by David Peace
Bobby Saxton will not play for Derby County again. Not play for you again. Never, never, never play again.
But at the very final whistle you stick out your own hand and you tell Don Revie, ‘Well done, Don. See you next week.’
And this time Don Revie takes that outstretched hand but he looks right through you as he shakes it, shakes it, shakes it, looks right through you to the mirror, the mirror, mirror on the dressing-room wall, a comb in his hand and a prayer on his lips, a comb in his hand and a prayer on his lips, a comb in his hand and a prayer on his lips –
That he will win and you will lose. He will win and you will lose –
The rituals observed, the superstitions followed, all Don’s prayers are answered.
You travel up to Elland Road twice in two weeks and twice in two weeks you are well beaten and you travel back down to Derby with nothing –
Nothing but ambitions fuelled; hearts hardened and lessons learnt –
Losing 2–0 in the FA Cup to goals from Lorimer and Charlton, then losing 3–2 in the second leg of the semi-final of the League Cup –
Two Derby goals that you know, in your hardened heart of hearts, flatter you and flatter Derby County in front of Elland Road –
In front of Leeds United, in front of Don Revie –
‘Bit lucky there,’ says Don. ‘Thought God might be smiling on you.’
‘I don’t believe in luck,’ you tell Don. ‘And I don’t believe in God.’
‘So what do you believe in then?’ asks Don Revie.
‘Me,’ you tell him. ‘Brian Howard Clough.’
* * *
Just the three of us now; me, his shadow and his echo –
In the empty stadium, beneath the empty stand, off the empty corridor, the three of us in his old bloody office in my brand-new chair at my brand-new desk on his old fucking phone –
The spit from his lips. His tongue. The breath from his mouth. His stomach –
My brandy. My cigarette. My call –
Bill Nicholson ranting down the line about Martin Chivers; about modern footballers; about Mammon and greed –
‘John Giles could be just the man you need,’ I tell him. ‘Be able to groom him. Mould him. Done a fine job with the Republic. Just what the Spurs need …’
Bill Nick’s not keen, but Bill agrees to meet Giles. To talk to him.
I hang up, pour another brandy and light another cig, in my brand-new chair at my brand-new desk in his empty old office, off his empty old corridor, beneath his empty old stand in his empty old stadium –
Just the three of us: me, his shadow and his echo –
I walk out into the corridor. Round the corner –
Down the tunnel and out onto that pitch –
My brandy in one hand, my cigarette in the other, I stand in the centre circle again and look up into the dark, empty Yorkshire night –
Don’t take it out on this world –
This night has a thousand eyes but just one song.
* * *
‘It’s easy to be a good manager,’ Harry Storer always used to say. ‘All you have to do is sign good players.’
Harry Storer was right. Harry Storer was always bloody right –
It’s players that lose you games. Players that win you games –
Not theories. Not tactics. Not luck. Not superstition. Not God. Players –
You pick them, but they play. They win, they lose or they draw –
Not you. Not the manager. Them. The players –
You have kept the likes of Kevin Hector and Alan Durban. You have brought in the likes of John O’Hare, Roy McFarland and Alan Hinton –
You have tasted Elland Road. You have tasted the Big Time. But now it’s back to the Second Division. Back to Portsmouth, Millwall, Huddersfield and Carlisle.
Derby County win a few games. Derby County lose a few –
Peaks and ruts. The hate mail comes. Ruts and peaks. The hate mail goes –
But there are still men like Fred Wallace; there are always men like Fred Wallace, standing on the terraces, behind the dug-out, outside the dressing room, in the corridors, in the boardrooms and at the bars –
‘Dropped another place,’ he tells you. ‘Fifth from bottom now.’
Men who want you to fail. Men who want you to lose. Men who wish you dead. Men like Fred Wallace. There are always men like Fred and there are always doubts –
There are doubts in 1968 and there’ll be doubts in 1978 –
Doubts and broken promises:
Derby County fail to win any of their last six games. Derby County lose their very last match at home to Blackpool. You have lost nineteen games in the 1967–68 season, scored seventy-one goals but conceded seventy-eight, and you have finished the season eighteenth in Division Two; one place lower than last season, last season when Derby sacked Tim Ward; two places lower than you promised the Rotary Club of Derby –
Promised the newspapers and the television, the town and the fans –
Broken promises and broken hearts –
Meanwhile, Hartlepools United have been promoted to Division Three –
Broken hearts and salted wounds –
Your glass breaks against his lounge wall, you are drunk and crying, shouting: ‘Least we’d have fucking won something.’
