by David Peace
‘Yes, Boss.’
‘Do you know why they hate me?’ I ask him. ‘Why they’ll hate you?’
‘No, Boss. Why?’
‘Because we’re not like them,’ I tell him. ‘Because we don’t fucking cheat like them. Because we play fair and we win fair.’
‘Yes, Boss.’
‘Do you know how many bloody goals I scored when I was playing?’
‘I’m sorry, Boss, I don’t.’
‘Two hundred and fifty-one,’ I tell him.
‘That’s great, Boss.’
‘You know how many fucking games that took me? League games?’
‘I’m sorry, Boss, I don’t.’
‘Have a guess.’
‘But I’m sorry, Boss, I –’
‘Go on, have a bleeding guess.’
‘Three hundred.’
‘Two hundred and seventy-four,’ I tell him. ‘Just 274. Now what do you fucking think about that then?’
‘Is that a record, Boss?’
‘Course it bloody is,’ I tell him. ‘You know anyone else who’s scored 251 goals in 274 league games, do you? Bobby bloody Charlton? Jimmy fucking Greaves? They score that many bloody goals in so few fucking games, did they? Did they bloody hell. So course it’s a fucking record and it’ll always be a fucking record because there’ll never be another one like me. Never. Ever. Not you. Not no one. Now drink up because we’re off to meet the press –’
‘But I’m not drinking, Boss –’
I put the champagne glass back in his hand and tell him, ‘You fucking are now.’
* * *
‘Dave,’ Peter says to Mackay, ‘the gaffer’s got a wee bit of a shock for you.’
Mackay is sat in your office with his accountant and his solicitor –
The signed contract is in your drawer. The pen back in his pocket –
There is a smile on your face. A smile on his face –
£250 a week, plus promotion bonuses –
Dave Mackay is on £16,000 a year –
More than George Best and Denis Law. More than Bobby Moore –
You have the most expensive player in the entire Football League –
Now you’re going to turn him into the best.
Peter locks the door. Takes the phone off the hook –
Dave Mackay stops smiling. Dave Mackay asks, ‘What kind of shock?’
‘He wants you to play a different role here,’ says Peter.
‘What kind of role?’
‘The boss wants to play you as a sweeper.’
Dave Mackay looks across the desk at you. Dave says, ‘I can’t do it.’
‘Listen to me. We’ve got this young lad here called Roy McFarland,’ you tell him. ‘He’s the best centre-half in the league. He’s that quick that your pace won’t be needed. So I want you to drop off him. Then you’ll be able to see everything –’
‘Use your loaf and your tongue,’ says Pete. ‘Let the young lads do the running.’
‘They need a captain; someone with experience; someone to tell them when to hold it and when to pass it. That’s you, Dave.’
Dave Mackay is full of doubts. Fears. Dave Mackay is shaking his head.
‘You’ll control the game,’ you tell him. ‘We’ll win the league. We promise you.’
‘Look,’ he says, ‘I cover every blade of grass.’
‘You’re a stone overweight,’ you tell him. ‘And a year older than me.’
‘Every blade of grass,’ says Dave Mackay again. ‘That’s my game.’
‘That was then,’ you tell him. ‘This is now.’
* * *
‘Apart from Leeds United,’ Duncan McKenzie is telling the press in the Victoria Hotel, ‘I also spoke to Spurs and Birmingham City. But when Mr Clough here, whom I had not met before, when he came to see me, I was very flattered and so naturally I chose Leeds United. I think the move will also improve my chances of playing for England.’
‘What do you feel about Leeds paying £250,000 for you?’
‘It’s a rather inflated market in football these days and you just have to live with these high fees. But it’s not a problem for me.’
‘What do you feel about your rivals for a first-team place? The likes of Allan Clarke, Mick Jones and Joe Jordan?’
‘I know I will have to fight hard for my place at Leeds United. I do not expect anything gift-wrapped or on a plate for me. I never have.’
‘Brian?’ they ask me. ‘Anything you want to add?’
