The Damned Utd

by David Peace

  The sun is shining in my modern luxury hotel room, through the curtains and across the floor to the modern luxury hotel bed in which I haven’t slept a bloody, fucking wink, just lain here replaying last night’s match in my head, on the inside of my skull, reliving every touch and every kick, every pass and every cross, every tackle and every block, over and over, again and again, player by player, position by position, space by space, over and over, again and again, from the first minute to the last –

  The things I saw and the things I missed –

  The many, many bloody things I fucking missed –

  It’s just another morning; another morning when I wish I wasn’t here.

  * * *

  You beat Manchester United 3–1 at the Baseball Ground on Boxing Day. Manchester United and Tommy Docherty. You move up to seventh and United go bottom. You’d thought it was a turning point, another turning point, like Benfica, like Arsenal. But you were wrong again. It was no turning point.

  You pick up the phone. You dial Longson’s number. You scream down thatline: ‘If Peter bloody Taylor isn’t at fucking work by Friday, I shan’t be going to Liverpool with the fucking team. I’ll fucking walk out and all, I will!’

  ‘What in heaven’s name is wrong with you?’ asks Sam Longson.

  Money, money, money, that’s what’s wrong; that’s all that’s ever fucking wrong with Peter Taylor; money, money, money –

  You hang up. You go round to Longson’s house. You beg Longson to sack Taylor. You throw your drink at his kitchen wall when he refuses –

  ‘I’m getting bloody nowhere with you fucking buggers!’ you shout.

  ‘But what’s wrong?’ asks Sam Longson –

  Money, money, money, that’s what’s wrong; that’s all that’ll ever be fucking wrong with Peter Taylor; all that Peter ever goes on about, on and on about:

  ‘I just want my slice of the cake,’ he’d said again. ‘Just my fucking slice.’

  ‘You get your slice,’ you told him. ‘You get your slice and more.’

  ‘Do I fuck.’ he said. ‘Where’s my new bloody coat? My waste-disposal unit? Where are my fucking Derby County shares then, eh?’

  ‘Your bloody what? What you fucking talking about now?’

  ‘Don’t fuck me around, Brian,’ he said. ‘Webby’s told me all about it.’

  ‘All right then,’ you told him. ‘You have the whole fucking cake if you want it, if that’s what’s fucking bothering you, because I can bloody do without it, without all this fucking bollocks. But I’m telling you this: you won’t last a fucking minute, not a single fucking minute out there, on your own, in front of all them cameras, them crowds, you can’t even buy a pair of bloody socks in town, you’re that fucking afraid of being recognized, of someone speaking to you who you don’t bloody know but, go on, if that’s what you want, that’s what you fucking want, you fucking take it because I’m telling you now, I’ve had enough, enough to fucking last me a bloody lifetime.’

  That was ten days ago; the last you saw of him, saw of Pete; Webby phoned the next day and said Peter was feeling a bit chesty. Ten days ago, that was –

  ‘A bit chesty?’ you asked Webby. ‘A bit fucking chesty?’

  ‘Chesty, you know?’ said Webby. ‘Under the weather.’

  ‘Under the bloody what?’ you asked.

  ‘The weather,’ said Webby, again.

  That was ten fucking days ago now; that’s how this year begins –

  This new year you’ll wish had never happened –

  Nineteen hundred and seventy-three –

  The worst year of your life.

  * * *

  Under skies. Under bloated skies. Under bloated grey skies. Under bloated grey Yorkshire skies, I walk from the taxi straight up the banking and onto the training ground.

  Six days into the new season and the team already look like they need a week off. But there are no weeks off, no days off now, not now; Birmingham at home on Saturday, the day after tomorrow. Queen’s Park Rangers again, three days after that. No days off –

  ‘They can get here on bloody time,’ says Syd. ‘Why can’t he?’

  ‘It sets a bad example,’ adds Maurice. ‘A very bad example, in fact.’

  Jimmy jogs up to me. Jimmy in his Admiral fucking tracksuit. And Jimmy says, ‘I think they’ve done enough for today, Boss.’