‘But we’d still be in the bloody Third Division,’ says Peter.
You shake your head: ‘This rate, we’ll fucking pass them on our way down.’
‘Brian, listen to me,’ he says. ‘Hartlepools was just a bloody stepping stone, always was and always will be. This time next year we’ll be promoted as fucking Champions. And that’ll just be the start of it. You wait and you see.’
You look up. You dry your eyes. You ask him, ‘Do you promise me, Pete?’
‘Cross my heart,’ he nods. ‘Cross my heart, Brian.’
‘If you promise,’ you tell him, ‘then I believe you –’
Promises made and hearts healed –
Peter puts his arms around you, and your wives pick up the pieces.
Day Seven
Impeachment, impeachment, impeachment and the return of George bleeding Best. Bestie. Turning out for Dunstable Town and beating Manchester United 3–2. I’ve got a smile on my face and the radio on as I drive; a smile on my face until I see him, see Bestie by the side of the road, larger than life, any life –
His head full of demons; his own throat cut …
To sell them Brylcreem. Double Diamond beer and pork sausages.
They hate flair round here. Hate and fucking loathe it. Drag it out into the street and kick it in its guts, kill it and hang it from the posts for all to mock and see, from the motorway and the railway, from the factories and the fields, the houses and the hills –
Elland Road, Leeds, Leeds, Leeds –
Yorkshire. Nineteen seventy-four –
His own throat cut –
There is always a war coming, and England is always asleep.
* * *
You are bloody lucky not to have been sacked. Fucking lucky. Except you don’t believe in luck. Talent and hard work. That’s what you believe in. Ability and application. Discipline and determination. That’s what got you from Clairville Common to Great Broughton. From a fitter and turner at ICI to centre-forward at Middlesbrough Football Club and then captain of Sunderland. That’s what got you your 251 league goals in 274 games, got you your eighteen hat-tricks, your five four-goal hauls, and that’s what’s going to save you and Derby County –
That’s what’s going to get you what you want –
Ability and application. Discipline and determination –
No such thing as luck. No such thing as God. Just you, you and the players –
Peter reads out the pre-season team sheet; names like McFarland, O’Hare, Hector and Hinton. Peter puts down the team sheet. Pete says, ‘Just two things missing now: a good bloody keeper and a bit of fucking experience.’
‘And where are we going to find
them?’ you ask him. ‘Not round here.’
‘Don’t you worry,’ says Peter. ‘I know just the keeper and just the man with the experience we need.’
* * *
There’s another friendly tomorrow, another away game, my second game in charge. I stand at the far edge of the training pitch and watch them practising their set pieces, their corners and their free kicks –
Like clockwork.
Jimmy Gordon comes over. He says, ‘Thought we’d knock it on the head, if that’s all right with you, Boss?’
I look at my watch. It’s not there.
‘Half eleven,’ says Jimmy. ‘Anything you want to say to them before we finish?’
I shake my head. I tell him, ‘What’s to say?’
Jimmy shrugs his shoulders. He starts to walk back towards the team.
‘Jimmy,’ I call after him. ‘Ask Eddie Gray to come over here, will you?’
Eddie’s played in just one of the last forty-five Leeds games. He’s in his purple tracksuit with his name on the back, sweating and out of breath. He says, ‘Mr Clough?’
‘Boss to you,’ I tell him and then I ask him, ‘You fit?’
‘I think so,’ he says.
‘Think’s no good to me,’ I tell him. ‘I want you to know so.’
‘Well then, I know so,’ he laughs. ‘I know so, Boss.’
‘Good lad,’ I tell him. ‘We’ll give you a run-out tomorrow night then.’
Eddie sprints back over to his mates as someone shouts, ‘You off and all then?’
