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

and no one gives up, not the players and not the crowd, and then, in that seventy-seventh minute, Carlin races through the middle and back-heels the ball for Mackay to hit home from thirty yards out, and everyone knows, everyone knows now –

Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby –

Everyone knows now that when Hutchinson breaks for Chelsea, then Walker will be there for you, not once but twice, and that then Walker will burst forward down the left and cross for Durban to head past Bonetti –

Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby –

And everyone knows now that you haven’t finished yet, that when Bonetti and Hector both go for the same ball that Hector will get there first to make it 3–1 in the eighty-first minute, because everyone knows now that everything has changed, that everything has turned, everything has come together –

Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby –

The things you’ve done and the things you’ve said; the fists you’ve raised and the bruises you’ve kissed. Everything has finally come together and will now stay together –

Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby –

That this will be a season to remember, a season never to forget –

Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby –

‘What a wonderful display by the team and how wonderful our supporters were,’ says the chairman. ‘This is a night I shall remember as long as I live.’

Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby. Derby –

‘I was delighted for the players,’ you tell the press, the cameras and the whole wide world. ‘This was easily the best performance since I have come to Derby.’

* * *

I stand in the corridor at Villa Park. I finish my fag and I take a deep breath. Then I open the door to the visitors’ dressing room –

The place goes dead. The players looking at their sock tags; their vain bleeding sock tags with their numbers on; those bloody tags they throw to the home crowd after every game like Roman fucking gladiators or something. Then Norman Hunter pipes up, ‘Brilliant pass that, Gilesy. Beautiful ball for Clarkey. Put it on a plate for him. Lovely.’

‘Forget that fucking pass,’ I tell him. ‘What about the way Clarkey stuck it in?’

Bites Yer Legs shakes his head. Irishman smiles. Sniffer basking –

‘That was class,’ I tell him. ‘And don’t you forget the Irishman wouldn’t have even been on that bloody pitch if Madeley kept him self in better fucking nick.’

‘Played a blinder though,’ says Bites Yer Legs. ‘A fucking blinder.’

‘Better make the bloody most of him then,’ I tell him. ‘Destined for bigger things, aren’t you, Irishman?’

‘There’s nothing bigger than playing,’ says Giles. ‘You know that, Mr Clough.’

The players are watching us now; whispering and wondering.

I leave them to it. I stand outside in the corridor. I light a fag. I listen –

‘No respect,’ I hear them say, ‘for the traditions of Leeds United.’

Duncan McKenzie walks past in his posh new suit. McKenzie turns and says, ‘They weren’t bad, were they? I thought Johnny Giles was ace.’

‘Fuck off,’ I tell him. ‘You can bloody walk back to Leeds for that.’

* * *

The Chelsea game has brought a swagger to your side. To the whole club. To the whole bloody town. But you know in your heart of hearts that it is Dave Mackay who has brought that swagger to this side. This whole club. This whole fucking town. Not you –

In your heart of hearts.

You switch training to Tuesdays so Dave can have Sundays and Mondays off to take care of his tie shop back down in London. You put him up at the Midland Hotel for the rest of the week and move Roy McFarland in there to keep him company while Dave drinks his fill from Monday night through to Thursday night. But then Dave doesn’t touch another drop from Friday morning through to Saturday teatime –

This man is Derby County. The foundation and the cornerstone –

And you’re the first to recognize this; the first to treat him as such –

You chat to him while the rest of the team run their laps. You bring him into the team talks with an easy, ‘What do you think, captain?’

Together you, Peter and Dave Mackay turn this team from part-timers into full-timers; no more afternoon golf, no more selling insurance door to door –

Morning after morning, you drum the basics into them –

‘Keep the ball down. Play it forward. On the ground. To feet. Hold it. Pass it. Score! Win the ball back. Keep the ball down. Play it forward. On the ground. To feet. Hold it. Pass it. Score! Win the ball back …’

And you don’t just tell them how to do these things, you sodding well show them, scoring in every single six-a-side match, then changing with your lads, bathing with your lads, and joking with your lads –

This is good bloody management. This is you and Pete at your best –

Spotting the talent, buying the talent and then handling that fucking talent –

Insulting that talent. Humiliating that talent. Threatening that talent –

Hurting that talent and then kissing it fucking better again –

Again and again, bringing out the bloody best in folk –

In that fucking talent, that’s you and that’s Peter.

Day Nine

I don’t believe this. I get out of my car. Don’t fucking believe this. I slam the door. Bastards. I lock it. Who the fucking hell do they think they are? I put my jacket on. Bastards. Bastards. Bastards. I walk across the car park. Lazy fucking bastards, the bloody lot of them. Up the banking to the training ground and I ask Jimmy Gordon,