  I shake my head. I shout, ‘Let’s start again. From the fucking top.’

  From the fucking top with the running and the lifting, the passing and the shooting, the free kicks and the corners, the goal kicks and the throw-ins, the set plays to plan and the walls to build, attack against defence, defence against attack, attacks to sharpen and defences to stiffen, stiffen and make resolute under these skies. These bloated skies. These bloated grey skies. These bloated grey Yorkshire fucking skies.

  * * *

  Soon there will be European nights again, soon there will be sunshine again. No one walks away from Europe. No one walks away from sunshine. Taylor showed up in the snow at Anfield and you drew 1–1 on a miserable, miserable day.

  ‘It’s this bloody weather, Pete,’ you told him. ‘We’re warm weather creatures, you and me. Marjorca, that’s us. We ought to fucking migrate each bloody winter.’

  ‘And the board will help us bloody pack,’ said Pete. ‘Way things are going.’

  But then things, these things that are always going, these things start to look up; Derby go on a little run, a little run to keep you warm in these long, dark winter months. You beat West Brom in the league and then draw against Tottenham in the cup, going on to win the replay 5–3 after extra time –

  Back from 3–1 down with just twelve minutes to go; back with a Roger Davies hat-trick; back to beat QPR 4–2 in the fifth round.

  But all good things, these good things, must come to an end and you go and get Leeds United in the quarter-finals of the FA Cup. This means Derby have to play Leeds twice in two weeks, once in the league and once in the cup, and these are not just any two weeks; you have to play Leeds United four days before you meet Spartak Trnava in the quarter-finals of the European Cup; then you have to play Leeds again, four days before the return leg against Trnava. If you were a superstitious man, you’d think Lady Luck had deserted you, turned her back against you –

  But you’re not a superstitious man and you never will be.

  If you were a religious man, you’d think God had deserted you, turned his back against you. But you’re not a religious man and never will be. You don’t believe in God –

  You believe in football; in the repetition of football; the repetition within each game, within each season, within the history of each club, the history of the game –

  That is what you believe in; that and Brian Howard Clough.

  * * *

  The sharp knife and loaded gun. The long rope. The post-mortem. The press conference: Not since Leeds United returned to the First Division in 1964 have Leeds United lost their opening two games of the season –

  ‘We are not gloomy,’ I tell the press. ‘We will just have to work harder.’

  Not since Leeds United returned to the First Division in 1964 have Leeds United lost their opening two games of the season –

  ‘Certain players have been badly missed,’ I tell them.

  Not since Leeds United returned to the First Division in 1964 have Leeds United lost their opening two games of the season –

  ‘I am delighted that Clarke and Hunter will be available for Saturday.’

  Not since Leeds United returned to the First Division in 1964 have Leeds United lost their opening two games of the season –

  ‘We are not gloomy,’ I tell the press again. ‘We will just have to work harder.’

  Not since Leeds United returned to the First Division in 1964 have Leeds United lost their opening two games of the season; the door and the exit. The corners and the corridors. The office. The long rope. The sharp knife. The loaded gun. The door. The exit.

  * * *<
br />
  The winter is almost gone and Europe is here again. But Europe will be gone too, if you do not win tonight. For these have not been a happy two weeks –

  For the first time in Europe, you were drawn to play the first leg away, away in a small, provincial Czechoslovakian town that’s home to Spartak Trnava:

  ‘The Derby County of Czechoslovakia,’ you joked, but it wasn’t funny and you were lucky to lose only 1–0 to the Czech Champions, the Czech Champions four years out of the last five, seven years unbeaten at home in their own league and boasting 164 caps between them –

  ‘That wasn’t luck,’ you told the press. ‘That was our keeper, Colin Boulton.’

  Four days before that game Don Revie and Leeds United had beaten you 3–2 at home in your own league; your much vaunted, talented and expensive Derby defence conceding two silly penalties and a daft goal in the course of being kicked, punched, grappled and wrestled off the park, Mick McManus-style –

  ‘You should be in the book for that, Cherry,’ you shouted from the side –

  Tackle after tackle, foul after bloody foul, crime after fucking crime –

  ‘McQueen!’ you screamed. ‘You’re not fit to play in this bloody league.’

