The Damned Utd

by David Peace

  ‘You go.’

  ‘Brian, come on,’ he says. ‘You’re making a bloody speech.’

  ‘You make it.’

  ‘You what?’ he says. ‘I’ve never made a fucking speech in my life.’

  ‘Now’s your chance then.’

  ‘Come on, Brian,’ he says again. ‘You know I can’t.’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘We’re going to be late,’ he says. ‘Stop playing silly buggers, will you?’

  ‘You bloody go and you make the fucking speech for a change.’

  ‘Don’t do this to me, Brian,’ he says. ‘Please –’

  ‘You wanted your slice of fucking cake,’ I tell him. ‘Now here it is.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘No,’ you tell him. ‘You bloody wanted it. Now you’ve fucking got it.’

  ‘Please don’t do this to me, Brian.’

  ‘Do what?’ you ask him. ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t do this, Brian. Not in front of the team.’

  ‘Why not?’ you ask him. ‘Don’t you want them to see you for what you really are? A big fat spineless fucking bastard who can’t go anywhere or do anything without me to hold his hand –’

  Peter picks up a glass. Peter throws the whisky in your face –

  ‘Fuck off! Fuck off!’

  You jump up. You lunge at him –

  ‘You fuck off! You fat cunt!’

  The players leap up. The players pull you apart –

  ‘Dinners. Speeches,’ you’re shouting. ‘This is what it’s all about. This is the fucking slice of cake you’re after. This is what you’re always going on about, fucking moaning on and on about. Now you run along. Don’t be late –’

  He lunges at you again, tears down his cheeks –

  ‘Go on then,’ you shout. ‘Go on then, if that’s what you want.’

  ‘Fuck off! Fuck off!’

  You are in your tracksuit fighting with Peter in the hotel bar in Turin, your best mate, your only friend, your right hand, your shadow, fighting with Peter twenty-four hours before the first leg of the semi-final of the European Cup –

  The blood of a dead magpie running down the windows of the hotel bar –

  The blood of your best mate running down the knuckles of your hand –

  The first time you’ve spoken to anyone since your mam passed on.

  * * *

  Three hours and three phone calls later, Mr Vernon Stokes, the chairman of the FA Disciplinary Committee, tells Manny Cussins that, on reflection, he has decided it wouldn’t be right to call Clarke of Leeds before the Committee as he was not cautioned during the match and, if he ordered Clarke of Leeds to appear, he would have to call up every player who committed a foul during the Charity Shield game.

  I go downstairs to face the press, face the press with a smile on my face for once, with a smile on my face as they ask about the draw for the League Cup:

  ‘I would have felt much better had we been drawn to play Huddersfield at home. They had a fabulous result in the first round, which proves they are no pushovers. Bobby Collins has obviously got things well organized over there.’

  ‘Have you any further thoughts on your two games in charge so far?’

  ‘Listen to me,’ I tell them. ‘Leeds lost three matches in a fortnight while they were on the crest of a wave going for the title. This kind of thing has happened before.’

  ‘But you’ve said they play without confidence and yet they’re the League Champions; how is it they can lack confidence?’

  Because Don Revie made them believe in luck, made them believe in ritual and superstition, in documents and dossiers, in bloody gamesmanship and fucking cheating, in anything but themselves and their own ability –

  ‘It’s a vicious circle,’ I tell them. ‘Once Leeds get back to their winning ways, then their confidence will return and then there’ll be no stopping them –’

  ‘In the race for the title?’ they ask.

  ‘Leeds will be there or thereabouts, just as they have been for the last ten years.’

  ‘But you said you wanted to win the title better,’ they remind me. ‘But the first time Leeds won the title in 1969 they lost only two matches the entire season.’

  ‘Is that a question or a statement?’ I ask them.

  ‘Up to you,’ they say.

  ‘Well, they’ll just have to win the next forty games then, won’t they?’

  ‘But how do you honestly feel?’ they ask. ‘Two games into the new season and with the League Champions still seeking their first point and their first goal.’

  ‘Birmingham City are also still looking for their first point.’

