by David Peace
‘I know that.’
‘You’re averaging a goal a game …’
‘I know that.’
‘But you’re still playing Jordan and McKenzie in the reserves …’
‘I know that.’
‘Playing O’Hare up front when he’s not even eligible for Europe …’
‘I know that.’
‘Twelve days before Europe …’
‘I know that.’
‘Talking of selling Terry Cooper and Joe Jordan, of Giles going to Tottenham, talking of bringing in other ineligible players …’
‘I know that.’
‘So what are you going to do?’ they ask. ‘What are you going to do, Brian?’
‘I’m going to sweat it out,’ I tell them.
‘What do you think Don Revie would have …’
‘I try not to think about Don Revie,’ I tell them. ‘But it’d have been the same.’
‘But he wouldn’t have bought McKenzie,’ they say. ‘He wouldn’t have bought McGovern or O’Hare. He wouldn’t be trying to sell Cooper, Giles and Jordan …’
‘Don’s gone,’ I tell them. ‘And it’s only winning that can change things now.’
‘And if you don’t win?’ they ask. ‘What changes then? Who changes?’
‘Nothing changes,’ I tell them.
‘Something must,’ they say. ‘Somebody must …’
‘No one changes,’ I insist. ‘Like I say, I’ll sweat it out –’
Out. Out. Out.
* * *
Mike Bamber and Harry Bloom, the Brighton vice-chairman, drive up to Derby. To the Midland Hotel. To meet you and Pete –
But you are not there. Just Pete –
Bill Wainwright, the manager of the Midland, calls you at home, in bed –
‘Give them some beer and sandwiches,’ you tell him, ‘and I’ll be right there.’
But you’re not. You are still two hours late. In your scruffy blue tracksuit –
Peter is furious. Fucking furious. Bamber and Bloom too –
‘You’re well out of order,’ says Mike Bamber. ‘Making us travel all the way up here and then making us wait around for two hours.’
‘Something came up,’ you tell them –
They are still furious, Bamber and Bloom, but they are also still desperate –
‘And I didn’t come all the way up here to fall out with you either,’ says Bamber. ‘So here’s the deal …’
Mike Bamber offers you and Pete £7,000 each just to sign for Brighton, then offers you and Pete an annual salary which is more than you were earning at Derby –
Pete’s already smiling. Peter’s already done his sums. Taylor’s already agreed.
‘But these are First Division wages,’ you tell Bamber –
‘You’re First Division managers,’ says Bamber.
‘But are you sure you can afford it?’
‘Are you sure you’re worth it?’
‘I’m sure,’ you tell him –
‘Then so am I,’ says Mike Bamber. ‘Then so am I.’
* * *
Under the stands, the weight on my back. Through the doors, the weight on my back. Round the corner, the weight on my back. Up the stairs, the weight on my back. Down the corridor, that weight on my back. That weight on my back as I push open the doors to the club dining room. The soup is oxtail again. The meat lamb. The vegetables soft and the wine cheap. Their suits are dark and their ties still black –
‘Of course he doesn’t want to bloody go,’ states Bolton. ‘This is Leeds United!’
‘But I need players who are thinking about winning cups and medals,’ I tell him. ‘He’s more bothered about his bloody testimonial than Leeds United.’
‘He’s played here fourteen years,’ says Cussins. ‘He deserves his testimonial.’
‘I never said he didn’t,’ I tell him, tell them all. ‘I played the game, you didn’t; none of you, not one of you. I got injured; you didn’t. I was finished, washed up, and we’d have bloody starved without my testimonial money. I’m just saying that half your fucking team are on testimonials this season –’
‘That’s an exaggeration,’ says Woodward. ‘It’s hardly half the team.’
‘Cooper, Giles, Paul Madeley, Paul Reaney, Norman Hunter and Peter Lorimer,’ I tell him, tell them all. ‘That’s six bloody first-team players on fucking testimonials this season and that makes it very, very difficult to sell any of them.’
‘So stop trying to bloody sell buggers then!’ shouts Bolton. ‘They’re Champions for Chrissakes, man. League bloody Champions.’
