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

had a full squad available against Stoke because it is essential for us to start the season well. But being under strength does not mean I will abandon my open-play policy –’

Another round –

‘Attack is my only policy –’

And another –

‘This Saturday, every Saturday –’

And, go on then, twist my arm then, one last one for the road then –

‘I cannot play the game any other way.’

* * *

The day after Boxing Day 1971 and you lose to Leeds. Again –

Again, just when you were beginning to believe; after losing at Huddersfield, you’d beaten Manchester City at home, then lost at Anfield but beaten Everton at home. You were beginning to believe again; to banish the doubt and the fear, slowly –

But then you come to Elland Road. Again. The doubt and the fear. Again –

You saw the doubt and the fear in the eyes and the hearts of your players, saw the doubt and the fear when Gemmill was downed early on, saw their eyes and their hearts go down with him. But today you don’t swear; today you don’t shout or strip the walls of the visitors’ dressing room. Today you will buy them steak and pints on the way back to Derby. You will sit next to them on the coach, put your arms around them and tell them that they are the best players in the country, the very best –

Because your team, your boys, do not pull shirts, do not nudge people in the box, do not protest every decision, feigning innocence and then outrage –

Because your boys do not lie and your boys do not cheat.

But tonight you will still not sleep; tonight you’ll still sit in your rocking chair and stare at that league table and those fixtures to come. Tonight you will still not close your eyes because tonight you’ll see this game again, again and again and again, over and over and over. But you still will not see the way Leeds outwitted you on the flanks, still will not see your lack of any decent tackles, of any physical presence, will not see the licence you gave to Lorimer and Gray –

Tonight you will still see your team lose, but still lose only to cheats.

You still will not see Gray beat Hennessey; you still will not see his one- two with Bremner; you still will not see Gray’s low shot into the goal. Nor will you see Gray’s crossfield pass to Bremner; Bremner’s centre for Lorimer to score. You still will not see Gray beat Webster and his pass to Lorimer; you still will not see Lorimer change feet to shoot and score the third:

‘Leeds have a nasty habit of reminding Derby how far they have yet to go.’

You will still not sleep. You’ll still sit and you’ll stare at that league table and those fixtures to come, again and again and again, but all you will see is the look on Revie’s face as that whistle went and the teams left that field, over and over and over –

The look on that face, the handshake and the smile, and that field –

That field of loss. That field of hate. That field of blood –

You will still not sleep, but you still will dream –

Of that field of war.

* * *

‘Brian here,’ I tell Lillian. ‘Is Pete there?’

‘Brian, it’s two o’clock in the morning,’ she says. ‘He’s asleep.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I tell her. ‘I haven’t got a watch.’

‘Go to bed, Brian,’ she says. ‘I’ll get him to call you first thing.’

‘But I really need to speak to him now.’

‘Has something happened, love?’ she asks. ‘Are you all right?’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘Where are you?’ she asks.

‘I’m in the sodding Dragonara Hotel in Leeds.’

‘What are you doing there?’ she asks. ‘Get yourself back home.’

‘I can’t; I’ve got to take Billy bloody Bremner down to London in the morning.’

‘But you’ll be able to go straight home after that, won’t you?’

‘No,’ I tell her. ‘We’re travelling to Stoke tomorrow night.’

‘But you’ll be home on Sunday, won’t you?’ she says. ‘It’s not long.’

‘Six nights a week I used to be round your house,’ I tell her. ‘Remember that? And you two just married; you must have been sick of the sight of me.’

‘No, Brian,’ she says. ‘We never were.’

‘Pete and I’d always be going off somewhere to scout some game in the Northern League and then we’d bring back fish and chips. Do you remember?’

‘Yes, Brian,’ she says. ‘I remember.’

‘Rea’s Ice-cream Parlour?’ I ask her. ‘Remember that place?’

‘Yes, Brian,’ she says again. ‘I remember.’

‘All gone now,’ I tell her. ‘The ice-cream parlours and the coffee bars.’

‘I know, love.’

‘Do you remember when me, you and Pete went to see Saturday Night, Sunday Morning at the pictures? That was a good night, wasn’t it?’

‘You liked that film, didn’t you?’

‘I bloody loved it,’ you tell her. ‘Don’t let the bastards grind you down.’

‘You used to say that all the time.’

‘And what about that time we went to hear Harold Wilson speak? Remember that? One of the clubs in Middlesbrough, it was. Barely fifty bloody folk to hear him and all; the future Prime Minister of Great Britain. Pete’s idea. You remember that?’

‘I remember you going,’ she says. ‘But that was just you and Peter, love.’

‘You know I’d give my right arm for it to be like that again. Just me and him. This bloody lot here, they wouldn’t stand a chance if it was me and him, the two of us. There’d be no more ganging up, no more whispering, no more conspiring behind my back. Me and Pete, we’d bloody sort them out, show them who was fucking boss.’

‘I’ll go and wake