* * *
‘Me go and sign Dave Mackay? You must be bloody joking, or fucking drunk?’ you told Peter.
‘You’ve pulled off bigger things than this,’ he lied. ‘Just go and try.’
‘He’s off into management,’ you told him. ‘Hanging up his boots.’
‘It’s only 99 per cent certain,’ Peter lied again.
And so off you set. Just you. Not Pete –
You in your car to sign Dave Mackay –
Dave Mackay, the legendary Scottish wing-half with Tottenham Hotspur –
Tottenham Hotspur, the legendary 1960–61 double-winning Spurs –
The double-winning Spurs of the legendary Bill Nicholson.
So here you are at White Hart Lane, London. Been here since half seven this morning. You want to speak to Bill Nicholson, but no one knows who you are. Never heard of you. No one gives you the time of day. So you sit in your car in their car park with the radio and the cricket on and you wait; wait and wait and wait, in the car park in your Sunday best, wait and wait and wait until you see Bill Nicholson –
Bill Nick, manager of Tottenham Hotspur, an inspiration and an idol to you.
‘I’ve come to sign Dave Mackay,’ you tell him.
‘As far as I know,’ says Bill Nick, ‘Dave’s off back to Edinburgh tomorrow. He’s off home to Hearts to become assistant manager.’
‘Can I have a word with him?’
The phone is ringing in Bill Nick’s office. Bill turns and, as he leaves me, he says, ‘Mackay’s training, but you’re welcome to wait.’
So you wait again, wait and wait and wait, in the passageway outside the office, you wait and wait and wait until you hear the studs and then the voices.
Dave Mackay is older than you and he looks it. He marches straight up to you. Hand out. Grip firm –
‘Dave Mackay,’ he says. ‘And who the bloody hell are you?’
‘My name’s Brian Clough and I once had the pleasure of playing for England against you in an Under-23 match,’ you tell him.
‘I do remember you now,’ laughs Dave Mackay. ‘You had a beautiful black eye, a right bloody shiner.’
‘Well, I’m the manager of Derby County now and I’m building a team there that will be promoted this season and be First Division Champions in three years.’
‘Congratulations,’ laughs Dave Mackay again. ‘Now what can I do for you?’
‘You can sign for Derby County,’ you tell him. ‘That’s what.’
‘No chance,’ he says. ‘I’m off home to Hearts tomorrow as assistant manager.’
‘Tell you what then,’ you smile. ‘You go off and get yourself a nice hot bath and then we’ll have a nice little chat about it. Never know your luck.’
But luck’s got nothing to do with it. No such thing as luck –
Dave Mackay has his bath and then Dave Mackay takes you into the players’ lounge at White Hart Lane, London. It is immaculate. Ladies in aprons bring you tea and sandwiches in china cups and on china plates. Then Dave Mackay takes you out onto the pitch at White Hart Lane and sits you down on the turf by the corner flag –
The stands and the seats immaculate. The sun shining on the pitch –
It is a beautiful place. It is a beautiful day.
‘Derby is a sleeping giant,’ you tell Dave Mackay. ‘But since I arrived at the place, the crowds have already jumped to 20,000. The town backs me, the fans back me and, more importantly, the board back me 100 per cent. There’s money for class and for skill and the wages to pay players with both; players like you and players like Roy McFarland.’
‘Roy who?’ asks Dave Mackay.
‘McFarland,’ you tell him. ‘He’s the next England centre-half, I’m telling you. Forget Jack Charlton. Forget Norman Hunter. Their days are numbered, mark my words. Alan Hinton, he’s another of mine. Great winger and, now he’s with us, he’ll be back in that England side, Ramsey or no bloody Ramsey. And Kevin Hector? You must have heard of Kevin Hector?’
‘Vaguely,’ says Dave Mackay. ‘Didn’t he play for Bradford Park Avenue?’
‘He did that,’ you tell him. ‘But now he’s with us and you just can’t stop the lad scoring goals. Not for love nor money.’
‘Where did you finish last season?’ asks Dave Mackay.
‘Eighteenth.’
‘Eighteenth?’ he laughs. ‘I’m very sorry, Brian. But I just wouldn’t come to you. Not for ten thousand quid. Sorry.’