  ‘You’re suggesting Saturday is a relegation battle then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can you tell us anything about the team for tomorrow?’

  ‘There’s no room for Bates, Cooper or Jordan, I can tell you that.’

  ‘There’ll be some disappointed players in the dressing room then?’

  ‘There will always be disappointed players in the dressing room, but these three players also know how delighted I’ve been with them so far, and Cooper and Bates will go into the reserves tomorrow, along with Terry Yorath, and continue to get practice. Jordan will be on the bench …’

  ‘And McKenzie?’

  ‘Young Duncan McKenzie has fallen foul of your Leeds United curse,’ I laugh. ‘He’s injured himself and will have to watch the game from the stands.’

  ‘Are you becoming superstitious, Brian?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Will you be saying the same tomorrow, if you lose again?’

  ‘Look, my coming here has just magnified all this. I am not feeling the pressure and I don’t want pressure on the team, either,’ I tell them, the press and the television, their microphones and their cameras, their cameras and their eyes –

  But there’s something in their eyes, the way their eyes never meet mine; the way they look at me, the way they stare at me, but only when I look away; like I’m bloody sick or something, like I’ve got fucking cancer and I’m dying –

  I feel like death. I feel like death. I feel like death …

  Dying, but no one dare bloody tell me.

  * * *

  Half an hour before kick-off, Peter comes rushing into the dressing room, face red and eyes wide, shouting: ‘He’s in the fucking referee’s dressing room again. I’ve just seen him go in. That’s twice now.’

  ‘Who is?’ you ask him. ‘Who?’

  ‘Haller, their substitute,’ says Pete. ‘Just seen him go in with my own bloody eyes. That’s the second fucking time and all. Talking fucking Kraut.’

  ‘Forget it,’ you tell him. ‘Could be anything.’

  ‘Could it hell,’ shouts Pete. ‘Haller’s bloody German and so’s the fucking referee, Schulenberg. It’s not right. I’m telling you, they’re up to something.’

  ‘Fucking forget it, Pete,’ you tell him again. ‘Think about the match, the game.’

  The first leg of the semi-final of the European Cup; 11 April 1973 –

  The Stadio Comunale, the black and the white; the black-and-white flags of 72,000 Juventus fans; Juventus, the Old Lady herself, in black and white:

  Zoff. Spinosi. Marchetti. Furino. Morini. Salvadore. Causio. Cuccureddu. Anastasi, Capello and Altafini –

  ‘Dirty, dirty, dirty bastards,’ Pete is saying, saying before you even get to the bench, before you even get sat down, before a ball has even been kicked.

  For the first twenty-odd minutes, you ride the late tackles, the shirt-pulling and the gamesmanship –

  ‘They’re just bloody flinging themselves to the floor at the feet of the ref.’

  The obstructing, the tripping, and the holding of players –

  ‘Dirty, diving, cheating, fucking Italian bastards.’

  Then Furino puts his elbow in Archie Gemmill’s face. Gemmill trips him back, just a little trip, and Gemmill goes in the book –

  ‘Fuck off, ref! Fuck
off!’ screams Pete. ‘What about fucking Furino?’

  Roy McFarland goes up for a high ball with Cuccureddu. McFarland and Cuccureddu clash heads. McFarland goes in the book –

  ‘For what? For fucking what?’ yells Pete. ‘Fucking nothing. Nothing!’

  Gemmill booked. For nothing. McFarland booked. For nothing –

  ‘By their bent axis mate of a fucking Kraut referee.’

  Gemmill and McFarland already booked in previous legs, this was the one thing you didn’t want to happen tonight; the two players now suspended for the return leg, the one thing you didn’t want to happen –

  ‘And they fucking knew it,’ says Pete. ‘They fucking knew it.’

  But it’s almost the half hour, almost the half hour and still 0–0 when Anastasi beats Webster and Todd, beats Webster and Todd to feed Altafini, feed Altafini to make it 1–0 to Juventus; 1–0 to Juventus but then, two minutes later, just two fucking minutes later, and out of nothing O’Hare knocks the ball to Hector and Hector takes the ball into their box and shapes to shoot with his left but brings it inside and shoots, shoots with his right and suddenly, just two minutes later and out of nothing, it’s –

  1–1! 1–1! 1–1! 1–1! 1–1!

