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

to you on the flight east. ‘I want you to play against Russia,’ he told you. ‘Not Derek. You, Brian.’

You believed him. But you didn’t play. England lost 5–0.

‘I want you to play against Yugoslavia,’ he told you the next day. ‘You, Brian.’

You believed him again. But again you didn’t play. This time England draw 1–1, thanks to Derek fucking Kevan.

After the Yugoslavia game, Walter sat you down and Walter spelt it out for you. ‘You won’t be going to the World Cup, Brian,’ he told you. ‘Not this time.’ You didn’t believe him. You had travelled to Russia. You had travelled to Yugoslavia. You hadn’t had a single kick. Not a touch. Not a single one –

‘I scored forty-two goals in the league and cup this last season,’ you told Walter. ‘They bloody count in the fucking matches we play for Middlesbrough but apparently it’s not enough for you lot, not nearly enough …’

The manager and the selectors shook their heads, their fingers to their lips –

‘Don’t burn your bridges, Brian. Bide your time and your chance will come.’

You’d bide your time, all right. You’d take your chances –

Five in the first match of the 1958–59 season; five against the League of Ireland for the Football League; four on your twenty-fourth birthday –

There was public clamour and press pressure now. But you still had to bide your time for another year until you finally got your chance –

Until you were picked to play against Wales at Cardiff.

You forgot your boots and spilt your bacon and beans all down you, you were that nervous, that nervous because that was what it meant to you, to play for your country –

And now that is all you can remember about your England début at Ninian Park; how bloody nervous you were, how fucking frightened –

But, eleven days later, you were picked to play against Sweden at Wembley –

‘You ever play at Wembley did you, Mr Clough? You ever play at Wembley, Mr Clough? You ever play at Wembley?’

The dreams you’d had of that turf, at that stadium, in that shirt, for that badge; the goals you’d score on that turf, at that stadium, in that shirt, for that badge, in front of your mam, in front of your dad, in front of your beautiful new wife, but that day –

28 October 1959 –

You hit the crossbar and laid on a goal for John Connelly, but it wasn’t enough. You were heavily marked and you couldn’t escape. You found no space –

‘His small-town tricks lost on the big-time stage of Wembley Stadium.’

On that turf, at that stadium. For that badge, in that shirt –

The Swedes took you apart; the Swedes beat you 3–2; it wasn’t enough –

Not enough for you. Not enough for the press. Not enough for Walter –

‘How can I play centre-forward alongside Charlton and Greaves?’ you told him. ‘We’re all going for the same ball! You’ll have to drop one of them.’

But Walter loved Bobby. Walter loved Jimmy. Walter did not love you –

Walter dropped you and so those two games, against Wales at Cardiff and Sweden at Wembley, those two games were your only full England honours –

‘You ever play at Wembley did you, Mr Clough? You ever play at Wembley, Mr Clough? You ever play at Wembley?’

Two-hundred and fifty-one bloody league goals and two fucking caps.

Twenty-four years old and your international career over, the next morning you boarded the train to Brighton with the rest of the Middlesbrough lads. You did not score in that game either. The day after, Middlesbrough travelled up to Edinburgh to play the Hearts. For six hours you sat in a compartment with Peter and you analysed your England game. No cards. No drink. Just cigarettes and football, football, football –

Football, football, football and you, you, you –

Because you knew then you would return –

Return as the manager of England, the youngest-ever manager of England; because you were born to manage your country; to lead England out of that tunnel, onto that pitch; to lead them to the World Cup –

A second, a third and a fourth World Cup –

Because it is your destiny. It is your fate –

Not luck. Not God. It is your future –

It is your revenge.

Day Thirteen

Bed, breakfast and ignore the papers. Shower, shave and ignore the radio. Kit on, car out and ignore the neighbours. Goodbye family, goodbye Derby. Hello motorway, hello Monday fucking morning; the Monday fucking morning after the Saturday before –

Leeds and Liverpool disgrace Wembley; soccer stars trade punches …

Here comes that fucking book, thrown at them – at us all – with a vengeance. There’s even talk of fans having Bremner and Keegan charged with breach of the peace; all they need now is a willing bloody magistrate, a hanging fucking judge –

Well, here I bloody am; ready and more than fucking willing …

The players should have had the day off today. To recover from Saturday and to rest for Tuesday. But not after Saturday. Not after what they’ve put me through; the headaches they’ve given me and the headaches I’ve got coming; the board meetings and the press conferences; the bloody team to pick for tomorrow night and the fucking contract to write for that bloody Irish fucking shithouse –

I hate bloody Mondays, always fucking have.

* * *

Time does not stand still. Time changes. Time moves fast. Derby must not stand still. Derby must change. Derby must move fast –

The cast remains the same but the scenery changes and the Ley Stand goes up, towering over the Pop Side and the Vulcan Street terracing; it should