‘Not this bloody season, they’re not,’ I tell him, tell them all. ‘They’re old men.’
‘That’s bloody rubbish,’ says Woodward. ‘Absolute bloody rubbish.’
‘Is that right?’ I ask him, ask them all. ‘You fucking watching them play, are you?’
‘Some might say it’s not the players,’ says Bolton.
‘Is that right?’ I ask him, ask them all again. ‘So who might some say it is then?’
‘Some might say it’s their manager,’ states Bolton. ‘Some might say it’s thee.’
* * *
You should be letting go. You should be walking away. But you can’t let go. You can’t walk away. You should be thinking about Brighton, thinking about the future. But you just can’t stop thinking about Derby, about the past –
You just can’t stop thinking and thinking and thinking about it, about them:
Derby County only drew with Sunderland. Back from a penalty. Back from a goal down. Back to draw 1–1. But 1–1 is not good enough. Not against Sunderland. The Derby players, your players, know that. The fans and the press know that. Longson and the board know that and, most of all, Dave Mackay knows that –
Mackay then lost the bloody toss. The Derby players, your players, are furious, fucking furious about that too. Now Derby must play Sunderland at Roker Park again tomorrow night; the winner of that match will then be at home to Liverpool in the next round of the League Cup. But, but, but …
If Derby County lose tomorrow night. If Derby County fail to reach the next round of the League Cup. If Derby County are not at home to Liverpool …
If Derby lose this game, if Mackay loses this game, then who knows?
The players don’t want to play for him. The players don’t want to work for him. They want to play for you, your players. They want to work for you –
Not Dave Mackay. Not Sam Longson –
They want you, your players –
They want Cloughie; risen, immaculate and back.
So there’s no way you can let go yet. No way you can walk away now. No way you can stop thinking and thinking and thinking about it, about them. But, but, but …
You’ve done the deal with Brighton. You’ve shaken hands with Bamber. Tomorrow morning you’ll be flying from East Midlands airport down to Sussex –
But you hate bloody flying. You really hate fucking flying. Now you’ve found your excuse and got your cold feet; your address book out and your phone in your hands –
You call Phillip Whitehead, your MP. You ask him what you should do –
‘Everyone wants you back,’ he tells you. ‘But it’s your career.’
You call Brian Moore. You ask him what you should do –
‘Everyone at ITV wants you here full-time,’ he tells you. ‘The offer’s always open and you know that. But, in your heart of hearts, you’re a football manager. I know that, you know that. So I can’t tell you what to do, Brian, except to follow your heart.’
You call Mike Keeling. You ask him what you should do –
‘No one wants you to go,’ he tells you. ‘But, at the end of day, it’s up to you.’
You call John Shaw. You ask him what to bloody do –
‘The people of Derby want you to stay,’ he tells you. ‘The people of Derby, the supporters of Derby County Football Club, they all want you to stay and they’ll fight until you are back where you belon
g, and you know that I and everyone else involved in the Protest Movement will do everything we can to make that happen. Everything we can. But, in the meantime, you’ve also got a wife and three kids to feed …’
You can’t let go. You can’t walk away. Because you can’t stop thinking about it. You just can’t stop thinking and thinking and thinking about them –
You put down the phone. You ask your wife what you should do –
‘Talk to Peter,’ she tells you. ‘Tell him your doubts. See what he says.’
You have a drink. Then another. Then you call Peter; Pete busy packing his case, whistling, ‘Oh, I do like to be beside the seaside …’
‘I can’t go through with it,’ you tell him. ‘I just can’t, Pete.’
‘We’ve got a great deal,’ says Peter. ‘A better deal than the one we were on.’
‘It’s not about the money,’ you tell him. ‘I just can’t go through with it.’
‘Then we’re finished,’ he shouts, he screams, he rants and he raves –
‘That’s you and me fucking finished!’
