by David Peace
GP W D L GF GA Pts
Derby County 42 24 10 8 69 33 58
Leeds United 41 24 9 8 72 29 57
Manchester City 42 23 11 8 77 45 57
Liverpool 41 24 8 9 64 30 56
Bill Shankly shakes your hand and tells you it should have been a penalty, a clear penalty when Boulton floored Keegan, but well done all the same –
He still thinks he can go to Arsenal and win the league, you can see it in his eyes. Read him like a bloody book. But you know –
Know, know, know, know, know, know, and know –
Liverpool will not win their last game and Leeds, two days after a Cup Final against Arsenal, will lose at Wolverhampton Wanderers –
‘But if my Derby side can’t win it,’ you tell the newspapers and the television, tell Revie and Leeds United, ‘then I’d want Shanks and Liverpool to have that title.’
* * *
I haven’t slept. Not a bloody wink. I’ve just sat on the edge of the hotel bed. The whole fucking length of the night. Looking at the empty glass on the bedside table. Next to the phone which never rings. Failing to make it move. Not a single fucking inch. Not one. Listening to the footsteps in the corridor. Up and down, up and down. For the key in the door, the turn of the handle. But the sun is shining now and Saturday’s come. The first Saturday of the new season. The first Saturday for real. Police patrol the centre of Stoke in pairs, their German shepherd dogs straining on their leather leashes. For real –
Leeds United are coming to town. Leeds United are coming to town …
The first Saturday of the new season; the first game of the new season.
I stand by the door to the coach and I watch the team board the bus for the trip to the Victoria Ground. Harvey and Hunter get on; Hunter who is suspended anyway –
‘You’ll not be doing this much longer,’ I tell them. ‘It’ll soon be Peter Shilton and Colin Todd, not you two.’
Harvey and Hunter don’t say anything, they just take their seats on the team bus.
The coach through the streets, fists against the side, gob against the glass …
I stand up at the front of the team bus as we drive to the ground and I tell them, ‘I’ve got a bit of bad news for you, gentlemen. There will be no pre-match bingo today. No carpet bowls either. Now I know you’re all fond of your bingo and your bowls, but I’m afraid those days are gone. Just football from now on, please.’
The fists against the side, the gob against the glass …
The players say nothing, in their club suits and their club ties with their long hair and their strong aftershave, their heads and their shoulders in their books and their cards.
The gob against the glass.
The coach arrives in the car park. The team and I run the gauntlet of autograph-hunters and abuse, and I leave them to get changed and head for the private bar; I’ll not be bothering with a team talk. Not today. There’s no point. I’ve just stuck the team sheet on the dressing-room wall and I’ll let them sort it out for themselves –
They’re professional fucking footballers, aren’t they?
I’ve brought in Trevor Cherry for Hunter and I’m also starting with Terry Cooper; his first league game in two years, first league game since he broke his leg on this very ground; a chance for both Cherry and Cooper to prove themselves –
Prove themselves in front of the watching scouts from Leicester and Forest.
Ten to three and I finish my drink. I walk back down the stairs. Round the corner. Down the corridor. I stand by the dressing-room door and I stare at each one of them:
Harvey. Reaney. Cooper. Bremner. McQueen. Cherry. Lorimer. Madeley.
Jordan. Giles and McKenzie.
I stare at each one of them and I wonder how much they want to win this game –
How much do they really, really want to win this fucking game?
I stare into their eyes and know I can make them win or lose this game –
Win or lose it with the flick of a switch.
Half-time and it’s 0–0; half-time and I flick that switch:
‘Do you want to win this bloody game?’ I ask the Irishman –
‘What about you?’ I ask Bremner. ‘Fucking suspension hasn’t started yet.’
Five minutes into the second half, Terry Cooper gets a booking and Bremner misses a tackle and Leeds are a goal down –
Three down by full-time.
The press are waiting, the television too:
‘We played enough good football to win three bloody matches,’ I convince them. ‘In the first half hour we played well enough to be three up. I’m not saying Stoke didn’t deserve to win – I’d never say that – but it could have gone either way and I do feel very sorry for the lads, very sorry –
‘They wanted to win so badly.’