  You were incensed, you were bloody outraged, you were fucking furious because you know exactly why Leeds played like this, why Revie told Leeds to play like this, because Derby won the league and they didn’t, you did and he didn’t –

  Daylight Robbery. Daylight Robbery. Daylight Robbery –

  Because you’re in the European Cup and he’s not –

  ‘You’re an animal,’ you shouted and screamed. ‘A fucking animal, Hunter!’

  You did not shake Revie’s hand after the game and you never will again.

  Then, four days before this game tonight, ten days after you lost in Czechoslovakia, Leeds beat you again, beat you 1–0 at home in the FA Cup –

  Fields of loss. Fields of hate. Fields of blood. Fields of war –

  Fuck Lorimer. Fuck Revie. Fuck Leeds. Fuck them all.

  There was no Hinton for these last three games. Tonight there’s Hinton:

  21 March 1973; Derby County vs Spartak Trnava –

  The quarter-finals of the European Cup, second leg; nigh on 36,500 here at the Baseball Ground to see it –

  See it. Hear it. Smell it. Taste it. Bloody touch and fucking feel it –

  The tension. The tension. The tension. The tension –

  Two goals or you’re out of Europe, your hopes and your dreams buried, and while Alan Hinton might well be back for you, bloody Kuna is back for them –

  The tension. The tension. The tension –

  The fresh lines. The new ball –

  The tension. The tension –

  Two goals or out –

  The tension, then the whistle and it starts, starts at long, long fucking last and you hope, you even pray, for an early goal, but it doesn’t come and you know now Trnava are the best team you’ve played this year, better than bloody Benfica, better than fucking Leeds; they hold the ball, they keep it close and they don’t let go, second after second, minute after minute, they don’t let go, don’t let go until Adamec does and Gemmill’s there, there to take it away, away with a pass to McGovern, who centres it for Hector to hit low into that beautiful, beautiful fucking net and bring the scores level on aggregate, level at 1–1; level at 1–1 for two minutes, just two minutes until Hinton crosses and Davies is knocked to the ground in the box and the whole area freezes expecting the whistle, expecting the penalty, the whole area but for Hector, who leans back into that bouncing bloody ball to volley that fucking thing home from fifteen yards and from then, from then on you can only look at your watch, the only place you can stand to look –

  Not at the bloody pitch, the pitch the last fucking place you can look –

  Not at the pitch when Hector is brought down, not at the pitch when Davies is pushed over, not when the whole of the bloody Baseball Ground is screaming and screaming and screaming for a penalty; not when Boulton sends Martinkovic flying and the whole of the fucking ground goes silent, silent, silent, expecting a penalty for Trnava, a penalty that would bring the scores level again at 2–2, level at 2–2 but give Trnava an away goal, a penalty the referee does not see, just like you with your eyes on your watch, and so the fucking score stays at 2–1 and you –

  You just look at your watch, just look at your watch, look at your watch –

  The only place, the only place, the only place you can stand to look –

  Not at Webster’s last-ditch tackle, at Nish’s vital, vital tackle –

  You just look at your watch, just look at your watch –

  Until finally, finally, finally Signor Angonese, the Italian referee, looks at his own watch and raises his right hand and slowly, slowly, slowly Signor Angonese, the lovely, lovely, lovely Italian referee, puts his beautiful, beautiful, beautiful black whistle to his red, red, red lips and blows that final, final, final whistle that puts Derby County –

  Derby fucking County. Derby fucking County into the semi-finals –

  The semi-finals. The semi-fucking-finals of the European Cup –

  Derby County. Not Leeds United. Derby fucking County!

  Later that night, drunk and half-delighted/half-depressed, you telephone Don, phone fucking Don at his family home, just to make sure he knows –

  ‘Just in case you fucking missed it,’ you tell him –

  ‘How did you get this number?’ he asks. ‘It’s half two in the bloody morning.’

