David Peace - The Damned Utd

‘You’re eighteen places below first place …’

‘I know that.’

‘You’re averaging a goal a game …’

‘I know that.’

‘But you’re still playing Jordan and McKenzie in the reserves …’

‘I know that.’

‘Playing O’Hare up front when he’s not even eligible for Europe …’

‘I know that.’

‘Twelve days before Europe …’

‘I know that.’

‘Talking of selling Terry Cooper and Joe Jordan, of Giles going to Tottenham, talking of bringing in other ineligible players …’

‘I know that.’

‘So what are you going to do?’ they ask. ‘What are you going to do, Brian?’

‘I’m going to sweat it out,’ I tell them.

‘What do you think Don Revie would have …’

‘I try not to think about Don Revie,’ I tell them. ‘But it’d have been the same.’

‘But he wouldn’t have bought McKenzie,’ they say. ‘He wouldn’t have bought McGovern or O’Hare. He wouldn’t be trying to sell Cooper, Giles and Jordan …’

‘Don’s gone,’ I tell them. ‘And it’s only winning that can change things now.’

‘And if you don’t win?’ they ask. ‘What changes then? Who changes?’

‘Nothing changes,’ I tell them.

‘Something must,’ they say. ‘Somebody must …’

‘No one changes,’ I insist. ‘Like I say, I’ll sweat it out —’

Out. Out. Out .

* * *

Mike Bamber and Harry Bloom, the Brighton vice-chairman, drive up to Derby. To the Midland Hotel. To meet you and Pete –

But you are not there. Just Pete –

Bill Wainwright, the manager of the Midland, calls you at home, in bed –

‘ Give them some beer and sandwiches,’ you tell him, ‘and I’ll be right there .’

But you’re not. You are still two hours late. In your scruffy blue tracksuit –

Peter is furious. Fucking furious. Bamber and Bloom too –

‘ You’re well out of order,’ says Mike Bamber. ‘Making us travel all the way up here and then making us wait around for two hours .’

‘ Something came up,’ you tell them –

They are still furious, Bamber and Bloom, but they are also still desperate –

‘ And I didn’t come all the way up here to fall out with you either,’ says Bamber. ‘So here’s the deal …’

Mike Bamber offers you and Pete £7,000 each just to sign for Brighton, then offers you and Pete an annual salary which is more than you were earning at Derby –

Pete’s already smiling. Peter’s already done his sums. Taylor’s already agreed .

‘ But these are First Division wages,’ you tell Bamber –

‘ You’re First Division managers,’ says Bamber .

‘ But are you sure you can afford it? ’

‘ Are you sure you’re worth it? ’

‘ I’m sure,’ you tell him –

‘ Then so am I,’ says Mike Bamber. ‘Then so am I .’

* * *

Under the stands, the weight on my back. Through the doors, the weight on my back. Round the corner, the weight on my back. Up the stairs, the weight on my back. Down the corridor, that weight on my back. That weight on my back as I push open the doors to the club dining room. The soup is oxtail again. The meat lamb. The vegetables soft and the wine cheap. Their suits are dark and their ties still black –

‘Of course he doesn’t want to bloody go,’ states Bolton. ‘This is Leeds United!’

‘But I need players who are thinking about winning cups and medals,’ I tell him. ‘He’s more bothered about his bloody testimonial than Leeds United.’

‘He’s played here fourteen years,’ says Cussins. ‘He deserves his testimonial.’

‘I never said he didn’t,’ I tell him, tell them all. ‘I played the game, you didn’t; none of you, not one of you. I got injured; you didn’t. I was finished, washed up, and we’d have bloody starved without my testimonial money. I’m just saying that half your fucking team are on testimonials this season —’

‘That’s an exaggeration,’ says Woodward. ‘It’s hardly half the team.’

‘Cooper, Giles, Paul Madeley, Paul Reaney, Norman Hunter and Peter Lorimer,’ I tell him, tell them all. ‘That’s six bloody first-team players on fucking testimonials this season and that makes it very, very difficult to sell any of them.’

‘So stop trying to bloody sell buggers then!’ shouts Bolton. ‘They’re Champions for Chrissakes, man. League bloody Champions.’

‘Not this bloody season, they’re not,’ I tell him, tell them all. ‘They’re old men.’

‘That’s bloody rubbish,’ says Woodward. ‘Absolute bloody rubbish.’

‘Is that right?’ I ask him, ask them all. ‘You fucking watching them play, are you?’

‘Some might say it’s not the players,’ says Bolton.

‘Is that right?’ I ask him, ask them all again. ‘So who might some say it is then?’

‘Some might say it’s their manager,’ states Bolton. ‘Some might say it’s thee.’

* * *

You should be letting go. You should be walking away. But you can’t let go. You can’t walk away. You should be thinking about Brighton, thinking about the future. But you just can’t stop thinking about Derby, about the past –

You just can’t stop thinking and thinking and thinking about it, about them:

Derby County only drew with Sunderland. Back from a penalty. Back from a goal down. Back to draw 1–1. But 1–1 is not good enough. Not against Sunderland. The Derby players, your players, know that. The fans and the press know that. Longson and the board know that and, most of all, Dave Mackay knows that –

Mackay then lost the bloody toss. The Derby players, your players, are furious, fucking furious about that too. Now Derby must play Sunderland at Roker Park again tomorrow night; the winner of that match will then be at home to Liverpool in the next round of the League Cup. But, but, but …

If Derby County lose tomorrow night. If Derby County fail to reach the next round of the League Cup. If Derby County are not at home to Liverpool …

If Derby lose this game, if Mackay loses this game, then who knows?

The players don’t want to play for him. The players don’t want to work for him. They want to play for you, your players. They want to work for you –

Not Dave Mackay. Not Sam Longson –

They want you, your players –

They want Cloughie; risen, immaculate and back .

So there’s no way you can let go yet. No way you can walk away now. No way you can stop thinking and thinking and thinking about it, about them. But, but, but …

You’ve done the deal with Brighton. You’ve shaken hands with Bamber. Tomorrow morning you’ll be flying from East Midlands airport down to Sussex –

But you hate bloody flying. You really hate fucking flying. Now you’ve found your excuse and got your cold feet; your address book out and your phone in your hands –

You call Phillip Whitehead, your MP. You ask him what you should do –

‘ Everyone wants you back,’ he tells you. ‘But it’s your career .’

You call Brian Moore. You ask him what you should do –

‘ Everyone at ITV wants you here full-time,’ he tells you. ‘The offer’s always open and you know that. But, in your heart of hearts, you’re a football manager. I know that, you know that. So I can’t tell you what to do, Brian, except to follow your heart .’

You call Mike Keeling. You ask him what you should do –