  Salvadore and Morini beaten, Zoff on his arse, and the Stadio Comunale silent, those black-and-white flags fallen to the floor.

  Causio misses a chance and blasts over the bar, Nish clears a shot off the line from Marchetti, but it stays 1–1 to half-time; half-fucking-time:

  Haller, the Juventus substitute, is straight off their bench and walking off down the tunnel with Schulenberg, the referee –

  ‘Look at that,’ says Pete. ‘How much more fucking blatant can you get?’

  And Pete is straight off your bench and running down the tunnel after them –

  ‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ he shouts. ‘I speak German. Do you mind if I listen?’

  But Haller starts jabbing Pete in his ribs, keeping Pete from Schulenberg, and shouting for the security guards, who shove Pete against the wall of the tunnel and pin Pete there while you and the players file past the mêlée towards the dressing room –

  There is nothing you can do for Pete. Nothing now. Not now –

  Now you have to get to the dressing room, get to the dressing room because this is where you earn your money. This is where you bloody live –

  This is where you have to be, to be with your team, your boys –

  ‘They are Third Division, this lot,’ you tell them. ‘Just keep your heads.’

  But this is where things go wrong, thinking of Pete pinned up against the wall; this is where you make mistakes, thinking of Pete up against that wall –

  Pete pinned up against the wall of that tunnel, his head lost –

  Do you defend at 1–1? Do you attack at 1–1?

  But Derby neither defend nor attack –

  Your heads all lost.

  Haller comes on for Cuccureddu in the sixty-third minute and everything changes; the end of anything good and the beginning of everything bad –

  In the sixty-third minute of the first leg of the semi-final of the European Cup, Haller and Causio pass the ball across and back across the face of your penalty area, across and back across, until Causio suddenly turns and beats Boulton to make it 2–1 to Juventus in the sixty-sixth minute.

  But 2–1 to Juventus is still not so bad; you still have Hector’s goal, an away goal;1–0 to Derby County in the return leg at the Baseball Ground and you’d be through; through to the final of the European Cup …

  This is what you’re thinking, what you’re thinking just seven minutes from the end, just seven fucking minutes from the end as Altafini goes past two of yours and makes it 3–1 to Juventus, 3-fucking-1 and their flags are flying now –

  Black and white. Black and white. Black and fucking white.

  They are the better side, but that does not matter –

  Because they are cheats and cheats should never beat:

  ‘Cheating fucking Italian bastards,’ you shout at their press and in case they didn’t understand, then again more slowly: ‘Cheating. Fucking. Bastards.’

  ‘Cos’ ha detto? Cos’ ha detto?’ they ask. ‘Cos’ ha detto?’

  You are no diplomat. No ambassador for the game, the English game –

  ‘I don’t talk to cheating fucking bastards!’ you shout.

  No diplomat. No ambassador. No future manager of England –

  ‘Cheats and fucking cowards!’ you scream.

  You hate Italy. You hate Juventus –

  The Old Fucking Lady of Turin –

  The Whore of Europe –

  You will remember her stink, the stench of Turin; you will remember it for the rest of your days; the stink of corruption, the stench of decay –

  The end of anything good, the beginning of everything bad –

  And you will remember this place and this month –

  Turin, Italy; April 1973 –

  Everything bad –

  You’ve lost your mam. You’ve lost your mam. You’ve lost your mam.

  Day Twenty-five

  There would have been superstition. There would have been tradition. There would have been routine. There would have been ritual. There would have been the blue suit. There would have been the dossiers. The bingo and the bowls. There would have been the walk around the traffic lights. The same route to that bench in the dug-out. There would have been no pictures of birds. No peacock feathers. No ornamental animals –

  Saturday 24 August 1974.

  Under the feet. Under the stand. Through the doors. Round the corners. Down the corridors. In the office with the door locked and a chair against it, I hang my daughter’s picture of an owl upon the wall; hang it above the china elephant and the wooden horse; hang it next to the photograph of the peacock and the mirror –

  The cracked and broken mirror.

