The Damned Utd

Day Eight

You have bought Dave Mackay to be your sweeper. You have bought Pete’s old mate Les Green from the Southern League to be your keeper. You know that this time the final pieces are in their places. You know that this time the traditional pre-season optimism is well-founded, built on bloody rock, rock, rock –

Rock, rock, rocks like Dave Mackay and Les Green.

You can’t wait for the first game of the new season, can’t fucking wait –

Away at Blackburn Rovers. Roy McFarland scores. But so do they –

You draw 1–1. One point. Away from home. Not bad.

Back at home you play Blackpool. John O’Hare scores. But so do they –

You draw 1–1 again. One point again. But at home. Not good.

You go to Bramall Lane. To Sheffield United. You don’t score. But they do –

You lose 2–0. No points. Bad, bad, bad; you are eighteenth in Division Two. Eighteenth again and on sinking shifting, fucking sand, sand, sands –

There are tears again and there are broken glasses. Then Peter puts out his fag and Peter gets out his little black book and Peter says –

‘I know just the player. Just the club.’

* * *

Nothing is ever the way they say it is. Nothing is ever the way you want it to be. John Giles knocks on his door. John Giles sits down opposite my desk. He says nothing. He just sits. He just waits –

‘I’ve had Bill Nick on the phone this morning,’ I tell him.

The Irishman smiles, brushes the tops of his trouser legs and asks me, ‘You sure now you didn’t call him?’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘Because you want me gone,’ he smiles.

‘Why would I want you gone, John?’

‘Because you hate me,’ he smiles. ‘Can’t stand the sight of me.’

‘Look, what’s said is said,’ I tell him. ‘But the past is the past to me. Finished.’

‘That’d be very convenient for you,’ he says.

‘Look, I’ve told you before,’ I tell him again. ‘You have intelligence, skill, agility and the best passing ability in the game.’

‘But you’d still be glad to see the back of me, now wouldn’t you?’

‘Look,’ I tell him. ‘There are things I don’t like about your game and I’ve told you to your face what they are, but I’ve nothing against you as a person. I admire what you’ve done with Ireland and so does Bill Nicholson. That’s why he called.’

‘And so what did Mr Nicholson say?’

‘He said he’d like to talk to you about going to Spurs as assistant manager.’

‘Still playing as well?’

‘Yes.’

‘Nice to know someone thinks there’s life left yet in these old legs of mine.’

‘I’ve never said you’ve shot it,’ I tell him. ‘Never said that.’

‘It’s written all over your face, man.’

‘Are you interested in talking with Bill Nicholson or not?’

‘Of course I’m interested,’ he smiles. ‘Who wouldn’t be?’

‘How about this then?’ I tell him. ‘No need for you to travel with the team to Villa tonight. You stay up here and give Bill Nicholson a call. Have a chat with Bill and with your family. Arrange a time to go down and meet him, see the lay of the land.’

‘That’s very kind of you,’ he says. ‘But I’ll travel with you all the same tonight.’

* * *

You are in the dug-out at Leeds Road, Huddersfield. You are losing 2–0 again. You will have taken just two points from a possible eight. You are filled with doubts. Fucking racked with fear. But then something happens; something bloody special happens –

Your team are under pressure in their own six-yard area. The team look like conceding a third. The ball comes to Mackay. Mackay puts his foot on the ball –

‘Kick it! Shift it!’ shouts Jack Burkitt beside you. ‘Get fucking rid!’

‘Shut up, Jack,’ says Peter. ‘This is what we bought him for. This is what we want him to do. To put his foot on it. To pass it out. To lead and teach by example —’

Mackay plays the ball out and defence becomes attack –

Defence becomes attack. Defence becomes attack –

‘We’ll buy Carlin tomorrow,’ whispers Peter. ‘Then we’ll be on our way.’

* * *

I get on the coach last and make Allan Clarke shift so I can sit next to Billy Bremner again. I try and make chit-chat. To break the ice. But Billy Bremner doesn’t give a fuck about President Nixon or George Best. He’s not interested in Frank Sinatra or Muhammad Ali. He doesn’t want to talk about the World Cup, about playing against Brazil. Doesn’t want to talk about his holidays. His family full stop. Bremner just looks out of the window and smokes the whole way down to Birmingham. Then, as the coach pulls into Villa Park, he turns to me and he says, ‘If you’re looking for a pal, Mr Clough, you can count me out.’

