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

That’s what got you your 251 league goals in 274 games, got you your eighteen hat-tricks, your five four-goal hauls, and that’s what’s going to save you and Derby County –

That’s what’s going to get you what you want –

Ability and application. Discipline and determination –

No such thing as luck. No such thing as God. Just you, you and the players –

Peter reads out the pre-season team sheet; names like McFarland, O’Hare, Hector and Hinton. Peter puts down the team sheet. Pete says, ‘Just two things missing now: a good bloody keeper and a bit of fucking experience.’

‘And where are we going to find them?’ you ask him. ‘Not round here.’

‘Don’t you worry,’ says Peter. ‘I know just the keeper and just the man with the experience we need.’

* * *

There’s another friendly tomorrow, another away game, my second game in charge. I stand at the far edge of the training pitch and watch them practising their set pieces, their corners and their free kicks –

Like clockwork.

Jimmy Gordon comes over. He says, ‘Thought we’d knock it on the head, if that’s all right with you, Boss?’

I look at my watch. It’s not there.

‘Half eleven,’ says Jimmy. ‘Anything you want to say to them before we finish?’

I shake my head. I tell him, ‘What’s to say?’

Jimmy shrugs his shoulders. He starts to walk back towards the team.

‘Jimmy,’ I call after him. ‘Ask Eddie Gray to come over here, will you?’

Eddie’s played in just one of the last forty-five Leeds games. He’s in his purple tracksuit with his name on the back, sweating and out of breath. He says, ‘Mr Clough?’

‘Boss to you,’ I tell him and then I ask him, ‘You fit?’

‘I think so,’ he says.

‘Think’s no good to me,’ I tell him. ‘I want you to know so.’

‘Well then, I know so,’ he laughs. ‘I know so, Boss.’

‘Good lad,’ I tell him. ‘We’ll give you a run-out tomorrow night then.’

Eddie sprints back over to his mates as someone shouts, ‘You off and all then?’

* * *

‘Me go and sign Dave Mackay? You must be bloody joking, or fucking drunk?’ you told Peter.

‘You’ve pulled off bigger things than this,’ he lied. ‘Just go and try.’

‘He’s off into management,’ you told him. ‘Hanging up his boots.’

‘It’s only 99 per cent certain,’ Peter lied again.

And so off you set. Just you. Not Pete –

You in your car to sign Dave Mackay –

Dave Mackay, the legendary Scottish wing-half with Tottenham Hotspur –

Tottenham Hotspur, the legendary 1960–61 double-winning Spurs –

The double-winning Spurs of the legendary Bill Nicholson.

So here you are at White Hart Lane, London. Been here since half seven this morning. You want to speak to Bill Nicholson, but no one knows who you are. Never heard of you. No one gives you the time of day. So you sit in your car in their car park with the radio and the cricket on and you wait; wait and wait and wait, in the car park in your Sunday best, wait and wait and wait until you see Bill Nicholson –

Bill Nick, manager of Tottenham Hotspur, an inspiration and an idol to you.

‘I’ve come to sign Dave Mackay,’ you tell him.

‘As far as I know,’ says Bill Nick, ‘Dave’s off back to Edinburgh tomorrow. He’s off home to Hearts to become assistant manager.’

‘Can I have a word with him?’

The phone is ringing in Bill Nick’s office. Bill turns and, as he leaves me, he says, ‘Mackay’s training, but you’re welcome to wait.’

So you wait again, wait and wait and wait, in the passageway outside the office, you wait and wait and wait until you hear the studs and then the voices.

Dave Mackay is older than you and he looks it. He marches straight up to you. Hand out. Grip firm –

‘Dave Mackay,’ he says. ‘And who the bloody hell are you?’

‘My name’s Brian Clough and I once had the pleasure of playing for England against you in an Under-23 match,’ you tell him.

‘I do remember you now,’ laughs Dave Mackay. ‘You had a beautiful black eye, a right bloody shiner.’

‘Well, I’m the manager of Derby County now and I’m building a team there that will be promoted this season and be First Division Champions in three years.’

‘Congratulations,’ laughs Dave Mackay again. ‘Now what can I do for you?’

‘You can sign for Derby County,’ you tell him. ‘That’s what.’

‘No chance,’ he says. ‘I’m off home to Hearts tomorrow as assistant manager.’

‘Tell you what then,’ you smile. ‘You go off and get yourself a nice hot bath and then we’ll have a nice little chat about it. Never know your luck.’

But luck’s got nothing to do with it. No such thing as luck –

Dave Mackay has his bath and then Dave Mackay takes you into the players’ lounge at White Hart Lane, London. It is immaculate. Ladies in aprons bring you tea and sandwiches in china cups and on china plates. Then Dave Mackay takes you out onto the pitch at White Hart Lane and sits you down on the turf by the corner flag –

The stands and the seats immaculate. The sun shining on the pitch –

It is a beautiful place. It is a beautiful day.

‘Derby is a sleeping giant,’ you tell Dave Mackay. ‘But since I arrived at the place, the crowds have already jumped to 20,000. The town backs me, the fans back me and, more importantly, the board back me 100 per cent. There’s money for class and for skill and the wages to pay players with both; players like you and players like Roy McFarland.’

‘Roy who?’ asks Dave Mackay.

‘McFarland,’ you tell him. ‘He’s the next England centre-half, I’m