them again. ‘Beat that!’

But they’re already walking off the training pitch, back to the dressing room, taking off their bibs and their tracksuit tops, throwing them to the ground –

Dirty and panting, panting and plotting, plotting and scheming.

The press and the fans. Behind the fence. Through the wire –

Their eyes on me, inspecting and examining me, watching and observing me, staring and staring and staring at me, but only when I look away –

I feel like death. I feel like death. I feel like death.

John Giles walks over to me. John Giles tells me, ‘I’ll be meeting up with the Eire squad on Sunday and then I’ll be going to go see the Spurs.’

‘Are you asking me or telling me, Irishman?’

‘Telling you, I suppose.’

‘Fingers crossed then,’ I tell him. ‘Fingers crossed.’

‘And there was me thinking you weren’t a superstitious man,’ he laughs.

* * *

It takes you a moment to remember. To remember why the phone is ringing. To remember why the doorbell is ringing. To remember why the press and the television, the pens and the microphones, the cameras and the lights, are all camped outside your house –

To remember why your three children are hiding in their rooms, under their beds with their fingers in their ears, their eyes closed –

It takes you that moment to remember you are no longer the manager of the Derby County Football Club, that you are out of a job and out of work –

But then you remember you’re not out of work. You do still have a job. You still have television. Still have ITV. England vs Poland. The World Cup qualifier –

The match they must win. Tonight. The biggest story since 1966 –

Bigger even than the resignation of Brian bloody Clough.

* * *

Bones. Muscles. Broken bones. Torn muscles. Flesh and meat. Carcasses and cadavers. The Friday lunchtime press conference; there should be no post-mortems here, only prophecies; no excuses, only optimism; confidence, not doubt; hope and never fear:

‘I only wish I had a fit Duncan McKenzie, a fit Paul Madeley, a fit Michael Jones, a fit Eddie Gray and an available Billy Bremner to take on Manchester City.’

‘Would you also like an available Hartford?’ they ask me; ask because Manchester City’s Asa Hartford was involved in an on-off transfer with Leeds back in 1971, a transfer Don pulled out of on medical grounds –

A hole in the heart; Hartford, not Revie.

‘He’ll be wanting to show off against us,’ I tell them. ‘Lots of players want to.’

But they don’t smile. They don’t laugh. They just look down at their notebooks, their spiral-bound notebooks, and they flick and click the tops of their ballpoint pens, flick and click, flick and click –

In and out. In and out. In and out –

Something in their eyes again –

Carcasses, cadavers and death.

* * *

The day after your resignation from Derby, the England team are out on the pitch, warming up in the Wembley night, waving to their families and friends, posing for the official photographs, steadying their nerves, their stomachs and their bowels.

You walk down from the gantry, across the pitch, that hallowed turf, to the centre circle, to Roy McFarland, to David Nish, to Colin Todd, to Kevin Hector, and you stick out your hand and tell them, ‘Don’t worry, lads. It’ll all work out.’

And they shake your hand four times but look at you in confusion and in despair, doubt and fear, with worry in their wide eyes, worry on their open mouths, for the things they’ve seen, the things they’ve heard –

The things they feel but do not understand.

But then you’re gone. Back across that pitch, that hallowed turf, up into your gantry to sit and stare down in judgement on them –

On England and on Alf Ramsey.

But tonight as you sit and stare down on Alf Ramsey, you feel regret, regret for all the things you’ve said, you’ve said on television, on panels such as this one, all the things you’ve said that have hurt Alf, hurt him and you know it –

‘How is it he can’t pick a team from 2,000 players?’ you asked on television, on a panel such as this, after England had lost in Italy last year –

These things that have hurt him, hurt him and stripped him and left him bare; bare and raw to the whispers and rumours that say you should be the next manager of England, that say it is only a matter of time, should the unthinkable occur, should England lose, should England draw –

Should England not qualify –

Then would be your time. Then would be your hour, should England lose. England draw. England not qualify for the World Cup finals –

That hope you’d never dare to utter. This hope you’d never dare to say:

‘England will walk it,’ you assure the whole nation on Independent Television. ‘That Polish keeper’s a clown, an absolute clown.’

England do dominate the first half, camped in the Polish half of the pitch, but that clown, that absolute clown, makes save after save after save from Madeley, from Hughes, from Bell, from McFarland, from Hunter, from Currie, from Channon, from Chivers, from Clarke and from Peters.

