David Peace - The Damned Utd

You’ve only been in the place five bloody minutes and already they want fucking rid. Shot of you both. You go to Sam Longson and you tell him, ‘You are the only chairman I can work with. You are the saviour of Derby County .’

Uncle Sam pulls you close. Tight. Uncle Sam puts his wings around you –

Then Uncle Sam kisses you better. Now Uncle Sam will protect you –

The son he never had .

* * *

The Monday press conference. The post-mortem. The long rope –

‘I don’t have any disputes on my hands and I don’t think there will be any problems because I’ve never had any trouble over players’ contracts in the past, but I still feel that they should be signed, sealed and delivered long before a new manager takes over and certainly before 5 August. The last thing I wanted to do when I arrived here was to start by having to talk contracts with men I’d never met.’

‘What about reports that Mr Revie is taking legal advice over the remarks you made on last Friday’s Calendar programme?’

‘Listen to me,’ I tell him. ‘Did you see that programme?’

The gentleman of the press nods.

‘And?’

The gentleman stammers. The man stutters and shits himself.

‘Anyone who saw that programme,’ I tell him and the whole fucking lot of them, ‘can make up their own minds and, as far as I’m concerned, Revie can have fifty transcripts of the broadcast if he wants them. Did you get all that down?’

The gentleman of the press nods.

‘Rest of you lot?’

The rest of the gentlemen of the press nod too.

‘You don’t want me to say it again. Bit more slowly?’

The gentlemen of the press shake their heads now.

‘Good work,’ I tell them. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, my wife’s got my tea on.’

* * *

You’ve gone from fifth to thirteenth and seen all hope of promotion slide away with you. The only good news is your cup form. You beat your old club Hartlepools, then Birmingham City, Lincoln City and Darlington to reach the semi-finals of the League Cup, where you’ll face Leeds United, home and away. Leeds United who, coincidentally, you’ve also been drawn against in the third round of the FA Cup. So, between 17 January and 7 February 1968, you’ll be playing Leeds United three times –

Leeds United and Don Revie, an inspiration to you and Peter –

Leeds United and Don Revie who went from the Second to the First Division as Champions in 1964 to become runners-up in the First Division and the FA Cup in 1965, First Division runners-up again in 1966 and runners - up in the Inter-Cities Fairs Cup final of 1967 –

United and County, sleeping giants in one-club towns; Leeds steeped in rugby and Derby steeped in cricket; sleeping giants awoken by men who were among the finest, most skilful and most neglected players of their day –

Don Revie was also born in Middlesbrough. Just like you –

Peas in a pod, you and Don. Peas in a pod –

Born just seven years and some streets apart .

The club and the whole town is excited at the prospect of these games –

Just like you. Unable to sleep. Unable to eat. Back at the ground at the crack of dawn to sweep the corridors, to clean the baths and polish the pegs –

You’re first at the door when the Leeds team bus arrives at the Baseball Ground, the players filing off, Don in his huddle with Les Cocker, Maurice Lindley and Syd Owen .

‘ Welcome to Derby, Don,’ you say. ‘Pleasure to meet you. I’m Brian Clough .’

But Don doesn’t acknowledge you, introduce himself or even say hello –

Don stays away from the boardroom, out of the bar. Don heads straight down the corridor, down to the dressing room, the visitors’ dressing room –

To stare into the mirror, the mirror, mirror on the dressing-room wall, combing his hair and saying his prayers, combing his hair and saying his prayers, combing his hair and saying his prayers –

Don doesn’t see you in the tunnel. Don doesn’t see you on your bench –

Don rocking back and forth on the visitors’ bench in the visitors’ dug-out, rocking back and forth in his lucky blue suit and his old car coat –

From the very first whistle of the game to the very last one –

Rocking back and forth as his team niggle at your heels and pull at your shirts, clipping ankles and catching thighs, all elbows and knees to your fingers and thumbs –

Fingers and thumbs and a needless handball from Bobby Saxton to give away the penalty that Johnny Giles blasts into the back of your net –

Bobby Saxton will not play for Derby County again. Not play for you again. Never, never, never play again .

But at the very final whistle you stick out your own hand and you tell Don Revie, ‘Well done, Don. See you next week .’

And this time Don Revie takes that outstretched hand but he looks right through you as he shakes it, shakes it, shakes it, looks right through you to the mirror, the mirror, mirror on the dressing-room wall, a comb in his hand and a prayer on his lips, a comb in his hand and a prayer on his lips, a comb in his hand and a prayer on his lips –

That he will win and you will lose. He will win and you will lose –

The rituals observed, the superstitions followed, all Don’s prayers are answered .

You travel up to Elland Road twice in two weeks and twice in two weeks you are well beaten and you travel back down to Derby with nothing –

Nothing but ambitions fuelled; hearts hardened and lessons learnt –

Losing 2–0 in the FA Cup to goals from Lorimer and Charlton, then losing 3–2 in the second leg of the semi-final of the League Cup –

Two Derby goals that you know, in your hardened heart of hearts, flatter you and flatter Derby County in front of Elland Road –

In front of Leeds United, in front of Don Revie –

‘ Bit lucky there,’ says Don. ‘Thought God might be smiling on you .’

‘ I don’t believe in luck,’ you tell Don. ‘And I don’t believe in God .’

‘ So what do you believe in then?’ asks Don Revie .

‘ Me,’ you tell him. ‘Brian Howard Clough .’

* * *

Just the three of us now; me, his shadow and his echo –

In the empty stadium, beneath the empty stand, off the empty corridor, the three of us in his old bloody office in my brand-new chair at my brand-new desk on his old fucking phone –

The spit from his lips. His tongue. The breath from his mouth. His stomach –

My brandy. My cigarette. My call –

Bill Nicholson ranting down the line about Martin Chivers; about modern footballers; about Mammon and greed –

‘John Giles could be just the man you need,’ I tell him. ‘Be able to groom him. Mould him. Done a fine job with the Republic. Just what the Spurs need …’

Bill Nick’s not keen, but Bill agrees to meet Giles. To talk to him.

I hang up, pour another brandy and light another cig, in my brand-new chair at my brand-new desk in his empty old office, off his empty old corridor, beneath his empty old stand in his empty old stadium –

Just the three of us: me, his shadow and his echo –

I walk out into the corridor. Round the corner –

Down the tunnel and out onto that pitch –

My brandy in one hand, my cigarette in the other, I stand in the centre circle again and look up into the dark, empty Yorkshire night –