Day Thirty-nine
Saturday’s come again, with Saturday’s stink again; the sweat and the mud, the liniment and the grease; the steam and the soap, the sewer and the shampoo. The doubt and the fear. The doubt and the fear. The doubt and the fear –
‘Some might say it’s their manager. Some might say it’s thee …’
I know no one wants to play for me. To pull on a shirt for me. To put on their boots for me. To walk down that tunnel. To walk onto that pitch for me –
‘Some might say it’s their manager. Some might say it’s thee …’
Not Harvey or Stewart. Not Reaney or Madeley. Not Cherry or Yorath. Not Hunter or McQueen. Not Jordan or Jones. Not Cooper or Lorimer. Not Bates or the Grays. Not Giles or Bremner. Not Allan Clarke or Duncan McKenzie. Not even John McGovern or John O’Hare. Not these days. This Saturday –
Saturday 7 September 1974.
Under their feet and under their stand, through their doors and round their corners, I stay out of their dressing room, I stay out of their boardroom; down the corridors, I stay locked in my office with my ornamental animals and my pictures of birds, pouring my drinks and lighting my fags, listening for their feet, listening for their voices –
‘Some might say it’s their manager. Some might say it’s thee …’
I pour another drink and I light another fag; another drink, another fag; another drink, another fag. More feet and more voices, knocking on the door, rattling at the lock –
‘Boss,’ calls Jimmy. ‘Boss, the players are waiting for you in the dressing room.’
‘What the hell for?’ I answer. ‘To whisper and mutter behind my bloody back? To ignore and fucking mock me? To plot and to …’
‘They just want to know who’s playing,’ says Jimmy. ‘That’s all, Boss.’
‘Harvey. Reaney. Cherry. McGovern. McQueen. Hunter. Lorimer. Clarke. O’Hare. Giles and Madeley,’ I tell him. ‘With Yorath on the bench.’
‘You’re not coming down then?’ he asks. ‘Not even for a word?’
‘Not today,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll see you out there …’
The sound of Jimmy’s feet retreat and echo down the corridor and round the corner; retreat and echo and hide among the sound of thousands of other pairs of feet, climbing to their seats, taking their places for the showdown, this final exhibition –
‘Are you there, Brian? Are you still there?’
I finish my drink and put out my fag. I unlock the door and open it. I close and lock it again. I walk down the corridor and round the corner, past the dressing room and down the tunnel. The teams already out on the pitch. I walk into the light and the stadium. Into the silence. I make my way along to the dug-out. To that bench. To that seat. In that silence –
‘How shall we live, Brian? How shall we live?’
The 26, 450 Yorkshire zombies inside Elland Road silent today. The 26,450 Yorkshire zombies silent until some big black fucking dog barks, ‘Bugger off, Clough! You’re not the bloody Don and you never fucking will be.’
* * *
Last night Derby County were beaten by Sunderland. Beaten by a Vic Halom hat-trick. Beaten 3–0 and knocked out of the League Cup. Derby did not play particularly badly, Derby did not play particularly well; but the difference between Derby and Sunderland, according to the press, the difference was that Sunderland would do anything their manager asked of them –
Walk on water! Run through fire!
Anything bloody Bob fucking Stokoe asked of them; they hung on his every word, they lived by his every word, just like your team did, just like your boys –
But Derby County would not do what Dave Mackay asked of them. Derby County do not hang on Dave Mackay’s every word. They will not listen to Dave Mackay at all –
Now Derby County will not be at home to Liverpool in the next round –
The press are not impressed. The fans are not impressed –
‘Bring back Cloughie! Bring back Cloughie! Bring back Cloughie!’
But this morning you are not back in Derby. This morning you and Peter kissed and made up at East Midlands airport. Now you and Peter are down at the Goldstone Ground, Brighton; flown down first thing, met at the airport and driven to the Courtlands Hotel –
The champagne breakfast. The Rolls-Royce to the ground. The red carpet –
Now you are about to become the new manager of Brighton and Hove Albion FC; unveiled and announced. But there is still time, still time –
You loosen your tie. You undo your collar. You make some excuses. You walk down a corridor. Round a corner. You find a phone. You call John Shaw –
‘The whole of the bloody nation’s sporting fucking press are here,’ you tell him. ‘Should I sign or not, John? Should I sign or not?’
‘It’s your career,’ he tells you. ‘I can’t tell you what to do, Brian.’
‘But if I can get back,’ you tell him. ‘If I can get back …’
‘We’re doing our best,’ he says. ‘Doing our very best to make that happen.’
‘I know you are,’ you tell him. ‘I know you are.’
‘And if the team keeps getting results like last night, who knows?’
‘You’re right,’ you tell him. ‘Who knows? It could be only a matter of time …’
‘That’s the only problem,’ says John Shaw. ‘Knowing how long it’ll take –’
‘Right then,’ you tell him. ‘I’ll sign, but I’ll be back for the meeting tonight.’
‘See you then, then,’ says John. ‘See you then.’
You put down the phone. You find a mirror. You straighten your collar and tie; you’ve got on your World of Sport tie, a smile on your face, and some quotes ready for the cameras and the microphones, for your audience:
‘This is the greatest thing ever to happen to Brighton,’ Mike Bamber is saying. ‘Now we can really go places …’
‘And let me say this,’ you interrupt. ‘This chairman and his directors did a better job of selling Brighton to me than I did trying to sell Derby County …’
‘You’ve done it before,’ the press tell you. ‘Are you sure you can do it again?’
‘I am anxious to get started,’ you tell them. ‘Because I understand there is quite a bit of work to do and I know it’ll be tougher here than even at Hartlepools; tougher here because they didn’t expect anything at Hartlepools. Tougher here than Derby too because they had the tradition. The history. Now Peter and me have a reputation, now there are expectations, but there are no fairies at the end of Brighton pier …’
‘What is your opinion of the Brighton squad?’ they ask you.
‘There are only sixteen professionals here. Only one goalkeeper, only one trainer, only one secretary, only one groundsman; in fact, only one of everything. So that puts Peter and me in the majority for once, for they’ve got two bloody managers.’
‘What kind of staff and players will you be looking to bri
ng in?’
‘Cheap ones,’ you tell them. ‘With some bloody coal on their faces.’
‘What’s your response to people who say that fetching Clough and Taylor to Brighton is like engaging McAlpine to decorate your roadside café?’
‘What’s wrong with a roadside café?’ you ask them. ‘You lot can stuff your Ritz. You can stuff your Savoy. You get your best bloody food in Britain at a roadside café.’
And you’re still the best bloody manager in Britain, the cameras and the microphones still bloody know it, the cameras and the microphones still bloody love you, still adore and applaud you as you take your bow, make your exit …
Mike Bamber drives you and Peter to meet the Brighton team at a hotel in Lewes. The team are nervous. The team are afraid –
Nervous and afraid of you.
They hide their nerves and their fears behind their jokes and their bravado, their casual jokes, their casual bravado. You hate them. You despise them. Their nerves and their fear, their jokes and their bravado –
You take off your jacket. You stick out your chin –
‘Go on, punch it!’ you tell them. ‘Show me you’ve got some fucking balls!’
* * *
I am not Don Revie and John McGovern is not Billy Bremner. The crowd are baying for my blood and the crowd are baying for John McGovern’s blood –
‘Take the bloody lad off,’ says Jimmy. ‘He’s fucking suffered enough.’
‘I wouldn’t take him off if we were losing 5–1,’ I tell him –
But Leeds are not losing 5–1 to Luton. Leeds United are drawing 1–1 with Luton; newly promoted Luton Town; Luton who are two places above Leeds on goal average. But 1–1 is not good enough. Not against Luton Town. The Leeds players, his players, know that. The fans and the press know that. Cussins, Bolton and the whole of the Leeds board bloody know that and, most of all, I fucking know that –
The whistle blows. The final whistle. The match ends –
The curtain comes down to the jeers and the boos of 26,450 Yorkshire zombies, drowning out the loudspeaker –
The loudspeaker which is playing ‘Who’s Sorry Now?’
I get up off that bench. I leave that dug-out. I make my way along to the tunnel, the dressing-room doors, the corridor and the press; the press, press, press, press, press, press, press –