The Damned Utd (31 page)

I walk up the rest of the stairs, down the corridor to the boardroom
doors. I can hear their raised Yorkshire voices again, I can hear my name again. I open the door –

There’s Bolton. There’s Cussins. There’s a man I’ve never met before.

‘About bloody time,’ says Bolton. ‘What you been doing?’

‘We were just about to send out a search party,’ says Cussins.

‘I’m sorry,’ I tell them both. ‘I was talking to Syd Owen.’

‘Well, I want you to meet someone who I’m sure will be much more pleasant to talk to than Syd bloody Owen,’ says Bolton. ‘This is Martin Hughes.’

‘How do you do, Mr Clough?’ says Martin Hughes.

‘How do you do?’ I reply.

‘Martin runs Mercedes here in the north,’ says Cussins.

‘Mercedes?’ I repeat.

‘We hear that’s what you like to drive,’ says Bolton. ‘A Mercedes?’

‘That’s what I used to drive at Derby,’ I tell them, ‘yes.’

‘Well, we can’t have Leeds United being outdone by Derby County, can we?’ laughs Cussins. ‘So Martin here is going to take you over to their showroom and get you sorted out, that’s if you’re not too busy right now?’

I shake my head. I nod my head. I reach for my fags.

‘And smile if you want,’ says Bolton. ‘What did you think you were getting?’

* * *

You closed your eyes, you nodded your head and for once in your bloody life
you did pray; you prayed and prayed and then you prayed some more, but this
is what you got, what you got for all your fucking prayers, for all their rallies
and for all their marches, for all their sit-ins and for all their strikes
–

The Derby board went to Nottingham. The board had a contract for
Mackay. Mackay wanted to wait until after the Forest game against Hull. Five
minutes after the final whistle, Mackay put his pen to their paper and signed
the contract. Now Mackay is the manager of Derby County
–

Dave Mackay. Not you
.

* * *

I drive back to Derby in my brand-new blue Mercedes-Benz. I pick up the wife and the kids in my brand-new blue Mercedes-Benz. We go for a drive round Derby in my brand-new blue Mercedes-Benz. We drive past the Baseball Ground and past the Midland Hotel in my brand-new blue Mercedes-Benz. We stop for fish and chips in my brand-new blue Mercedes-Benz. Then we go back home in my brand-new blue Mercedes-Benz.

‘
Are you there, Brian? Are you still there?
’

I help my wife bath the kids and put them to bed. I watch a bit of telly with my wife before she goes up to bed. Then I sit in that old rocking chair with a drink and a smile because I know we’ll beat Luton on Saturday at home. I know we’ll beat Huddersfield Town in the League Cup. I know we’ll beat Zurich in the first round of the European Cup. I know we will move up the table. I know we will progress in the cups.

‘
Are you there, Brian? Are you still there?
’

I close my eyes but I do not sleep. I do not sleep but I dream. I dream of empty cities after the A-bomb. Empty cities in which I am the only man left alive. The only man left alive to walk around and around these cities. To walk around and around until I hear a telephone ringing. I hear a telephone ringing and I search until I find it. I find it and pick it up and listen to the voice asking me, ‘Are you there, Brian? Are you still there?’

‘Yes,’ I tell them. ‘I’m still here.’

‘Then who’s sorry now, Brian?’ laughs the voice on the phone. ‘Who’s sorry now?’

You are still in your house. Your door locked and your curtains still pulled. In
the dark. You spend half your time in bed, half your time on the settee. Up and
down the stairs. Ignoring the phone, answering the phone. In and out of bed.
The radio on. The radio off. Up and down the stairs again. On and off the settee. The television on. The television off. Because Dave Mackay is the manager
of Derby County FC now. Not you
–

Because today is Dave Mackay’s first day in the job. Your job
–

Wednesday 24 October 1973
.

There were angry scenes in Nottingham last night, the Nottingham Forest
fans accusing Mackay of betrayal, of leaving a job half done. There have been
angry words in the newspapers this morning, the Derby County players saying
they won’t play for Dave Mackay, they won’t train for Dave Mackay. They
won’t work for Dave Mackay
–

The Derby players, your players, saying they’ll go on strike:

‘To Bring Back Cloughie!’