I’m the last on the bus and the driver gives me another dose of West Riding charm. I sit down at the front next to Jimmy, head against the window, and then the team begins to applaud me, the whole coach clapping me –
Slowly; very, very slowly –
‘I feel very sorry for the lads.’
Just like the big fat fucking smile that’s growing across my lips, across my face.
* * *
Leeds are still 10–11 favourites; Liverpool 11–8; Derby County 8–1.
But there’s a whole week to wait, and you don’t like waiting, so you go on holiday; Peter takes the team to Cala Millor , Majorca, for a week in the sun. You make bloody sure the press know that’s where Derby have gone; fucking sure Revie and Leeds know that’s where Derby have gone; sunning themselves in Majorca, the bets laid at generous prices and the champagne on ice –
‘No sweat,’ Pete keeps telling the team. ‘The Championship is ours.’
You don’t go to Spain, not this time. You take your mam, your dad, your wife and your kids to the Island Hotel, Tresco , in the Scilly Isles. You pretend not to care about the Championship, not to be interested, but you think of nothing else –
Nothing else as you build sandcastles with the kids on the beach –
Nothing else; Liverpool and Shankly you could get over. Perhaps. But not Leeds and Revie. Never. Not again. Not Revie. That team. But you know in your heart of hearts, your darkest heart of hearts, you know that Don will have prepared his dossiers, will have laid out his lucky blue suit, filled the envelopes full of used banknotes, had a chat with the referee and packed the bingo cards and the carpet bowls –
Nothing left to chance.
On the Saturday night at the Island Hotel, you hear Leeds have beaten Arsenal to win the Centenary Cup final. Leeds are now just one game away from a cup and league double; Arsenal now no competition for Liverpool.
Last week you were certain it would be you who won the title. You just knew –
Now you’re not so sure, the sandcastles washed away each day by the tide –
These tides of doubt and tides of fear, these seas of doubt and fear.
Monday night, nine o’clock, the phone at the Island Hotel starts to ring –
Liverpool have drawn with Arsenal and Leeds have lost at Wolves –
You kiss your mam, your dad, your wife and your kids; you order champagne for the guests and the staff of the Island Hotel and pose for the Sun on the beach –
On the beach in the tides of champagne, the seas of champagne –
Champagne in the Scilly Isles. Champagne in Majorca. Champagne in the boardroom at Highbury where Old Sam has gone to watch Liverpool and Shankly lose –
‘Keeping the management and winning the title,’ Old Sam Longson declares. ‘What more could the people and fans of Derby ask for?’
Three bottles of champagne. Three separate bottles of champagne –
Derby County are the 1971–72 First Division Champions –
Those final league placings for ever on your wall –
It is a beautiful night; Monday 8 May 1972 –
And fear is dead. Doubt is dead –
Long live Cloughie!
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THE SECOND RECKONING
First Division Positions, 18 August 1974
P W D L F A Pts
1 Man. City 1 1 0 0 4 0 2
2 Middlesbrough 1 1 0 0 3 0 2
3 Stoke City 1 1 0 0 3 0 2
4 Carlisle United 1 1 0 0 2 0 2
5 Liverpool 1 1 0 0 2 1 2
6 Wolves 1 1 0 0 2 1 2
7 Newcastle Utd 1 1 0 0 3 2 2
8 Arsenal 1 1 0 0 1 0 2
9 Ipswich Town 1 1 0 0 1 0 2
10 QPR 1 0 1 0 1 1 1
11 Sheffield Utd 1 0 1 0 1 1 1
12 Derby County 1 0 1 0 0 0 1
13 Everton 1 0 1 0 0 0 1
14 Coventry City 1 0 0 1 2 3 0
15 Burnley 1 0 0 1 1 2 0
16 Luton Town 1 0 0 1 1 2 0
17 Birmingham C. 1 0 0 1 0 3 0
18 Chelsea 1 0 0 1 0 2 0
19 Leeds United 1 0 0 1 0 3 0
20 Leicester City 1 0 0 1 0 1 0
21 Tottenham H. 1 0 0 1 0 1 0
22 West Ham Utd 1 0 0 1 0 4 0
I have come to turn the stones –
Eleven round stones to place one upon another, one after another –
On the Cursing Stone.