  You hang up. You go upstairs. To the bedroom and your wife –

  Then you hear the phone ringing again and so you turn back round and walk back down the stairs and pick up the phone and it’s your older brother –

  ‘We’ve lost our mam,’ he tells you. ‘We’ve lost our mam, Brian.’

  * * *

  I go home early. I don’t give a shit. I kiss my wife. I kiss my kids. I take the phone off the hook. I put on an apron and I get stuck into the cooking. Bangers and mash, few sprouts and moans and groans from the kids, with lots of lovely thick bloody gravy; can’t beat it. Then I do the washing up and put the kids in the bath. I read them their stories and kiss them goodnight. Then I sit down on the sofa with the wife to watch a bit of telly:

  Nixon and Cyprus. Nixon and Cyprus. Nixon and Cyprus –

  So my wife goes up to bed but I know I won’t be able to sleep, not yet, not for a long time, so I stay up in the rocking chair and end up looking in the bloody paper again, the results spread out, working out a fucking league table on the back of one of my daughter’s paintings, a league table for the first two games, a league table that leaves Leeds next to bottom, next to last, so then I go through the fixture list inside my head, inside my skull:

  If Leeds win this game and Derby lose that game; Derby lose that and Leeds win this; if Leeds get five points from these three fixtures and Derby only three, then the league table will look like this and not that, that and not this, and so on, and so on, and so on –

  Until the sun is shining in my house, through the curtains and across the floor, and it’s just another morning; another morning when I wish I wasn’t there –

  I wish I wasn’t going back there.

  Day Twenty-four

  You go back home to Middlesbrough to cremate your mam –

  The end of anything good. The beginning of everything bad …

  When you’re gone, you’re gone; that’s what you believe –

  The end of anything good. The beginning of everything bad …

  No afterlife. No heaven. No hell. No God. Nothing –

  The end of anything good. The beginning of everything bad.

  But today, for once in your life, just this once, you wish you were wrong.

  * * *

  The board have called me upstairs, upstairs to their Yorkshire boardroom with their Yorkshire curtains drawn, upstairs to break their bad news: ‘The FA have ordered Clarke to appear before the Disc
iplinary Committee, along with Bremner and Giles.’

  ‘For what?’ I ask them. ‘That’s unbelievable.’

  ‘It is a bit of shock,’ agrees Cussins. ‘But –’

  ‘It’s more than a bloody shock,’ I tell them. ‘It’s a fucking outrage and an injustice. I’m not having any Leeds players put on trial by television. He wasn’t even bloody booked, he wasn’t even fucking spoken to by the referee, so the only reason they’ve called him down there is because of them replaying his bloody tackle on Thompson, over and over again, morning, noon and fucking night.’

  ‘Brian, Brian, Brian,’ pleads Cussins. ‘Look, calm down –’

  ‘I won’t bloody calm down,’ I tell them. ‘I’ve only just got him fucking back so I’m buggered if I’m going to lose him again for another three or four bloody matches, just because of fucking television.’

  ‘Brian, Brian –’

  ‘No, no, no,’ I tell them. ‘If this is what’s going to happen, then I want the television cameras banned from the bloody ground, from Elland Road. If that’s what it fucking takes to stop this kind of operation against me then –’

  ‘I believe Mr Revie often felt the same way –’

  ‘Fuck Don bloody Revie!’ I shout. ‘Ban them! Ban the television!’

  ‘Those who live by sword,’ laughs Bolton, ‘die by sword.’

  * * *

  You are still in your tracksuit playing cards in the hotel bar in Turin, playing cards with the team – your team, your boys – twenty-four hours before the first leg of the semi-final of the European Cup.

  There was a magpie on your lawn when you left your house for the airport. There was also one on the tarmac as you got off the plane in Turin. Now one’s just flown into the window of the hotel bar. But you don’t believe in luck. In superstitions and rituals –

  You believe in football; football, football, football.

  Pete comes down the stairs, down the stairs in his tuxedo –

  ‘You not ready yet?’ he asks. ‘The dinner’s in half an hour.’

  ‘You go.’

  ‘But it’s a bloody dinner for us,’ he says. ‘All the Italian and British jour nalists are going to be there. We’re the guests of fucking honour.’