Now there are angry scenes at the Baseball Ground, angry scenes as Dave
Mackay arrives for his first day in the job, your job, greeted by banners and
protesters
–

‘
B.B.C.! B.B.C.!’ they chant. ‘Bring back Cloughie! Bring back Cloughie!
’

Behind the door, behind the curtains, you turn the television up, the radio up:

‘
Fuck off, Mackay,’ they shout. ‘You’re not welcome here!
’

But Dave Mackay has guts. Dave Mackay has balls
–

‘
Who was that?’ Dave Mackay shouts back. ‘Tell him to come in for a trial.
I think we could use him on the wing
.’

The press and the television lap it up. The cameras and the lights. The fans.
The autograph books and the pens. Even the protesters laugh
.

‘
This job is my destiny,’ Dave Mackay tells the cameras and the lights, the
banners and the protesters. ‘I have a lot to prove, but I’m not afraid. You either
see the glass as half full or half empty. I see it as half full and I fancy a drink
.’

You switch off the television. You switch off the radio
–

You sweep the papers off the bed onto the floor
–

You pull the covers over your head
.

* * *

I am first out of bed this morning, down the stairs and into my brand-new blue Mercedes-Benz. I am first through the doors this morning, round the corner and down the corridor, shouting, ‘William! William!’

But Billy Bremner doesn’t stop. Billy Bremner doesn’t put down his kit bag or turn around.

Down the corridor, I shout again, ‘Billy!’

Bremner stops now. Bremner puts down his kit bag and turns around.

I walk down the corridor towards him. I ask him, ‘You coming tonight?’

‘Where?’ asks Bremner.

‘Here,’ I tell him. ‘For the reserve game against Blackburn.’

‘Why?’ asks Bremner.

‘I told you,’ I tell him again. ‘I’d value your input on the bench.’

‘I have to come then?’ asks Bremner. ‘You’re ordering me?’

‘Course I’m not ordering you,’ I tell him. ‘I’m asking you, because I think …’

But Bremner is shaking his head, saying, ‘
Only a Game
tonight.’

‘What?’

‘On the telly tonight,’ says Billy Bremner. ‘
Only a Game
; Scotland vs Brazil. Having some friends round, a few drinks. You don’t expect me to miss that, do you?’

I turn my back on him. I walk round the corner and down the corridor to the office. I pour a drink and I light a fag. I get out my address book. I pick up the phone and I make some calls. Lots of fucking calls. Then I put down the phone. I put away my address book. I put out my fag. I finish my drink and I get changed. I put on my old green Leeds United goalkeeping jersey. I open the desk drawer. I take out a whistle. I lock the office door. I double check it’s locked. I go down the
corridor. Round the corner. Through reception and out into the car park. I jog through the potholes and the puddles. Past the huts on stilts. Up the banking. Onto the training ground –

Bastards. Bastards. Bastards
.

I blow the whistle. I shout, ‘Jordan, Madeley, Cooper, Bates, Yorath and young Gray, you’ll all be playing in the reserve game tonight. See you there.’

I turn my back on them and there’s Syd Owen and Maurice Lindley stood there, stood there waiting, heads together, whispering and muttering, whispering and muttering. Maurice has a large envelope between his fingers. He hands it to me. ‘There you go.’

‘What the hell’s all this?’ I ask him.

‘The dossier on FC Zurich,’ he says. ‘The works.’

‘Just tell me if they bloody won or not.’

‘They did,’ he says.‘3–0 away.’

‘And are they any fucking good?’

‘They are,’ he says.

‘Ta,’ I tell him and hand him back his envelope. ‘That’s all I needed to know.’

I jog off down the banking. Past the huts. Through the potholes and the puddles. Across the car park and into reception. Sam Bolton is stood there, stood there waiting –

‘How’s your car?’ he asks me.

‘It’s very nice,’ I tell him. ‘Thank you.’

‘That’s good,’ he says. ‘Now get yourself changed and up them stairs.’

