David Peace - The Damned Utd

‘How it all started is a mystery to me. We shall just have to wait until we get the referee’s report to get things sorted out. But I did feel very sorry for Kevin Keegan.’

‘Will Billy Bremner be appealing?’

‘No.’

‘What do you think of the decision by the FA to call this meeting of representatives of the Football League, the Professional Footballers’ Association, linesmen, referees and managers to study ways of improving behaviour on the pitch?’

‘I’m all for cleaning up the game, you gentlemen know that. But I wouldn’t want to see it done on the back of Billy Bremner.’

‘You still intend to play Bremner on Saturday?’

‘Of course I bloody do.’

‘And you’ll be accompanying Bremner to London on Friday?’

‘I don’t think I’ve any fucking choice, have I?’

* * *

These have been a bad few months but at least Pete is back at work. He’s still not happy; still after his slice of cake, but at least he’s back at work, back doing what he’s paid for. Pete has found another one; another ugly duckling, another bargain-bin reject. He’s been down to Worcester three times to watch Roger Davies in the Southern League. He’s offered Worcester City £6,000 but Worcester have put up their price; Worcester know Arsenal, Coventry and Portsmouth are all in the hunt now –

Now Worcester want £14,000 for Roger Davies .

‘ Is it definitely yes?’ you ask Pete .

‘ It’s definitely yes,’ he says, and so you get in your car and drive down to Worcester to meet Pete and sign Roger Davies for £14,000 –

‘ I hope you’re right about Davies,’ says Sam Longson to Pete when you all get back home to Derby.‘£14,000 is a lot of money for a non-league player .’

‘ Fuck off,’ replies Pete and walks out of the room and out of the ground .

You follow Pete home; knock on his door; let yourself in. You pour him a drink; pour yourself one; light you both a fag and put your arms around him .

‘ You shouldn’t let the chairman upset you,’ you tell him .

‘ Easy for you,’ sniffs Pete. ‘The son he never had, with your £5,000 raise .’

‘ Right, listen, you miserable bastard, why did we buy Roger fucking Davies? ’

‘ You doubting me and all now?’ he shouts. ‘Thanks a fucking bunch, mate .’

‘ I’m not bloody doubting you, Pete,’ you tell him. ‘But I want to hear you tell me why we went down to Worcester City and bought a non-league player for £14,000 .’

‘ Because he’s twenty-one years old, six foot odd and a decent fucking striker .’

‘ There you go,’ you tell him. ‘Now why didn’t you say that to Longson? ’

‘ Because he questioned my judgement; questioned the one bloody thing I can do: spot fucking players. I’m not you, Brian, and I never will be — on the telly, in the papers — and I don’t bloody want to be. But I don’t want to be questioned and fucking doubted either. I just want to be appreciated and respected. Is that too much to ask? A little bit of bloody respect? A little bit of fucking appreciation every now and again? ’

‘ Fuck off,’ I tell him. ‘What was the first thing you ever said to me? Directors never say thank you, that’s what. We could give them the league, the European Cup, and you know as well as I do that they’d never once say thank you. So don’t let the bastards start getting under your skin now and stop feeling so fucking sorry for yourself .’

‘ You’re right,’ he says .

‘ I know I am .’

‘ You always are .’

‘ I know I am,’ you say. ‘So let’s get back to work and make sure next season we bloody win that fucking title. Not for any fucking chairman or any board of bloody directors. For us; me and you; Clough and Taylor; and no one else .’

* * *

I am on my hands and my knees on the training ground, looking for that bloody watch of mine in the grass and the dirt. But the light is going and I’m sure one of them fucking nicked it anyway. There’s a ball in the grass by the fence. I pick it up and chuck it up into the sky and volley it into the back of the practice net. I go and pick it out of the back of the net. I go back to the edge of the penalty box and chuck it up into the sky again, volley it into the back of the net again, again and again and again, ten times in all, never missing, not once. But there are tears in my eyes and then I can’t stop crying, stood there on that practice pitch in the dark, the tears rolling down my bloody cheeks, for once in my fucking life glad that I’m alone.

* * *

This has been a bad season; a season to forget. But today it’s almost over. Today is the last game of the 1970–71 season. Today is also Dave Mackay’s last game –

1 May 1971; home to West Bromwich Albion –

West Brom who last week helped put pay to the ambitions of Leeds United and Don Revie; Leeds United and Don Revie who have lost the league by a single point to Arsenal; Arsenal who have not only won the league but also the cup and become only the second-ever team to win the Double –

Tottenham being the only other team. Tottenham and Dave Mackay .

Two minutes from the end, from the end of his last match, a match Derby are winning 2–0, and Dave Mackay is still rushing to take a throw-in; still clapping urgently, demanding concentration and 100 per cent –

He has played all forty-two games of this season. Every single one of them .

Then the final whistle of his final match comes and off he goes, running from the pitch with a quick wave to the 33,651 here to see him off, off down that tunnel, down that tunnel and he’s gone –

Irreplaceable. Fucking irreplaceable .

Derby County have finished ninth, scoring fifty-six and conceding fift y- four, drawing five at home and five away, winning sixteen and losing sixteen –

The symmetry being no bloody consolation whatsoever –

Because there is no fucking consolation –

No consolation for not winning –

That’s irreplaceable .

* * *

I don’t go back to the Dragonara. Not tonight. I go back home to Derby. Past the Midland Hotel. Past the Baseball Ground. But I don’t stop. Not tonight –

Tonight, I get back to the house, the lights off and the door locked. I put away the car and I go inside the house. I put on a light and I make myself a cup of tea. I switch on the fire and I sit down in the rocking chair. I pick up the paper and I try to read, but it’s all about Nixon and resignation, resignation, resignation:

‘ I have never been a quitter. To leave office before my term is complete is abhorrent to every instinct in my body …‘

I put down the paper and I switch on the telly, but there’s nothing on except documentaries and news programmes about Cyprus, Cyprus, Cyprus:

Deceit and division; division and hate; hate and war; war and death .

I switch off the telly and I switch off the fire. I wash up my pots and I switch off the lights. I go up the stairs and I clean my teeth. I look in my daughter’s room and I kiss her sleeping head. I look in my sons’ room and my eldest one says, ‘Dad?’

‘You still awake, are you?’ I ask him. ‘You should be asleep.’

‘What time is it, Dad?’ he asks me.

I look at my watch, but it’s not there. I tell him, ‘I don’t know, but it’s late.’

‘You going to bed now, are you, Dad?’

‘Course, I am,’ I tell him. ‘I got work tomorrow, haven’t I? You want to come?’