Then, ten minutes into the second half, Poland finally get out of their own half and break upfield. Hunter misses his tackle and Lato is away down the left, away down the left and free to cross the ball to Domarski, who shoots straight under Shilton –

And there is silence, absolute silence. In the stands and on the pitch, silence –

Except for you up in your gantry, on the television, on your panel, your mouth opening and closing. But no one is listening. Not even to you –

Up in the gantry. In judgement on England. In judgement on Alf Ramsey –

Ramsey rocking back and forth on the bench down below.

But ten minutes later England have equalized after Peters was fouled and Clarke coolly converted the most important penalty in the history of English football. But England still need to score again, score again to win, to win and to qualify, and so Alf, rocking back and forth below, Alf brings on Hector. Hector on his début for those final two minutes. Hector whose shot is cleared off the line and then hears the final whistle –

That final, final whistle and the end of an era.

It is the first time that England have failed to qualify for the World Cup since they first entered the competition in 1950. The first time since 1950 that England won’t be at the World Cup, won’t be in West Germany. Not in 1974. Not after this night –

This night that ends everything. Ends everything. Everything.

From up in the gantry you sit and stare down as Bobby Moore walks across the pitch to put an arm around Norman Hunter, Norman Hunter who blames himself, and you watch as Harold Sheperdson does the same and leads Hunter from the pitch –

‘Hunter lost the World Cup! Hunter lost the World Cup!’

And then you see Ramsey and you watch Ramsey, watch him walk away down that long, long tunnel into that long, long night and again you feel regret –

Regret. Regret. Regret –

Regret not only for the things you’ve said, the things you’ve said on television, those things you know have hurt him, but also for those things you’ve thought –

Those things you’ve thought and dreamed of, dreamed and dared to hope for –

For England to lose. For England to draw. England not to qualify –

For Alf Ramsey to lose his job as England manager –

For you to take his job as England manager.

But now, this night, you feel regret, regret and hate, hate for yourself.

You walk down from the gantry, across the pitch, that hallowed turf, down that tunnel and into the England dressing room.

‘For what it’s worth,’ you tell Alf, ‘you must be the unluckiest man in football, because you could have done that lot six or seven.’

But when Ramsey looks up at you, stares up at you from the dressing-room floor, there is no recognition in his eyes, only hurt –

Hurt and fear.

* * *

Never learn; never bloody learn. Never did and never fucking will. The piano bar of the Dragonara Hotel, two in the morning, drunk as fuck; drunk as fuck with the gentlemen of the local press; those scumbags and hacks, Harry, Ron and Mike –

Something in their eyes again …

Harry, Ron and Mike were there at training; Harry, Ron and Mike there at lunch; Harry, Ron and Mike still here with me now at two in the morning in the piano bar of the Dragonara Hotel, listening to my stories, laughing at my jokes, and pouring my drinks –

Something in their eyes.

I stand up. I sit down. I stand up again. I point my glass across the bar and shout, ‘Don’t you have a fucking home to go to?’

But Bert the Pianist just smiles and segues straight into ‘It’s a Lonesome Old Town’.

‘I never knew how much I missed you,’ I try to sing but shout –

Harry pulling me back down onto the sofa.

But I get back to my feet and point and shout, ‘Play “Hang My Tears Out to Dry”! Play “Hang My Tears Out to Dry”! Play “Hang My Tears Out to Dry” or you’re fucking sacked!’

‘Sit down,’ Ron is saying. ‘Come on, Brian lad, sit down …’

‘So make it one for my baby,’ Mike is singing. ‘And one more …’

‘Shut up!’ I tell him, tell them all. ‘That’s the wrong fucking song.’

‘Brian,’ they’re saying. ‘Brian, please —’

‘I want “I’ll Hang My Tears Out to Dry”,’ I tell the bar, the hotel, the whole of Leeds. ‘That’s all I want. “Guess I’ll Hang My Tears Out to Dry”. Fucking wankers, the lot of you!’

But there’s no one here. No one in the piano bar –

Harry, Ron and Mike have all gone home –

Bert the Pianist has gone home too –

No one here but bloody me –

Only fucking me now –

Cloughie.

The barman takes my legs, the waiter takes my arms, but no one takes me home.