  There would also have been the envelopes full of cash. Under the table. Briefcases and boxes of notes. Hundreds and thousands. Unmarked and non-sequential. In a brown paper bag or on a back doorstep. That would have been the stink of Don’s Saturday. The stench of Don’s Saturday –

  ‘Where’s the money, Don? Where’s it all gone?’

  Under the feet and under the stand, through the doors and round the corners, down the corridors come their voices, knocking on the door, rattling at the lock –

  ‘What is it now?’ I yell. ‘Who is it now?’

  Through the keyhole Syd and Maurice whisper, ‘It’s us.’

  ‘Bates and Cooper are out; Hunter and Clarke are back in; Jordan is on the bench; McGovern and O’Hare still starting. Now fuck off,’ I shout. ‘The bloody pair of you.’

  Their laughter echoes and retreats down the corridors. Round the corners. Through the doors. Under the stands. Under the feet, climbing to their seats and taking their places, sharpening their knives and poisoning their darts, clearing their throats and beginning to chant, chant, chant; chant, chant, chant –

  Leeds, Leeds, Leeds. Leeds, Leeds, Leeds. Leeds, Leeds, Leeds …

  The stink of my Saturday. The stench of my Saturday –

  Shit, shit, shit. Shit, shit, shit. Shit, shit, shit. Shit, shit, shit. Shit, shit, shit.

  * * *

  25 April 1973; the Baseball Ground; the second leg of the semi-final of the European Cup and the crowd of over 38,000 is almost on the pitch. The crowd packed in so bloody tight, tight and tense, the Baseball Ground is a fucking bear pit. You straighten your tie. You straighten your hair –

  No Gemmill tonight. No McFarland tonight –

  ‘They did for us in Turin,’ you tell the dressing room. ‘Now we’ll do for them here tonight in Derby. Here tonight in our own house! Here tonight on our own field!’

  Webster sends Zoff sprawling in the opening minutes; O’Hare shoots and Zoff saves again; Hinton’s free kick forces another save from Zoff –

  But the Old Whore’s lips are sealed tonight; cold and dry, her legs are closed; she niggl
es at your players, she nips at your players, tickles and teases them –

  Salvadore goes in the book, Spinosi and Altafini too –

  The possession all yours, the resistance hers.

  Finally, finally, there’s a hint of thigh; the briefest, slightest glimpse of leg beneath the Old Whore’s skirts; in the fifty-fourth minute Kevin Hector goes down. The whistle blows and Derby have a penalty. Alan Hinton steps up. Alan Hinton shoots –

  Wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiide!

  ‘Fucking hell,’ you shout. ‘Fucking useless piece of fucking shit.’

  You will eat Hinton for dinner, spit him out, prostrate on the dressing-room floor, this fucking useless piece of fucking shit, this fucking useless piece of fucking shit who has stolen victory from you, robbed you of the European Cup.

  But you do not give up. Yet. You refuse to give up. Yet. You will never give up –

  You look at your watch. You look at your watch. You look at your watch –

  There is still time. There is still time. There is still time –

  Until Roger Davies explodes and headbutts Morini –

  Until Roger Davies gets bloody sent off –

  ‘Fucking useless piece of fucking shit.’

  This fucking useless piece of fucking shit, this fucking useless piece of fucking shit who has stolen victory from you, robbed you of the cup –

  Down to ten men with twenty-four minutes to go.

  Twenty minutes from the end, you take off Peter Daniel, stick on John Sims, your striker from your reserves; this is the extent of the hand you have to play –

  Boulton saves from Anastasi. Boulton saves from Longobucco –

  Your empty, empty bloody hand and then the empty, empty fucking sound of that last and final whistle as black-and-white arms punch the air –

  Black-and-white flags flood onto the pitch –

  Black-and-white chequered flags –

  Pull you under, finish you off –

  Finish and drown you.

  You drew 0–0 with Juventus. You won thirteen corners and twenty-nine free kicks but it is no consolation; no consolation that only Manchester United have gone any further than you, only Manchester United have reached the final –