David Peace - The Damned Utd

First Division Final Positions, 1973–74

Home Away Total P W D L F A W D L F A F A Pts1 Leeds United 42 12 8 1 38 18 12 6 3 28 13 66 31 62 2 Liverpool 42 18 2 1 34 11 4 11 6 18 20 52 31 57 3 Derby County 42 13 7 1 40 16 4 7 10 12 26 52 42 48 4 Ipswich Town 42 10 7 4 38 21 8 4 9 29 37 67 58 47 5 Stoke City 42 13 6 2 39 15 2 10 9 15 27 54 42 46 6 Burnley 42 10 9 2 29 16 6 5 10 27 37 56 53 46 7 Everton 42 12 7 2 29 14 4 5 12 21 34 50 48 44 8 QPR 42 8 10 3 30 17 5 7 9 26 35 56 52 43 9 Leicester City 42 10 7 4 35 17 3 9 9 16 24 51 41 42 10 Arsenal 42 9 7 5 23 16 5 7 9 26 35 49 51 42 11 Tottenham H 42 9 4 8 26 27 5 10 6 19 23 45 50 42 12 Wolves 42 11 6 4 30 18 2 9 10 19 31 49 49 41 13 Sheffield Utd 42 7 7 7 25 22 7 5 9 19 27 44 49 40 14 Man. City 42 10 7 4 25 17 4 5 12 14 29 39 46 40 15 Newcastle Utd 42 9 6 6 28 21 4 6 11 21 27 49 48 38 16 Coventry City 42 10 5 6 25 18 4 5 12 18 36 43 54 38 17 Chelsea 42 9 4 8 36 29 3 9 9 20 31 56 60 37 18 West Ham Utd 42 7 7 7 36 32 4 8 9 19 28 55 60 37 19 Birmingham C 42 10 7 4 30 21 2 6 13 22 43 52 64 37 20 Southampton 42 8 10 3 30 20 3 4 14 17 48 47 68 36 21 Man. Utd 42 7 7 7 23 20 3 5 13 15 28 38 48 32 22 Norwich City 42 6 9 6 25 27 1 6 14 12 35 37 62 29

Bottom 3 clubs relegated.

I am a Yorkshire Man and I am a Cunning Man –

And I curse you! First with gift, then with loss –

I curse you!

Loss and then gift, gift and then loss –

Until you lose. Until you leave –

I will curse you!

I see it from the motorway. Through the windscreen. The kids in the back. Fallen off the top of Beeston Hill. Are we nearly there yet , they’re saying. Are we nearly there, Dad? In a heap up against the railway and the motorway banking. Asking me about Billy Bremner and Johnny Giles. The floodlights and the stands, all fingers and fists up from the sticks and the stones, the flesh and the bones. There it is , my eldest is telling my youngest. There it is . From the motorway. Through the windscreen –

Hateful, hateful place; spiteful, spiteful place …

Elland Road, Leeds, Leeds, Leeds .

I’ve seen it before. Been here before. Played and managed here, six or seven times in six or seven years. Always a visitor, always away –

Hateful, spiteful place, flecked in their phlegm …

But not today; Wednesday 31 July 1974 –

Arthur Seaton. Colin Smith. Arthur Machin and Joe Lampton …

Today I’m no longer a visitor. No longer away –

No more zombies , they whisper. No more bloody zombies, Brian …

Today I’m on my way to work there.

* * *

The worst winter of the twentieth century begins on Boxing Day 1962. The Big Freeze. Postponements. The birth of the Pools Panel. The Cup Final put back three weeks. People will die in this weather today. But not at Roker Park, Sunderland. Not versus Bury. The referee walks the pitch at half past one. Middlesbrough have called their game off. But not your referee. Your referee decides your game can go ahead –

‘ Well done, ref,’ you tell him. ‘That lot down the road call off anything .’

Half an hour before kick-off, you stand in the mouth of the tunnel in your short-sleeved red-and - white vertical-striped shirt, your white shorts and your red and white stockings and watch a ten-minute torrent of hailstones bounce off the pitch. You can’t wait to get out there. Can’t bloody wait –

Sleet in your face, ice under foot and the cold in your bones. A stray pass into their penalty area and a sprint across the mud, your eye on the ball and your mind on a goal; twenty-eight this season already. Twenty-eight. Their keeper is coming, their keeper is coming, your eye on the ball, your mind on that goal, the twenty-ninth –

Their keeper is here, your mind still on that goal, his shoulder to your knee –

Cruuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuunch …

The roar and the whistle. The silence and the lights out –

You are on the ground, in the mud, your eyes open and the ball loose. Twenty-nine. You try to stand, but you can’t. Twenty-nine. So you crawl –

‘ Get up, Clough!’ someone shouts. ‘Get up! ’

Through the mud, on your hands and on your knees –

‘ Come on, ref,’ laughs Bob Stokoe, the Bury centre-half. ‘He’s fucking codding is Clough .’

On your hands and on your knees, through the heavy, heavy mud –

‘ Not this lad,’ says the referee. ‘This lad doesn’t cod .’

You stop crawling. You turn over. Your mouth is open. Your eyes wide. You see the face of the physio, Johnny Watters, a worried moon in a frightening sky. There is blood running down your cheek, with the sweat and with the tears, your right knee hurting, hurting, hurting, and you are biting, biting, biting the inside of your mouth to stifle the screams, to fight the fear –

The first taste of metal on your tongue, that first taste of fear –

One by one the 30,000 will leave. Rubbish will blow in circles across the pitch. Snow and night will fall, the ground harden and the world forget –

Leave you lying on your back in the penalty area, a zombie –

Johnny Watters bends down, sponge in his hand, tongue in your ear, he whispers, ‘How shall we live, Brian? How shall we live? ’

You are lifted onto a stretcher. You are carried off on the stretcher –

‘ Don’t take his bloody boots off,’ says the Boss. ‘He might get back on .’

Down the tunnel to the dressing room –

You are lifted onto a plinth and a white sheet. There is blood everywhere, through the sheet onto the plinth, down the plinth onto the floor –

The smell of blood. The smell of sweat. The smell of tears. The smell of Algipan. You want to smell these smells for the rest of your life .

‘ He needs the hospital,’ says Johnny Watters. ‘Needs it quick and all .’