‘I’ll give you ten thousand quid, here and now, in cash.’
‘No chance,’ he laughs again. ‘I’m off to Hearts tomorrow. That’s that.’
‘What would you come for then?’ you ask him. ‘If not ten grand?’
‘I’d consider fifteen.’
‘I can’t get fifteen.’
‘Then you’re wasting your time,’ he says. ‘You might as well get off home.’
You look at Dave Mackay sat in the sunshine on the pitch at White Hart Lane, with its players’ lounge and its china cups and its china plates; Dave Mackay, the greatest wing-half of his day; Dave Mackay, about to hang up his boots for a seat on the bench and a manager’s suit –
You look at Dave Mackay and you tell him, ‘I can get you fourteen thousand and, better than that, I can keep you playing.’
Dave Mackay looks down at the grass on the pitch at White Hart Lane, then up at the stands and the seats, and then Dave Mackay sticks out his hand and says, ‘Done.’
* * *
In his corridors, in his shadows, they are waiting again; Maurice Lindley and Syd Owen –
Behind my back. Under their breath. Behind their hands. Through gritted teeth, they whisper –
‘He’s never really going to buy this lad McKenzie, is he?’
‘Turn this place into a bloody circus,’ they murmur –
‘A bleeding pantomime,’ they hiss.
I slam his door, I turn my key. In his office, at my desk –
I pick up his phone, I dial –
‘Is that Duncan McKenzie?’
‘Yes, this is he.’
‘This is Brian Clough speaking,’ I tell him. ‘Now listen to me, you go get your coat and your skates on because you’re coming to meet me at the Victoria Hotel in Sheffield. Half an hour and you’d better not be bloody late. And Duncan?’
‘Yes, Mr Clough?’
‘Bring a bloody pen because you’re fucking signing for Leeds United today.’
* * *
Y
ou leave London behind. Thank Christ. You drive straight back to the Baseball Ground. Home sweet home. You sing and shout all the way –
Nailed it. Nailed it. Nailed it.
Peter is waiting. Pete is wondering, ‘Any luck?’
‘Fuck luck,’ you tell him. ‘He’ll be here tomorrow to put his pen to our paper.’
‘I don’t bloody believe it,’ shouts Peter. ‘Never thought you had a prayer.’
‘Fuck your prayers and all,’ you tell him. ‘Just believe in me. Brian Clough.’
‘I do,’ says Pete. ‘You know I do.’
* * *
Duncan McKenzie is waiting for us in the posh lobby of the Victoria Hotel, Sheffield. He’s looking at his watch, biting his nails and chain-smoking. I walk across that lobby and tell him, ‘Forget Derby County. Forget the Spurs. You’re coming to Leeds for £200 a week.’
Before he can reply or light another fag, I take him by his hand and waltz him into the bar. Duncan doesn’t drink, but he will do today –
Champagne –
‘Congratulations,’ I tell him. ‘You’re my first signing for the new Leeds United. My Leeds United; honest and sincere, playing with flair and with humour, winning with style but winning the “right” way and winning the admiration of Liverpool fans, Arsenal fans and Derby fans, Tottenham and Birmingham fans –
‘Because of THE WAY WE PLAY,’ I tell him once, twice, three times.
Duncan McKenzie lights another cigarette and says, ‘Yes, Mr Clough.’
‘There’ll be no more codding referees. No more haranguing referees. No more threatening referees. No more bloody bribing referees either,’ I tell him.
Another cigarette, another ‘Yes, Mr Clough.’
‘No more dirty fucking Leeds!’
‘Yes, Mr Clough.’
‘And Duncan …’
‘Yes, Mr Clough?’
‘You call me Boss from now on.’
‘Yes, Boss.’
I order another bottle of champagne. I go for a pee. I come back and change seats. I move round the table and sit down next to Duncan. I put my arm round him. I tell him, ‘You’re going to be my eyes and ears in that dressing room.’
‘Yes, Boss.’
‘My eyes and ears.’
‘Yes, Boss.’
‘They hate me,’ I tell him. ‘Despise me. And they’ll hate you too. Despise you. But we’ll be here long after they’ve all gone.’