‘Duncan is a superb acquisition to the Leeds squad. He is a highly intelligent young man and among the things that have appealed to me about him were his approach to the game and his desire to score goals. I am delighted that he has joined Leeds but, of course, I have known about him for some time. After all, I lived next door to him, as it were, when I was manager at Derby.’
‘Were there any problems?’ they ask. ‘Any problems signing him?’
‘None,’ I tell them. ‘Because when anyone gets the chance to join Leeds United and Brian Clough there are never any problems.’
‘Will he be in the squad for the Villa game tomorrow night?’
‘I doubt that,’ I tell them. ‘He’ll meet the rest of the players tomorrow morning.’
‘Duncan?’ they ask again. ‘How do you feel about meeting the rest of the team and joining the League Champions? Are you nervous?’
‘They have proved themselves to be Britain’s top side for the last five or six years.’
I give him a nudge to his ribs. A wink and tell him, ‘Apart from when I was at Derby County, that is.’
Duncan blinks. Duncan smiles. Duncan says, ‘Apart from Derby County, yes.’
The press take their notes. The press take their photos –
The press finish their drinks and I order some more –
I look at my watch. It’s not there –
‘What time is it, lad?’ I ask McKenzie.
‘Half past eight, Boss,’ he says.
‘Fucking hell,’ I tell him and the bar of the Victoria Hotel. ‘The meal!’
‘What meal, Boss?’ asks McKenzie.
‘None of your bloody business,’ I tell him. ‘You get yourself off home to bed. I’ll see you at half eight tomorrow morning at Elland Road. And Duncan?’
‘Yes, Boss?’
‘You’d better not be fucking late.’
* * *
You take Dave Mackay on a tour of the Baseball Ground. The dressing rooms and the training pitch, off the ring road, with its old railway carriage where the players change for the practice matches. Dave Mackay is thinking about White Hart Lane, about the china cups and the china plates, about the cups he’s won and the medals he owns –
Dave Mackay is full of doubts again. Fears. Dave is shaking his head again –
‘You’ll win the league?’ he asks. ‘You promise me, do you?’
‘Cross our hearts,’ you tell him. ‘Cross our hearts.’
* * *
‘You’re fucking well late,’ hisses Sam Bolton as I take my seat at the table. The top table. The Harewood Rooms. The Queen’s Hotel –
The directors, the players, the coaching staff, the office staff, even the bleeding tea ladies; the entire Leeds United family and their wives and their husbands on their Big Night Out.
‘I’ve lost my watch,’ I tell him. ‘Or someone’s nicked it.’
‘Food’s finished,’ says Sam Bolton. ‘Folk are just waiting for you.’
I stand up. I straighten the cuffs of my shirt and I tell them, ‘I feel like a bloody intruder at a party you have all worked for over the past year. It is a great pity that Don Revie and Les Cocker are not here to enjoy it because they are the men who won the Championship with you. Not me. But it will be my turn next year. Mark my words.’
I sit back down. I light another fag. I pour myself another drink –
I listen for the sound of a pin drop, drop, dropping.
Day Eight
You have bought Dave Mackay
to be your sweeper. You have bought Pete’s old mate Les Green from the Southern League to be your keeper. You know that this time the final pieces are in their places. You know that this time the traditional pre-season optimism is well-founded, built on bloody rock, rock, rock –
Rock, rock, rocks like Dave Mackay and Les Green.
You can’t wait for the first game of the new season, can’t fucking wait –
Away at Blackburn Rovers. Roy McFarland scores. But so do they –
You draw 1–1. One point. Away from home. Not bad.
Back at home you play Blackpool. John O’Hare scores. But so do they –
You draw 1–1 again. One point again. But at home. Not good.
You go to Bramall Lane. To Sheffield United. You don’t score. But they do –
You lose 2–0. No points. Bad, bad, bad; you are eighteenth in Division Two. Eighteenth again and on sinking shifting, fucking sand, sand, sands –
There are tears again and there are broken glasses. Then Peter puts out his fag and Peter gets out his little black book and Peter says –
‘I know just the player. Just the club.’
