David Peace - The Damned Utd

You stand in that beaten dressing room. You stare at that beaten team; your beaten Brighton team who dare not even look you in the eye –

Who cannot pull on their shirts, who cannot lace up their boots –

Cannot pull on their bloody shirts or lace up their fucking boots without you –

That beaten bloody Brighton team who are scared fucking shitless of you –

Tears down their cheeks. Tears down their shirts. Tears down yours –

Derby County have drawn 0–0 with Leeds United .

* * *

The sharp knife and loaded gun. The long rope. The post-mortem. The press conference:

‘All we’ve got to do is get out there and bloody win on the field,’ I tell them. ‘That solves everything, a win on the bloody field.’

But there is something in their eyes …

‘There was no question of me being carpeted. The board wanted to be informed of everything that goes on within the club, and rightly so. I informed them of everything. It has always been my policy to work with the chairman of a club, and the board, and everyone connected with a club, and this will continue to be my policy.’

No questions today, just something in their eyes …

‘The bid from Forest wasn’t high enough. I feel Terry is worth more. We think he can do Leeds more good. Forest’s bid didn’t meet with our valuation of him. The price we have on Terry Cooper.’

The way they look at me, the way they stare, but only when I look away …

‘I have never been so convinced of anything in my life as that I am getting the full support of the players. That the players back me.’

Like I’m sick, like I’ve got cancer and I’m dying but no one dare tell me …

‘The situation is beautiful and clear.’

* * *

Just when you think things could get no worse, things get bloody worse, much, much fucking worse; Brighton and Hove Albion lose 8–2 at home to Bristol Rovers; this is the single worst defeat of your career, as a player or as a manager .

You put your youngest lad in the car and drive to London. You sit your youngest lad on your knee in the studios of LWT. In front of the TV cameras. This is your defence. This boy is your defence. This boy is your protection –

‘ The Brighton players are a disgrace,’ you tell Brian Moore and his cameras. ‘They do not know their trade and they shirk all moral responsibilities –

‘ All moral responsibilities .’

* * *

I put out my cig. I finish my drink. I lock up the office. I double check the door. I walk down that corridor. Past those trophies. Past those photographs. Through those doors and out into the car park. To my brand-new blue Mercedes-Benz –

There are two young lads stood beside the car, in their boots and in their jeans, their scarves round their necks, their scarves round their wrists, hands in their pockets –

‘How are you this evening, lads?’ I ask them.

They nod their heads and blink. They nudge each other with their elbows.

‘Were you here on Saturday, were you?’ I ask them.

They nod their heads again. They sway from side to side.

‘What did you think then?’ I ask them.

‘Rubbish,’ says one of them, and the other one giggles.

‘Why do you think that was then?’ I ask them.

‘Because of that John McGovern,’ says the one that speaks. ‘He’s rubbish, he is.’

‘He won the Championship at Derby,’ I tell them. ‘Just give him time, will you?’

The quieter lad asks, ‘But are you going to bring all the Derby players here?’

‘Don’t believe all that crap in the papers, lads,’ I tell them. ‘And don’t worry, it’ll all come right in the end. You’ll see.’

They nod their heads again and blink.

I take out my car keys. I open the car door.

‘Where are you going?’ they ask me.

‘Home,’ I tell them. ‘Now don’t you get too pissed tonight, eh, lads?’

They smile. They laugh. They wave –

‘Cheerio then,’ I tell them. ‘Cheerio, lads.’

Derby County draw with Arsenal. Derby County beat Newcastle. Derby County beat Tottenham. Dave Mackay has started winning. Dave Mackay keeps winning. Leeds United keep winning too. Don Revie keeps winning. But Brian Clough keeps losing .

The only good result you get is from the FA Disciplinary Committee; the FA find you not guilty of bringing the game into disrepute for all the things you said and wrote about Leeds United, for all the things you said and wrote about Don Revie –

The things you said and wrote, over and over, again and again .

This result will open doors, you think; open better doors. Because another good result comes in another defeat for England under Alf Ramsey, England losing 1–0 to Italy; the pressure mounting now on Alf Ramsey and the FA –

These results will open other doors, you think. These will open better doors .

* * *

Things are never the way they say they are. Things are never the way you want them to be. Things just get worse and worse, day by day, hour by hour. Then things fall apart. Things just collapse –

I get out of bed. In silence. I eat breakfast. In silence. I leave the house. In silence. I drive to work. In silence. I park. In silence. I walk across the car park. In silence. Up the banking. In silence. To the training ground. In silence –

No smiles. No laughter. No banter. No jokes. No conversations. No chat. Not here.

I stand at the edge of the training ground and watch them practise and practise. Jimmy comes over. Jimmy says, ‘Thought we’d knock it on the head now, Boss?’

‘Fine,’ I tell him and then I ask, ‘What were they practising just then?’

Jimmy smiles. Jimmy says, ‘Dummies, Boss.’

‘They could have used me for once then,’ I tell him and then I traipse back down the banking. Past Syd and Maurice. In silence. Past the huts and across the car park. The puddles and the potholes. In silence. Into reception –

‘Players’lounge,’ says Bolton. ‘Ten minutes.’

* * *

You put down the phone. You know it’s over now. No chance of going back –

Derby County Football Club have held their Annual General Meeting for 1973. Mike Keeling presented a petition of 7,000 signatures demanding your reinstatement. The board presented a counterpetition of 22,000 signatures .

There were still chants against Jack Kirkland. Still chants against Sam Longson; the meeting dissolving into catcalls and chaos as Longson held a microphone to his ear and stared into space, the stewards picking up Keeling and throwing him down the stairs .

But it’s over now and you know it. No going back. Not now .

* * *

The players’ lounge, Elland Road. Deep in the West Stand, off the main corridor. Two doors locked and an empty bar. Low ceiling and sticky carpet. Mirrors, mirrors on the walls. Fresh from their baths in their black mourning suits, the players file in; the players and directors heading straight to the funeral of Harry Reynolds, straight after this; this players’ court, this charade, this first funeral, mine –

‘I say, I say, I say,’ Manny Cussins begins. ‘We held a board meeting last night because we feel there is some unrest in the camp, that things aren’t quite right …’

‘Never mind that crap,’ says Bolton. ‘We want to know what’s going on here.’

Heads low, their fingers and their nails between their lips and their teeth, there is silence from the players.

I turn my chair around and sit down. I rest my arms on its back and ask them, ‘Listen, lads, how about we start all over again and try to improve things?’