One after another, one on top of another, I place them stones –
But if one should slip, if one should fall, the curse will fail –
But I place my stones. Then I say your name –
‘Brian.’
Day Nineteen
I wake up on Sunday morning at the Dragonara with another bloody hangover, of booze and dreams, thinking how fucking ungracious they are; never ever been gracious in defeat have Leeds United; always had their excuses have Leeds; always the poor tale –
Runners-up in the league and the cup in 1964–65; runners-up in the Inter-Cities Fairs Cup, 1965–66; two disallowed goals in the FA Cup semi-final against Chelsea and runners-up in the Inter-Cities Fairs Cup again in 1966–67; finally winners of the Inter-Cities Fairs Cup and also of the Football League Cup in 1967–68, but lose the semi-final of the FA Cup through a Gary ‘Careless Hands’ Sprake howler; finally League Champions in 1968–69 but go out of the Inter-Cities Fairs Cup in the quarter-finals; 1969–70, they finish second in the league, runners-up in the FA Cup final and are knocked out of the European Cup in the semi-finals by Celtic, blaming ‘fixture congestion’, ‘injuries’ and Gary Sprake; 1970–71, they go out of the cup to Fourth Division Colchester and claim only to have lost the league thanks to a referee called Ray Tinkler, who allowed an offside West Brom goal to stand, though they manage to pull themselves together to win the Inter-Cities Fairs Cup for a second time; then, in 1971–72, they are made to play their first four home games away from Elland Road – because of the pitch invasion following the West Brom game and because of the comments made by Revie and his chairman, Woodward – and that season they do win the cup but lose their very last game of the season at Wolverhampton Wanderers, Derby County winning the league –
Derby County and Brian Clough.
‘There were no congratulations from Revie,’ I tell the Turkish waiter over a very, very late breakfast. ‘It was always Leeds had lost the title, never Derby had won it.’
No congratulations. No well done. No nice one. No good for you, Brian …
‘I tell you, it still makes me seethe; the things they wrote in the papers, the things they said on the telly; that Derby had won the title by default. Default? Fucking idiots. How can you win a league fucking title by default? You tell me that, Mehmet?’
The waiter shakes his head and says, ‘You can’t, Mr Clough.’
‘Bloody right you can’t,’ I tell him. ‘You know that and I know that; you can’t win a title by default, not over forty-two fucking games, you can’t. We had a fine team who had achieved the best results over a season of forty-two games and so we were the Champions. Not Leeds. Not Liverpool. Not Manchester City –
‘Derby bloody County and Brian bloody Clough, that’s who.’
Just hard feelings. Ill will. Hostility and enmity –
And a police investigation.
‘Nothing was ever proved mind,’ I tell the waiter. ‘But where there’s smoke there’s fire, and old Don certainly knows how to light a fire.’
The waiter smiles and says, ‘Fires are dangerous things, Mr Clough.’
‘Exactly, Mehmet,’ I tell him. ‘But you’ve got to remember that Revie and Leeds only needed a point; just one single fucking point and that title was theirs. The league and cup double. They’d just won the cup, don’t forget that. Beaten Arsenal only forty-eight hours before. The bookies still had Leeds as 10–11 favourites for the title, Derby right out at 6–1. And don’t forget Liverpool; Shanks and Liverpool were still in the race. The atmosphere was white hot, apparently. The atmosphere at Molineux before the Wolves game. There were allegations of bribery, you know?’
The waiter looks confused. He asks, ‘That the bookies bribed the Wolves?’