* * *
Nothing is ever the way they say it is. Nothing is ever the way you want it to be. John Giles knocks on his door. John Giles sits down opposite my desk. He says nothing. He just sits. He just waits –
‘I’ve had Bill Nick on the phone this morning,’ I tell him.
The Irishman smiles, brushes the tops of his trouser legs and asks me, ‘You sure now you didn’t call him?’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘Because you want me gone,’ he smiles.
‘Why would I want you gone, John?’
‘Because you hate me,’ he smiles. ‘Can’t stand the sight of me.’
‘Look, what’s said is said,’ I tell him. ‘But the past is the past to me. Finished.’
‘That’d be very convenient for you,’ he says.
‘Look, I’ve told you before,’ I tell him again. ‘You have intelligence, skill, agility and the best passing ability in the game.’
‘But you’d still be glad to see the back of me, now wouldn’t you?’
‘Look,’ I tell him. ‘There are things I don’t like about your game and I’ve told you to your face what they are, but I’ve nothing against you as a person. I admire what you’ve done with Ireland and so does Bill Nicholson. That’s why he called.’
‘And so what did Mr Nicholson say?’
‘He said he’d like to talk to you about going to Spurs as assistant manager.’
‘Still playing as well?’
‘Yes.’
‘Nice to know someone thinks there’s life left yet in these old legs of mine.’
‘I’ve never said you’ve shot it,’ I tell him. ‘Never said that.’
‘It’s written all over your face, man.’
‘Are you interested in talking with Bill Nicholson or not?’
‘Of course I’m interested,’ he smiles. ‘Who wouldn’t be?’
‘How about this then?’ I tell him. ‘No need for you to travel with the team to Villa tonight. You stay up here and give Bill Nicholson a call. Have a chat with Bill and with your family. Arrange a time to go down and meet him, see the lay of the land.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ he says. ‘But I’ll travel with you all the same tonight.’
* * *
You are in the dug-out at Leeds Road, Huddersfield. You are losing 2–0 again. You will have taken just two points from a possible eight. You are filled with doubts. Fucking racked with fear. But then something happens; something bloody special happens –
Your team are under pressure in their own six-yard area. The team look like conceding a third. The ball comes to Mackay. Mackay puts his foot on the ball –
‘Kick it! Shift it!’ shouts Jack Burkitt beside you. ‘Get fucking rid!’
‘Shut up, Jack,’ says Peter. ‘This is what we bought him for. This is what we want him to do. To put his foot on it. To pass it out. To lead and teach by example –’
Mackay plays the ball out and defence becomes attack –
Defence becomes attack. Defence becomes attack –
‘We’ll buy Carlin tomorrow,’ whispers Peter. ‘Then we’ll be on our way.’
* * *
I get on the coach last and make Allan Clarke shift so I can sit next to Billy Bremner again. I try and make chit-chat. To break the ice. But Billy Bremner doesn’t give a fuck about President Nixon or George Best. He’s not interested in Frank Sinatra or Muhammad Ali. He doesn’t want to talk about the World Cup, about playing against Brazil. Doesn’t want to talk about his holidays. His family full stop. Bremner just looks out of the window and smokes the whole way down to Birmingham. Then, as the coach pulls into Villa Park, he turns to me and he says, ‘If you’re looking for a pal, Mr Clough, you can count me out.’
* * *
When you went to Bramall Lane last week, when you went to Sheffield United and they beat you 2–0, you blamed it on Willie Carlin. You’ve had enough of going to places like Sheffield bloody United and losing 2–0 because of players like Willie fucking Carlin –
You’ve had enough of failure. Doubts. Had enough of disappointment –
Had enough of Willie fucking Carlin, hard little Scouse bastard –
Dirty little bugger of a bloke, had enough, enough, enough –
‘But you’ll do for me,’ you tell him. ‘If you do as you’re bloody told.’
