David Peace - The Damned Utd

The last goal you will ever score .

Your sharpness gone. You cannot turn. It’s over. The curtain down. You are twenty-nine years old and have scored 251 league goals in 274 games for Middlesbrough and Sunderland. A record. A bloody record in the Second Division. Two England caps. In the fucking Second Division –

But it’s over. It’s over and you know it –

No League Championships. No FA Cups. No European Cups –

The roar and the whistle. The applause and the adoration –

Finished for ever. Second best. For ever .

Sunderland Football Club get £40,000 in insurance as compensation for your injury. You get £1,500, the sack from coaching the youth team, and an education that will last you a lifetime –

You have a wife. Two sons. No trade. No brass –

That’s what you got for Christmas in 1962. You got done –

Finished off and washed up, before your time –

But you will never run a pub. You will never own a newsagent’s shop –

Instead, you will have your revenge –

That is how you shall live –

In place of a life, revenge .

* * *

These are the studios of Yorkshire TV. Of Calendar . Of their Special –

Clough Comes to Leeds .

Austin Mitchell is in a blue suit. I’m still wearing my grey suit but I’ve changed into a purple shirt and a different tie; always pack a spare shirt, your own Brylcreem and some toothpaste. Television has taught me these things.

Austin looks into the camera and says, ‘This week we welcome Brian Clough as manager of Leeds United. How will his outspoken personality fit in with Leeds, and what can he do for this team, this team that has won just about everything?’

‘Leeds United have been Champions,’ I tell him and every household in Yorkshire. ‘But they’ve not been good Champions, in the sense of wearing the crown well. I think they could have been a little bit more loved, a little bit more liked, and I want to change that. I want to bring a little bit more warmth and a little bit more honesty and a little bit more of me into the set-up.’

‘So we can expect a bit more warmth, a bit more honesty and a bit more Brian Clough from the League Champions,’ repeats Mitchell.

‘A lot more Brian Clough actually,’ I tell him. ‘A lot more.’

‘And hopefully win a lot more cups and another title?’

‘And win it better, Austin,’ I tell him. ‘I can win it better. You just watch me.’

‘And the Leeds set-up? The legendary back-room staff? The legacy of the Don?’

‘Well, I’ll tell you one thing: I had great fears of that lucky bloody suit of his, in the office when I walked in. You know, the one he’s had for thirteen years? I thought, if that’s there, that’s going straight in the bin because not only will it be old, it’ll smell …’

‘You’re not a superstitious man then, Brian?’

‘No, Austin, I’m not,’ I tell him. ‘I’m a socialist.’

September 1965. The Chase Hotel, York. Five pints and five whiskies playing hide and seek in your guts. Jobless and boozing, fat and fucked, you are in hell. You’ll play one more match for Sunderland. Your testimonial in front of a record 31,000 fans. Ten grand in your pocket. But it won’t last. Jobless and boozing. Not at this rate. Fat and fucked. Not unless Peter says yes –

Peter Taylor. The only friend you’ve ever had. Peter Taylor –

He was a Probable and you were a Possible for Middlesbrough back in 1955. Their second-choice keeper and their fourth-choice striker –

But he liked you then. He believed in you then. He talked to you about football. Morning, noon and night. Taught you about football. He brought out the best in you. Moral courage. Physical bravery. The strength to run through brick walls. He brought out the worst. The arrogance. The selfishness. The rudeness. But he still liked you when you became club captain. Believed in you when the rest of the team despised you, when they plotted and petitioned the club to get rid of you –

And you need him now. That belief. That faith. More than ever –

‘ I’ve been offered the manager’s job at Hartlepools United,’ you tell Peter. ‘And I don’t much fancy the place, the club or the man who’s offered me the bloody job but, if you come, I’ll take it .’

But Peter is the manager of Burton Albion. Burton Albion are top of the Southern League. Peter has his new bungalow. His wife and kids settled. Peter is on £41 a week and a three-year contract. His wife shakes her head. His kids shake their heads –

But Peter looks at you. Peter stares into those eyes –

That desire and ambition. That determination and arrogance –

Peter sees the things he wants to see. Peter hears the things he wants to hear –

‘ You’ll be my right arm, my right hand. Not an assistant manager, more a joint manager. Except they don’t go in for titles at Hartlepools, so we’ll have to disguise you, disguise you as a trainer .’

‘ A trainer?’ he asks. ‘I’ll drop down from being a manager to a trainer? ’

‘ Aye,’ you tell him. ‘And the other bad news is that they can’t afford to pay you more than £24 a week .’

‘ £24 a week,’ he repeats. ‘That means I’ll lose £17 a week .’

‘ But you’ll be in the league,’ you tell him. ‘And you’ll be working with me .’

‘ But £17 is £17 .’

The five pints find the five whiskies. The five pints catch the five whiskies –

You put £200 on the table and tell him, ‘I need you. I don’t want to be alone .’

You’re going to spew if he refuses. You’re going to die if Pete says no .

‘ I’ll come then,’ he says. ‘But only because it’s you .’

Peter Taylor. The only man who ever liked you. Ever got on with you –

Your only friend. Your right hand. Your shadow.

* * *

They are waiting for us again. My youngest lad and me. The crows around the floodlights. The dogs around the gates. They are waiting for us because we are late again, my youngest lad and me –

Thursday 1 August 1974.

Bad night, late dreams; faceless, nameless men; red eyes and sharpened teeth .

Half an hour arguing with my boys over breakfast; they don’t want to go to work with me today. They didn’t like it there yesterday. But my youngest lad feels sorry for me. My youngest lad gives in. My wife takes the eldest and my daughter into Derby to get their new school shoes. I have a slice of toast and don’t answer the telephone. Then my youngest lad and me get in the car and drive up the motorway –

The boots and the blades that marched up and down this route …

To the crows around the floodlights. Dogs around the gates –

Roman legions and Viking hordes. Norman cunts and royalist whores …

The press. The fans. The steady, grey rain. The endless, grey sky –

The emperors and the kings. Oliver Cromwell and Brian Clough .

I park the car. I get out. I do up my cuffs. I don’t look at my watch. I get my jacket out of the back. I put it on and ruffle my youngest lad’s hair. He’s looking across the car park –

Up the banking. To the training ground –

Hands on their hips in their purple tracksuits, waiting. Their names on their backs, whispering, whispering, whispering –

Bastards. Bastards. Bastards .

Jimmy Gordon comes down the steps. Jimmy says, ‘Can I have a word, Boss?’