* * *

You are still in bed, still under the covers. Downstairs, the telephone is ringing and
ringing and ringing. You don’t get out of bed. You don’t answer it. Your wife does
–

‘
Brian!’ she shouts up the stairs. ‘It’s a Mike Bamber. From Brighton
.’

You put your head above the covers. You get out of bed. You go down the
stairs. You put the telephone to your ear
–

‘
Mr Clough, my name is Mike Bamber,’ says Mike Bamber. ‘And I’m the
chairman of Brighton and Hove Albion Football Club. I was wondering if we
might have a chat about a vacancy I have here
.’

‘
Brighton?’ you ask him. ‘They’re in the Third Division, aren’t they?
’

‘
Unfortunately,’ says Mike Bamber. ‘But I believe you’re the very man who
might well be able to do something about that
…’

‘
I might consider it,’ you tell him. ‘And, if I do, I’ll be in touch
.’

You put down the telephone. You look up at your wife
–

‘
A job’s a job,’ she says
.

‘
In the Third Division?’ you ask her. ‘On the south coast?
’

‘
Beggars can’t be choosers
.’

* * *

Mike Bamber and Brighton and Hove Albion are taking legal action against Leeds United. Mike Bamber and Brighton and Hove Albion have issued writs against me and Leeds United. Mike Bamber and Brighton and Hove Albion are claiming damages against me for breach of contract. Mike Bamber and Brighton and Hove Albion are claiming damages against Leeds United for inducing me to breach my contract. Mike Bamber and Brighton and Hove Albion claim Leeds United promised to pay them
£
75,000 in compensation for me. Mike Bamber and Brighton and Hove Albion also claim Leeds United promised to play a friendly match against them at their Goldstone Ground. Mike Bamber and Brighton and Hove Albion want their friendly match. Mike Bamber and Brighton and Hove Albion want their money –

‘They’re getting nowt,’ shouts Sam Bolton. ‘Bloody nowt. Same as all these other chairmen and directors who have been calling us all morning, asking us about Joe Jordan, asking us about Paul Madeley, asking us about Terry Cooper, asking us about Mick Bates, asking us about Terry Yorath, and asking us about Frankie Gray –

‘They’re getting nowt,’ says Bolton, ‘because we’re giving them bloody nowt.’

* * *

You meet the Derby players again, your players again, for lunch at the
Midland Hotel. Just you and Peter and the Derby players, your players
.

The Derby board still won’t meet the players. The players are thunderstruck.
The players are bitter. The players are hurt. These players are young. These
players are emotional. These players are loyal. You understand this
–

‘
I played centre-forward for Derby County every week,’ you tell them
–

They understand this. They know this. They tell you, ‘We’re not going to
train. We’re not going to play. Not until we get you back, Boss
.’

You thank them countless times. You order countless bottles. You tell them,
‘Next time we meet, it’ll be up at my house to celebrate my reinstatement
…’

But tonight the Derby players, your players, have to meet Dave Mackay
–

‘
That’s not going to resolve anything, is it?’ says Red Roy McFarland
.

‘
But he’s your manager now,’ says Pete. ‘Not us, Roy. It’s Dave
.’

You turn to Peter. You look at Taylor. You shout, ‘What? You bloody what?
’

‘
Fucking face it, Brian,’ he says. ‘It’s time to move on. It’s over
.’

‘
Is it fuck,’ you tell him. ‘What about the Protest Movement?
’

‘
Brian, Brian, Brian
…’

‘
Go on then,’ you tell him. ‘You fucking quit if you want to, like you always
do. But I’m not giving up, not giving up on this lot. Not after all they’ve bloody
done for us, all they’ve fucking risked for us. Never
…’

‘
Exactly,’ says Peter. ‘And that’s why we shouldn’t ask them to risk any
more. All this talk of not training, not playing. All this talk of sit-ins, of strikes.
They’ll be in bloody breach of their fucking contracts. They’ll be out of the club
and out of a job; banned from playing anywhere else. They’ll be out of work,
just like us
.’

‘
Fuck off,’ you tell him. ‘You’re a coward. You’re yellow
.’

