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

on television. The new curtain-raiser for the new season. The brainchild of Ted Croker, the new Secretary and self- styled Chief Executive of the Football Association, despite the protests of both Leeds United and Liverpool –

Two years ago, when Derby County won the title, I refused to take part in the old Charity Shield; pissed them off no end, the FA, the Derby board, the fucking lot of them. Two years ago, I sent Derby on their pre-arranged pre-season tour of Germany instead –

This year there’s no escape. No escape at all –

Three o’clock or thereabouts on Saturday afternoon, I will have to lead out that team at Wembley. His team. Not mine. Three o’clock, I will have to stand side by side with the great Bill Shankly. It will be Shankly’s last bow, having retired in July. His last chance to lead out a team of his at Wembley –

The Wembley Way. The twin towers. The Empire Stadium. The tunnel. The National Anthem. The handshakes. The presentations. The crowd. The kick-off …

Three o’clock. Three o’clock –

And I’ll wish I wasn’t there, anywhere but there.

Day Ten

There have been alarms and there have been scares. There have been insults and there have been threats. Broken cups and slammed doors. Doubts and fears. But you were top in February and you were top in March and you’re still top now in April –

You beat Fulham 1–0 and you beat Bolton 5–1 –

You are guaranteed promotion with four games still to go, four games that could also see you promoted as Second Division Champions, four games starting with a 1–0 victory over Sheffield United, a 1–0 victory that opens up a seven-point lead over Crystal Palace and means Palace need to win all of their final four games while you need just two points from your last three games to be Champions, two points from your last three games starting today –

Saturday 12 April 1969.

You and the team are back down in London. Back down on your luxury team coach to one of the capital’s finest hotels, back down to your breakfasts in your beds and another splendid reception from your travelling fans, this time on Cold Blow Lane, this time outside the Den –

There is a moment of panic, a moment of doubt, when it turns out you’ve brought the wrong kit, when it turns out you’ll have to play in the Millwall away kit –

‘It’s a bloody omen,’ says Jack Burkitt. ‘A bad bloody omen.’

‘Bollocks,’ you tell him. ‘You’re talking fucking bollocks.’

You run out onto the pitch at the Den in the Millwall away kit and the Millwall players line up to applaud you, applaud your promotion –

But it’s not promotion you’re thinking about today –

Two bloody points and that fucking title is all you’re thinking about today and from the kick-off you control the match, you take it by the scruff of its bloody neck and never let it fucking go, not to Millwall, not to their fans, not to the bloody acrobatics of their keeper King, not to the fucking dust and wind that bellows round Cold Blow Lane –

Nothing is going to stop you. No way. Not today. Bloody nothing –

Not Millwall. Not their fans. Not their keeper –

Not the dust and not the wind. Not today:

Mackay rolls a short free-kick to Webster. Webster runs down the right wing. Webster crosses to McFarland. McFarland heads it back across their goal to Carlin and Willie nods it home to score the only goal of the game –

Short, sweet, simple fucking football and you are the Champions –

The Champions of Division Two –

You are the Champions.

* * *

Leeds will stay at the Royal Garden Hotel in Kensington tonight and so we are due to leave Elland Road for London this afternoon. But the team still trains this morning while I do contracts; Madeley, Allan Clarke and Frankie Gray. The only two contracts not yet signed are those for Giles and Yorath. Then there is the press conference –

That length of rope with which to hang yourself. That knife. That gun …

‘There have been no moves whatsoever for Shilton,’ I tell the pens and the pads. ‘I’ve made no offer and no enquiry and, although I’ve contemplated buying Peter Shilton a million times before, I have not done so while I have been at Leeds.’

They chew the ends of their biros and they ask, ‘What about all the rumours?’

‘Nobody is going from this club in exchange deals or any other deals until I have been here a very long time. Nobody has asked for a transfer, nobody wants to go and nobody is going. I have two goalkeepers with whom I am delighted.’

They scratch their chins and they ask, ‘Why hasn’t Giles signed his contract yet?’

‘I have not yet seen him about his contract,’ I tell them. ‘That’s all there is to it.’

They blow their noses and they ask, ‘What are your feelings about tomorrow?’

‘The game gives us a terrific chance to get away to a good start,’ I tell them. ‘You cannot have tougher opposition than Bill Shankly and Liverpool, and everybody will be going like bombs. We have trained hard all week, got on with our jobs, made a signing and are all now looking forward to the match.’

Liar, liar, I’m thinking. They’re thinking, Your whole body’s on fire.

The press conference over, I show my face to the directors then I change my gear, get my suitcase from the office and go out to the coach. They are all sat there in their Sunday best, smoking and sulking, whispering and