‘I’d rather play for fucking Leeds,’ he tells you.
‘You’d fucking fit right in and all,’ you laugh. ‘But they don’t bloody want you, do they, Willie?’
‘They bloody might,’ he says. ‘You don’t fucking know that.’
‘Well, I don’t see Don fucking Revie sat here, do you?’
‘I don’t know what I see.’
‘Well, I know what I see,’ you tell him. ‘I see a five-foot-four dirty little bastard who spends half the fucking match arguing with the referee and who’s been booked eighteen bloody times and sent off another three fucking times for his trouble. Now that won’t do for me because you’re no good to me suspended. But if you behave yourself and keep that great big bloody Scouse gob of yours shut, I’ll get you a bloody Championship medal to go with all your fucking bookings and sendings-off.’
‘And what if I can’t behave myself? What if I don’t fucking want to?’
‘You will,’ you laugh. ‘Because I’m not asking you, I’m fucking telling you.’
* * *
I’m down in the dug-out for this game. This testimonial. This centenary game at Villa Park. Jimmy and me with Stewart, Cherry and Johnny fucking Giles for company –
My one and only plan before the game to make sure Johnny bloody Giles doesn’t get a fucking kick, but then Madeley has to come off and so on goes John –
Thank fuck for Allan Clarke, two great goals; one with his head from a Reaney cross, the other sliding into a low centre from the Irishman. The rest of the match is the same old dirty Leeds; McQueen gets booked, then Cooper gives away a penalty – saved by Harvey – then Hunter gives away another, but the Villa lad misses. Half-time I tell Jimmy to take off Harvey and Hunter and stick on Stewart and Cherry while I go for a drink and a chat in the top of the stands with Jimmy Bloomfield, the Leicester manager –
We talk about Shilton, swaps and trades. We talk about money –
‘Not bad that one you’ve got,’ says Jimmy Bloomfield.
‘Harvey? You’re bloody joking?’ I ask him. ‘He’s fucking shit.’
‘He saved that penalty well enough.’
‘You can have him,’ I tell Jimmy. ‘If you like him so much, him and two hundred grand, and I’ll take Peter Shilton off your hands.’
‘He’ll get you the bloody sack, will Shilton,’ says Jimmy. ‘He’s trouble.’
‘Then he’s my kind of fucking trouble,’ I tell him.
Dirty Leeds concede a goal but still win 2–1 –
‘Not a bad bloody start at all,’ says Jimmy Bloomfield as we shake our hands and say our goodbyes and head down the stairs, round the corners and down the corridors.
* * *
There is always one game in every season, one moment in that game, that one moment in that one game in the season when everything can change, when things can either come together or fall apart for the rest of the season, that one moment when you know you will win this game and then the next and the next, when you know you will have a season to remember, a season never to forget –
The Football League Cup, third round replay; Wednesday 2 October 1968 –
Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby –
This is one of those nights you will never forget. This is one of those nights when everything comes together and stays together, one of those nights when everything changes, everything turns –
Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby –
You went down to Stamford Bridge last week where Chelsea were unbeaten in twenty home games. You went down to Stamford Bridge and you took everything Chelsea could throw at you and you held them 0–0, held the likes of Bonetti, Hollins and Osgood –
Now you’ve brought them back here, here to the Baseball Ground, here where there’s no running track around the pitch, here where you hear every cheer and every jeer from the 34,000 crowd, here where there’s no place to hide –
Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby –
‘No fucking hiding place,’ you tell the Derby dressing room. ‘Not tonight; tonight we’re going to see who’s fucking who out there.’
Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby –
Green. Webster. Robson. Durban. McFarland. Mackay. Walker. Carlin. O’Hare. Hinton. Hector –
Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby –
That one moment when everything can change, when things either come together or fall apart for the rest of the season, that one moment comes in the twenty-sixth minute of the first half, comes when Houseman jumps a Carlin tackle and slips the ball across to Birchenall, who shoots into the top corner of the net from thirty yards out and puts you a goal down –
Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby –