The Damned Utd by David Peace (easy readers txt) 📕

you said and wrote about Leeds United, for all the things you said and wrote about Don Revie –

The things you said and wrote, over and over, again and again.

This result will open doors, you think; open better doors. Because another good result comes in another defeat for England under Alf Ramsey, England losing 1–0 to Italy; the pressure mounting now on Alf Ramsey and the FA –

These results will open other doors, you think. These will open better doors.

* * *

Things are never the way they say they are. Things are never the way you want them to be. Things just get worse and worse, day by day, hour by hour. Then things fall apart. Things just collapse –

I get out of bed. In silence. I eat breakfast. In silence. I leave the house. In silence. I drive to work. In silence. I park. In silence. I walk across the car park. In silence. Up the banking. In silence. To the training ground. In silence –

No smiles. No laughter. No banter. No jokes. No conversations. No chat. Not here.

I stand at the edge of the training ground and watch them practise and practise. Jimmy comes over. Jimmy says, ‘Thought we’d knock it on the head now, Boss?’

‘Fine,’ I tell him and then I ask, ‘What were they practising just then?’

Jimmy smiles. Jimmy says, ‘Dummies, Boss.’

‘They could have used me for once then,’ I tell him and then I traipse back down the banking. Past Syd and Maurice. In silence. Past the huts and across the car park. The puddles and the potholes. In silence. Into reception –

‘Players’lounge,’ says Bolton. ‘Ten minutes.’

* * *

You put down the phone. You know it’s over now. No chance of going back –

Derby County Football Club have held their Annual General Meeting for 1973. Mike Keeling presented a petition of 7,000 signatures demanding your reinstatement. The board presented a counterpetition of 22,000 signatures.

There were still chants against Jack Kirkland. Still chants against Sam Longson; the meeting dissolving into catcalls and chaos as Longson held a microphone to his ear and stared into space, the stewards picking up Keeling and throwing him down the stairs.

But it’s over now and you know it. No going back. Not now.

* * *

The players’ lounge, Elland Road. Deep in the West Stand, off the main corridor. Two doors locked and an empty bar. Low ceiling and sticky carpet. Mirrors, mirrors on the walls. Fresh from their baths in their black mourning suits, the players file in; the players and directors heading straight to the funeral of Harry Reynolds, straight after this; this players’ court, this charade, this first funeral, mine –

‘I say, I say, I say,’ Manny Cussins begins. ‘We held a board meeting last night because we feel there is some unrest in the camp, that things aren’t quite right …’

‘Never mind that crap,’ says Bolton. ‘We want to know what’s going on here.’

Heads low, their fingers and their nails between their lips and their teeth, there is silence from the players.

I turn my chair around and sit down. I rest my arms on its back and ask them, ‘Listen, lads, how about we start all over again and try to improve things?’

Heads low, their fingers and their nails between their lips and their teeth, there is still only silence.

‘Perhaps if Mr Clough were to step outside,’ says John Giles, ‘then perhaps we would all feel a little more like speaking our minds.’

I look at the Irishman. The Irishman smiles. The Irishman winks –

Bastard. Bastard. Bastard. Fucking bastards. The bloody lot of them …

I don’t wait. I stand up. I turn my back. I leave –

‘We’re not happy with the handling of the team …’

I leave them to it. Under the stand, through the doors and round the corners, I walk –

‘We never see him and when we do he tells us nothing …’

I walk back down that corridor to the office. Back to find Jimmy by that door –

‘We’re not allowed to mention Mr Revie’s name …’

‘That’s it,’ I tell Jimmy. ‘There’s no way I can continue to manage this club.’

‘What I want to know is why, after all the things he’d said about us, did you appoint him in the first place, Mr Cussins?’

‘What you going to do, Boss?’ asks Jimmy.

‘It wasn’t just me who appointed him, boys …’

‘I’m resigning,’ I tell him. ‘But I’ll make sure your job’s safe.’

‘So what are you saying, lads?’

‘I’m not bloody staying here without you,’ says Jimmy. ‘No fucking way.’

‘What the lads are trying to say, Mr Bolton, is that he’s just not good enough …’

‘Right then,’ I tell him. ‘I want you to go home tonight and work out how much bloody brass you’re going to need …’

‘Not good enough for Leeds United.’

‘… because I know that’s what I’m going to fucking do.’

* * *

You are not at work. You are up in the air. Thirty thousand feet up in the air. On your way to New York City. On your way to see Ali–Frazier II at Madison Square Garden. All expenses paid. Thanks to the Daily Mail; the Daily Mail who will introduce you to Ali:

Ali vs Clough – the Meeting of the Mouths – Ego vs Ego.

You don’t care. Thirty thousand feet up in the air. On your way to New York City. On a charter flight in the company of the Victoria Sporting Club. The Victoria Sporting Club who sweep every miniature from the drinks trolley and then toss them over to you –

‘Help yourself to whatever you bloody like, Brian,’ they shout. ‘You just take as many as you fucking like,