* * *

When you went to Bramall Lane last week, when you went to Sheffield United and they beat you 2–0, you blamed it on Willie Carlin. You’ve had enough of going to places like Sheffield bloody United and losing 2–0 because of players like Willie fucking Carlin –

You’ve had enough of failure. Doubts. Had enough of disappointment –

Had enough of Willie fucking Carlin, hard little Scouse bastard –

Dirty little bugger of a bloke, had enough, enough, enough –

‘But you’ll do for me,’ you tell him. ‘If you do as you’re bloody told.’

‘I’d rather play for fucking Leeds,’ he tells you.

‘You’d fucking fit right in and all,’ you laugh. ‘But they don’t bloody want you, do they, Willie?’

‘They bloody might,’ he says. ‘You don’t fucking know that.’

‘Well, I don’t see Don fucking Revie sat here, do you?’

‘I don’t know what I see.’

‘Well, I know what I see,’ you tell him. ‘I see a five-foot-four dirty little bastard who spends half the fucking match arguing with the referee and who’s been booked eighteen bloody times and sent off another three fucking times for his trouble. Now that won’t do for me because you’re no good to me suspended. But if you behave yourself and keep that great big bloody Scouse gob of yours shut, I’ll get you a bloody Championship medal to go with all your fucking bookings and sendings-off.’

‘And what if I can’t behave myself? What if I don’t fucking want to?’

‘You will,’ you laugh. ‘Because I’m not asking you, I’m fucking telling you.’

* * *

I’m down in the dug-out for this game. This testimonial. This centenary game at Villa Park. Jimmy and me with Stewart, Cherry and Johnny fucking Giles for company –

My one and only plan before the game to make sure Johnny bloody Giles doesn’t get a fucking kick, but then Madeley has to come off and so on goes John –

Thank fuck for Allan Clarke, two great goals; one with his head from a Reaney cross, the other sliding into a low centre from the Irishman. The rest of the match is the same old dirty Leeds; McQueen gets booked, then Cooper gives away a penalty — saved by Harvey — then Hunter gives away another, but the Villa lad misses. Half-time I tell Jimmy to take off Harvey and Hunter and stick on Stewart and Cherry while I go for a drink and a chat in the top of the stands with Jimmy Bloomfield, the Leicester manager –

We talk about Shilton, swaps and trades. We talk about money –

‘Not bad that one you’ve got,’ says Jimmy Bloomfield.

‘Harvey? You’re bloody joking?’ I ask him. ‘He’s fucking shit.’

‘He saved that penalty well enough.’

‘You can have him,’ I tell Jimmy. ‘If you like him so much, him and two hundred grand, and I’ll take Peter Shilton off your hands.’

‘He’ll get you the bloody sack, will Shilton,’ says Jimmy. ‘He’s trouble.’

‘Then he’s my kind of fucking trouble,’ I tell him.

Dirty Leeds concede a goal but still win 2–1 –

Not a bad start; two games, two wins –

‘Not a bad bloody start at all,’ says Jimmy Bloomfield as we shake our hands and say our goodbyes and head down the stairs, round the corners and down the corridors.

* * *

There is always one game in every season, one moment in that game, that one moment in that one game in the season when everything can change, when things can either come together or fall apart for the rest of the season, that one moment when you know you will win this game and then the next and the next, when you know you will have a season to remember, a season never to forget –

The Football League Cup, third round replay; Wednesday 2 October 1968 –

Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby –

This is one of those nights you will never forget. This is one of those nights when everything comes together and stays together, one of those nights when everything changes, everything turns –

Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby –

You went down to Stamford Bridge last week where Chelsea were unbeaten in twenty home games. You went down to Stamford Bridge and you took everything Chelsea could throw at you and you held them 0–0, held the likes of Bonetti, Hollins and Osgood –

Now you’ve brought them back here, here to the Baseball Ground, here where there’s no running track around the pitch, here where you hear every cheer and every jeer from the 34,000 crowd, here where there’s no place to hide –

Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby –

‘No fucking hiding place,’ you tell the Derby dressing room. ‘Not tonight; tonight we’re going to see who’s fucking who out there.’

Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby –

Green. Webster. Robson. Durban. McFarland. Mackay. Walker. Carlin. O’Hare. Hinton. Hector –

Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby –

That one moment when everything can change, when things either come together or fall apart for the rest of the season, that one moment comes in the twenty-sixth minute of the first half, comes when Houseman jumps a Carlin tackle and slips the ball across to Birchenall, who shoots into the top corner of the net from thirty yards out and puts you a goal down –

Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby –

This is that one moment, that one moment when you look into the eyes of the players out on that pitch, you look into their eyes and down into their hearts and you listen to the noise of the crowd, the thundering noise of 34,000 hearts up in those stands and you listen for the eleven hearts out on that pitch, and you hear those hearts beating as one, and you know that this is the moment you have been waiting for, that one moment when everything changes, when no one gives up, when no one goes home, when no one hides –

Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby –

From the twenty-sixth minute to half-time, from half-time to the seventy-seventh minute, no one hides, no one goes home and no one gives up, not the players and not the crowd, and then, in that seventy-seventh minute, Carlin races through the middle and back-heels the ball for Mackay to hit home from thirty yards out, and everyone knows, everyone knows now –

Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby –

Everyone knows now that when Hutchinson breaks for Chelsea, then Walker will be there for you, not once but twice, and that then Walker will burst forward down the left and cross for Durban to head past Bonetti –

Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby –

And everyone knows now that you haven’t finished yet, that when Bonetti and Hector both go for the same ball that Hector will get there first to make it 3–1 in the eighty-first minute, because everyone knows now that everything has changed, that everything has turned, everything has come together –

Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby –

The things you’ve done and the things you’ve said; the fists you’ve raised and the bruises you’ve kissed. Everything has finally come together and will now stay together –

Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby –

That this will be a season to remember, a season never to forget –

Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby –

‘What a wonderful display by the team and how wonderful our supporters were,’ says the chairman. ‘This is a night I shall remember as long as I live.’

Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby –

‘I was delighted for the players,’ you tell the press, the cameras and the whole wide world. ‘This was easily the best performance since I have come to Derby.’

* * *

I stand in the corridor at Villa Park. I finish my fag and I take a deep breath. Then I open the door to the visitors’ dressing room –

The place goes dead. The players looking at their sock tags; their vain bleeding sock tags with their numbers on; those bloody tags they throw to the home crowd after every game like Roman fucking gladiators or something. Then Norman Hunter pipes up, ‘Brilliant pass that, Gilesy. Beautiful ball for Clarkey. Put it on a plate for him. Lovely.’

‘Forget that fucking pass,’ I tell him. ‘What about the way Clarkey stuck it in?’

Bites Yer Legs shakes his head. Irishman smiles. Sniffer basking –

‘That was class,’ I tell him. ‘And don’t you forget the Irishman wouldn’t have even been on that bloody pitch if Madeley kept him self in better fucking nick.’

‘Played a blinder though,’ says Bites Yer Legs. ‘A fucking blinder.’

‘Better make the bloody most of him then,’ I tell him. ‘Destined for bigger things, aren’t you, Irishman?’

‘There’s nothing bigger than playing,’ says Giles. ‘You know that, Mr Clough.’

The players are watching us now; whispering and wondering.

I leave them to it. I stand outside in the corridor. I light a fag. I listen –

‘No respect,’ I hear them say, ‘for the traditions of Leeds United.’

Duncan McKenzie walks past in his posh new suit. McKenzie turns and says, ‘They weren’t bad, were they? I thought Johnny Giles was ace.’

‘Fuck off,’ I tell him. ‘You can bloody walk back to Leeds for that.’

* * *

The Chelsea game has brought a swagger to your side. To the whole club. To the whole bloody town. But you know in your heart of hearts that it is Dave Mackay who has brought that swagger to this side. This whole club. This whole fucking town. Not you –

In your heart of hearts.

You switch training to Tuesdays so Dave can have Sundays and Mondays off to take care of his tie shop back down in London. You put him up at the Midland Hotel for the rest of the week and move Roy McFarland in there to keep him company while Dave drinks his fill from Monday night through to Thursday night. But then Dave doesn’t touch another drop from Friday morning through to Saturday teatime –

This man is Derby County. The foundation and the cornerstone –

And you’re the first to recognize this; the first to treat him as such –

You chat to him while the rest of the team run their laps. You bring him into the team talks with an easy, ‘What do you think, captain?’

Together you, Peter and Dave Mackay turn this team from part-timers into full-timers; no more afternoon golf, no more selling insurance door to door –

Morning after morning, you drum the basics into them –

‘Keep the ball down. Play it forward. On the ground. To feet. Hold it. Pass it. Score! Win the ball back. Keep the ball down. Play it forward. On the ground. To feet. Hold it. Pass it. Score! Win the ball back …’

And you don’t just tell them how to do these things, you sodding well show them, scoring in every single six-a-side match, then changing with your lads, bathing with your lads, and joking with your lads –

This is good bloody management. This is you and Pete at your best –

Spotting the talent, buying the talent and then handling that fucking talent –

Insulting that talent. Humiliating that talent. Threatening that talent –

Hurting that talent and then kissing it fucking better again –

Again and again, bringing out the bloody best in folk –

In that fucking talent, that’s you and that’s Peter.