David Peace - The Damned Utd

Heads low, their fingers and their nails between their lips and their teeth, there is still only silence.

‘Perhaps if Mr Clough were to step outside,’ says John Giles, ‘then perhaps we would all feel a little more like speaking our minds.’

I look at the Irishman. The Irishman smiles. The Irishman winks –

Bastard. Bastard. Bastard. Fucking bastards. The bloody lot of them …

I don’t wait. I stand up. I turn my back. I leave –

‘ We’re not happy with the handling of the team …’

I leave them to it. Under the stand, through the doors and round the corners, I walk –

‘ We never see him and when we do he tells us nothing …’

I walk back down that corridor to the office. Back to find Jimmy by that door –

‘ We’re not allowed to mention Mr Revie’s name …’

‘That’s it,’ I tell Jimmy. ‘There’s no way I can continue to manage this club.’

‘ What I want to know is why, after all the things he’d said about us, did you appoint him in the first place, Mr Cussins? ’

‘What you going to do, Boss?’ asks Jimmy.

‘ It wasn’t just me who appointed him, boys …’

‘I’m resigning,’ I tell him. ‘But I’ll make sure your job’s safe.’

‘ So what are you saying, lads? ’

‘I’m not bloody staying here without you,’ says Jimmy. ‘No fucking way.’

‘ What the lads are trying to say, Mr Bolton, is that he’s just not good enough …’

‘Right then,’ I tell him. ‘I want you to go home tonight and work out how much bloody brass you’re going to need …’

‘ Not good enough for Leeds United .’

‘… because I know that’s what I’m going to fucking do.’

* * *

You are not at work. You are up in the air. Thirty thousand feet up in the air. On your way to New York City. On your way to see Ali — Frazier II at Madison Square Garden. All expenses paid. Thanks to the Daily Mail; the Daily Mail who will introduce you to Ali:

Ali vs Clough — the Meeting of the Mouths — Ego vs Ego.

You don’t care. Thirty thousand feet up in the air. On your way to New York City. On a charter flight in the company of the Victoria Sporting Club. The Victoria Sporting Club who sweep every miniature from the drinks trolley and then toss them over to you –

‘ Help yourself to whatever you bloody like, Brian,’ they shout. ‘You just take as many as you fucking like, old son .’

Up in the air, drunk and scared. You pull out the paper, the Daily Mail:

‘Clay and I want each other bad,’ says Frazier. ‘I still call him Clay; his mother named him Clay. If you’ve been around this guy long enough, you can have a lot of hate in your heart when the bell rings, but otherwise you kind of look at him and you laugh. There’s something wrong with the guy. I’m aware now that the guy’s got a couple of loosescrews someplace.’

Up in the air, drunk and scared, this is how 1974 begins for Cloughie –

Drunk and scared, up in the air, nineteen hundred and seventy-four .

* * *

I watch them climb down the steps and off the team bus still in their black suits and their black ties, with their paperback books and their packs of cards, but I don’t bother to count the hearts, not this night –

This night has 30,000 eyes but no hearts. Thirty thousand eyes plus two: Don in the crowd. Don in the stands. Don in his black suit. His black tie. His funeral suit. His mourning suit. Here for my final game, same as my first game:

Huddersfield Town vs Leeds United –

This time it’s no friendly. This time it’s the Football League Cup, second round.

Huddersfield Town in their royal blue and white vertical-striped shirts, white shorts and white stockings: Poole. Hutt. Garner. Pugh. Saunders. Dolan. Hoy. McGinley. Gowling. Chapman and Smith –

Versus –

Leeds United in their yellow shirts, yellow shorts and yellow stockings: Harvey. Reaney. Cherry. Bates. McQueen. Hunter. Lorimer. Clarke. Jordan. Giles and Madeley. No McKenzie. No McGovern. No O’Hare –

They are Leeds United, the Champions of England. But they are not my team. Not mine. They win a penalty and Lorimer scores. The referee demands it be retaken and Lorimer misses. They go a goal behind with only eleven minutes left, a goal behind to a Third Division team, a goal behind before Lorimer crashes a volley into the back of the net with only one minute left. There will have to be a replay now at Elland Road in two weeks’ time. But I will not be there. I will not be their manager –

Because they are not my team. Not mine. Not this team, and they never will be –

In their dirty yellow shirts, dirty yellow shorts and dirty yellow stockings …

They are his team. His Leeds. His dirty, fucking Leeds and they always will be –

In his black suit. His black tie. In his funeral suit. His mourning suit …

Not my team. Never. Not mine. Never. Not this team. Never –

They are not Derby County and I am not Donald Revie.

* * *

Derby keep winning. Leeds keep winning. Brighton keep losing. But you are never there; Sunday through Thursday, you’re never, never there –

You are shaking hands with Muhammad Ali, shaking hands with Frank Sinatra. You are not on the back pages of the papers, you’re on the front .

You’re also back on the streets of Derby, on the stump for Phillip Whitehead; Phillip Whitehead, the Labour MP for Derby North; Phillip Whitehead who stood by you at Derby; Phillip Whitehead, your friend, who you want to help, and help full-time:

‘ But how can you do that when you’re the manager at Brighton? ’

‘ No bloody problem,’ you tell him. ‘I only go there on Fridays and then I’m back home here in Derby by Saturday night …’

In the sleet and in the drizzle. On the estates and on the streets. On the stump:

‘ I’m Brian Clough,’ you tell the voters of Derby, shout through your loud-hailer. ‘And I think you should all come out and vote for the Labour Party .’

In the sleet. In the drizzle. On the estates. On the streets. You are a Pied Piper:

‘ I’m Brian Clough,’ you tell them. ‘And I want you all to get down to the polling station now and vote for Phillip Whitehead, your Labour candidate .’

In the sleet and in the drizzle, on the estates and on the streets, you love all this; the canvassing on the doorsteps, the speeches to the packed halls –

‘ A slice of bloody cake for all!’ you tell them. ‘That’s what Brian Clough says .’

‘ When you coming back to Derby, Cloughie?’ shouts someone during one of the question times as the whole hall applauds and stamps its feet –

‘ Let’s get Phillip elected first,’ you tell the hall. ‘Then let’s see what happens .’

In the February 1974 General Election, Phillip Whitehead retains his seat with a majority of twelve hundred, against all the predictions. All the odds –

That’s what happens in Derby. In February 1974. Just that .

* * *

The five-mile coach journey from Leeds Road, Huddersfield, back to Elland Road, Leeds, is a long one; the longest bloody one of my whole fucking life. No paperback books tonight. No packs of cards. No bloody hearts tonight. No one laughs. No one jokes. No one speaks at all. Not one single word until Manny Cussins says –

‘Can I have a word with you, Brian?’

‘A word?’

‘Yes,’ he mumbles. ‘A word and a drink? Back at my flat.’