‘No, no, no,’ I tell him. ‘It was in the Sunday People; Sprake, their own former fucking keeper, putting it about that former Leeds United players had been in the Wolverhampton dressing room, having a word or two, asking Wolves to go easy and throw the match for £1,000; having a word or two with the referee and all, offering cash in an envelope for a penalty in the Wolves box, and – this is the fucking irony of it all – Leeds actually had a decent penalty appeal turned down, apparently. Handball, clear handball. Bernard Shaw was the player’s name, I think. Blatant penalty, from what I hear. But you know what I think? I think all Don’s chickens came home to roost that night because of all the rumours and what-have-you, the rumours of a fix, they probably made the referee think twice before giving Leeds anything. Referee doesn’t want people saying that he turned a blind eye or gave a penalty for an envelope under the table, does he? But then, and this is what really got to me, then while the FA and the CID are sniffing around, the Director of Public fucking Prosecutions and all, while they’re all sniffing around, Don’s on the bloody box and in the fucking papers crying the bloody poor tale again; fixture congestion, injuries, suspension, bad refereeing and bad bloody luck –
‘Anything and anybody but themselves –’
‘It’s just too much. We should have had at least three penalties. When you get decisions like that going against you, what can you do?’
The waiter still looks confused. The waiter repeats, ‘Bad luck?’
‘Bad luck? Bad luck my fucking arse. There’s no such bloody thing as bad luck, bad luck or good, not over forty-two games. If Leeds United had been better than Derby County then Leeds United would have won that title and not Derby County. But Leeds lost nine games and we lost eight, so Leeds finished second and we finished first –
‘Champions! End of bloody story.’
Mehmet the waiter picks up my empty coffee cup and nods his head.
‘Last two seasons haven’t been much better for them, have they?’ I tell Mehmet. ‘In 1972–73 they lost to bloody Second Division Sunderland in the FA Cup final and then to AC Milan in the Cup Winners’ Cup final. They might have won the league last year but, since Revie took them over, they’ve lost three FA Cup finals and two semi-finals; three European finals and two semi-finals; and they’ve “just” missed out on the league eight bloody times, runners-up five fucking times. What do you say about that, Mehmet?’
Mehmet shrugs his shoulders and says again, ‘Bad luck?’
‘Bad fucking luck my arse,’ I tell the man again. ‘I’ll tell you what it is, shall I? It’s because they’ve been so fucking hated, so absolutely despised by everybody outside this bloody city. Everybody! Do you know what I mean?’
Mehmet shrugs his shoulders again, then nods again and says, ‘Everybody.’
‘Just think about it,’ I tell him. ‘All those bloody times Leeds “just” missed out on a league title or “just” lost a cup final, you know why? I’ll tell you why, shall I? Because every team they met, in every bloody match they ever played, they hated Leeds,
they despised them. That Monday night at Molineux, that night in front of fifty-odd-thousand of their own supporters, there was no way Wolves were going to go easy on Leeds, no way they were going to throw the match; no way because they hated Leeds United, they despised Leeds United. Their keeper Parkes, players like Munro and Dougan, these players had the game of their lives and I’ll tell you why, shall I? Because there’s not a team in the country, not a team in Europe, who does not want to beat Don Revie and Leeds United. Not one. That’s all they dream about, playing Don Revie and Leeds United and beating Don Revie and Leeds United. That’s all I dream about, playing Don Revie and Leeds United, beating Don Revie and Leeds United –
‘You’d be the bloody same, Mehmet, if you were me.’
Mehmet the waiter looks confused. Mehmet the waiter shakes his head and says, ‘But you’re the manager of Leeds United now, aren’t you, Mr Clough?’
Day Twenty
You have won the 1971–72 League Championship; you have beaten Shanks and Liverpool; you have beaten Revie and Leeds –
You are the Champions of England.
The summer months see the builders back to the Baseball Ground, now you’re in the European Cup; there has been work on the Osmaston End and on the Normanton Stand; new, pylon-mounted floodlights are also erected, now your games will be shown in colour at home and abroad –
Now you are the Champions.
But all your dreams are nightmares and all your hopes are hells, the birds and the badgers, the foxes and the ferrets, the dogs and the demons, the wolves and the vultures, all circling around you, the clouds and the storms gathering above you, above the new pylon-mounted floodlights, your pockets filled with lists, your walls defaced with threats, your cigarettes won’t stay lit, your drinks won’t stay down.
The parties and the banquets, the civic receptions and the open-top bus tours, the parades and the photographs; the Championship dinner that no other club dare attend; the Charity Shield you’ll never defend –