But Taylor just shrugs his shoulders. Puts out his fag and stands up. Then
Peter shakes each player by their hand, each Derby player
–

‘
Thanks for everything,’ he says. ‘And best of luck on Saturday, I mean it
.’

* * *

There are only fifteen minutes before the start of the Central League fixture against Blackburn and Elland Road is still empty. Empty but for directors, managers and scouts –

Freddie Goodwin from Birmingham City is here. Alan Brown from Forest too. From Leicester. From Everton. From Stoke. From Villa. From Ipswich. From Norwich. From Luton. From Burnley. From Coventry. From Wednesday. From bloody Hull and even Carlisle, they’ve all come to this shop window; come for this fucking fire sale –

‘
Take your bloody pick,’ I told them all. ‘Everything must go!
’

Through the doors. Up the stairs. Round the corner and down the corridor, I walk towards the Yorkshire boardroom doors. Towards the Yorkshire boardroom and chaos:

A man is lying on the floor of the corridor, outside the boardroom –

The man is Harry Reynolds, a former chairman of Leeds United –

People are loosening his collar, people loosening his tie –

People calling for a doctor, for an ambulance –

But Harry Reynolds is already dead.

* * *

The taxi drops you back at your house. Roy McFarland and Henry Newton
help you to the door. Your wife lies you down on the settee
–

‘
Don’t listen to Peter,’ you tell Roy and Henry. ‘He’s just scared. Yellow
.’

Your wife waits until Roy and Henry have gone. Until you’ve had a little
sleep. A nice cup of tea. Then your wife tells you Stuart Dryden phoned from
Nottingham Forest. Now Stuart Dryden might only be a committee member
at Nottingham Forest, says your wife. But Stuart Dryden has a vision. Stuart
Dryden has a dream
–

That Nottingham Forest can win promotion from Division Two to Division
One; that Nottingham Forest can win the First Division Championship; that
Nottingham Forest can win the European Cup; not once, not twice, but time
and time again
–

Stuart Dryden believes you are the man to realize this dream
–

‘
That you’re the only man who can make that dream real,’ Stuart Dryden
tells you in the middle of the night. In a Nottingham office. In secret
.

‘
Are you offering us the job?’ you ask Stuart Dryden
.

‘
I’d bloody love to,’ he says. ‘But I’ve only been on the committee for a week
.’

‘
Well, I’m interested,’ you tell him. ‘And so is Peter. But we’re not applying
.’

‘
But you’ve got to do something to help me get you there,’ says Dryden
.

‘
Like what?’ you ask him
.

‘
Like phoning the club at 11 o’clock tomorrow morning and making a discreet
enquiry about the vacancy. I’ll make sure I’m there to take the call
.’

‘
I’ll not bloody beg,’ you tell him. ‘I’ll not fucking beg
.’

‘
It’s not begging,’ he says. ‘It’s a discreet enquiry
.’

‘
But who’s to say I won’t be back at Derby this time tomorrow?’ you ask him
.

‘
But they’ve already appointed Dave Mackay,’ says Stuart Dryden.
‘They’ve already appointed our bloody manager in your place
.’

‘
You never know. They might just un-appoint him,’ you tell him. ‘Then
Derby would get me back and you’d get Mackay back and we’d all be happy
.’

‘
But we don’t want Mackay back,’ says Stuart Dryden. ‘We want you
.’

* * *

The reserve game goes ahead and Leeds beat Blackburn Rovers 3–0, but it doesn’t matter. Not now. Now Harry Reynolds is dead. Not now Don Revie has arrived, as if by magick:

‘Harry Reynolds was the man who gave me my chance,’ says Don Revie. ‘Without him there would have been nothing. No man could have done more for a football club than Mr Reynolds. Without his intervention, I would probably have gone to Bournemouth all those years ago. I owe a debt to him that I cannot express in words. I am deeply saddened by his loss and anything I have achieved in my managerial career I owe to him. When I think of the dedication and effort he put into his career as chairman in the early years of my management, his trips with me all over the country to sign players and talk promising youngsters into a career at Leeds, I realize that he was unique …’