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

‘No more transfusions then,’ Kirkland laughs. ‘That’s your lot.’

‘Fuck off,’ shouts Peter. ‘Fuck off!’

‘No chance,’ Kirkland winks. ‘Be you two gone before me, I promise you.’

Day Twenty-one

My car is still at Elland Road, so Jimmy Gordon comes to the house for me at half eight and then we go to pick up McGovern and O’Hare from the Midland.

‘Be able to run a bloody bus service soon,’ laughs Jimmy. ‘The Derby Express.’

‘Fucking hope so,’ I tell him. ‘The sooner the bloody better and all.’

* * *

Four days after losing to bottom-placed West Bromwich Albion, on a day when you, the Champions of England, are still sixteenth in the league table, despite having beaten Liverpool but still having lost four out of eight games, winning just twice and scoring only six goals, on this day you take your European bow. Not in the Inter-Cities Fairs Cup; not in the Cup Winners’ Cup; but in the Holy Grail itself, the European Cup.

Only Jock Stein and Celtic, Busby and United have drunk from this cup; this cup that you dream of, that would make the nightmares cease –

The doubts and the fears; give what you want above all else –

Because this is what you want and this is what you’ll get.

It is 13 September 1972 and you are at home to Željezničar Sarajevo of Yugoslavia in the preliminary round; two legs, home and away, winner takes all.

‘Forget West Bromwich fucking Albion. Forget Everton. Forget Norwich and forget Chelsea,’ you tell the Derby dressing room. ‘Anybody can play against West Bromwich Albion. Against Everton, Norwich and bloody Chelsea –

‘But this is the European Cup. The European fucking Cup. Only one English team a year plays for this cup. Tonight we’re that team –

‘Not Liverpool. Not Arsenal. Not Manchester United. Not Leeds United –

‘Derby fucking County are out there, on that pitch and in the history books –

‘So you go out there, onto that pitch, into those history books, and you fucking enjoy yourselves because, if you don’t, it might never bloody happen to you again.’

* * *

Under the stand and through the doors and round the corner, I am walking down and down and down that corridor, past Syd Owen and past Maurice Lindley, when Syd says behind my back and under his breath, behind his hand and through gritted teeth, he says something that sounds like, ‘The fucking hell did he buy them for?’

I stop in my tracks. I turn back and I ask, ‘You what?’

‘Pair of reserves,’ agrees Maurice. ‘Reserves.’

‘They couldn’t even get a fucking game at Derby bloody County,’ says Syd.

‘They’re internationals,’ I tell them. ‘Both with Championship medals.’

‘Championship medals?’ asks Maurice. ‘When was that then?’

‘Nineteen seventy-bloody-two,’ I tell him. ‘And you fucking know it.’

‘They didn’t really win them then, did they?’ says Syd. ‘Not really.’

‘So what did they bloody do then?’ I ask him. ‘Fucking find them?’

‘Yes, you could say that,’ smiles Maurice.

‘In a way,’ laughs Syd.

‘They’ll show you their medals,’ I tell them.

‘But medals won’t do them much good tomorrow,’ says Maurice.

‘You what?’ I ask him. ‘What you talking about now?’

‘They can’t play,’ says Syd. ‘No chance.’

‘Course they fucking can,’ I tell him. ‘Why the fuck wouldn’t they?’

‘Because they’re not really fit, are they?’ says Maurice. ‘Not really.’

‘They should fucking fit right in here then, shouldn’t they?’ I tell them and turn my back to go, go down that corridor, round that corner.

‘There’s one other thing,’ says Syd behind my back and under his breath, behind his hand and through gritted teeth. ‘Training –’

I stop. I turn. I ask, ‘What about it?’

‘It’s a bit of a shambles,’ says Maurice.

‘How is it a bit of a shambles?’

‘There’s a game tomorrow, you know?’ says Syd. ‘Against QPR –’

‘I have seen the bloody fixture list, Sydney,’ I laugh. ‘Don’t worry.’

‘But we do worry,’ says Maurice. ‘Neither you nor Jimmy Gordon have said or done a single thing about how QPR will play. Not a thing –’

‘Don would’ve had the bloody reserves playing in the Rangers way,’ says Syd. ‘Had the first team playing against them; looking out for this, looking out for that.’

‘Bollocks,’ I tell them. ‘They’re professional fucking footballers; they don’t need all that bullshit. Just stop Bowles, that’s all you fucking need to know about QPR.’

‘That’s madness,’ says Maurice. ‘Madness…’

‘Well, I think you are mad,’ Syd tells me. ‘Fucking crackers. I really do.’

‘Well, while we’re at it then,’ I tell them both, ‘there’s one or two things I want to say to the pair of you. First off, I don’t have to justify myself to either of you. Not how and when I conduct training. Not who I buy or who I pick to play. Second, if you don’t like that, or you don’t like me, think I’m mad, think I’m crackers, then – as far as I’m concerned – you can sling your fucking hooks, pair of you –

‘And bugger off!’ I shout. ‘Now are we clear?’

‘Are we clear?’ I ask them. ‘Are we?’

Syd Owen just looks at me. Syd Owen just stares at me. Then Syd Owen says, ‘You’re right, Mr Clough. You don’t have to justify yourself or your actions to Maurice or me. Not to us, you don’t. But, come tomorrow night, there’ll be 40,000 folk here, 40,000 folk whom you will have to justify yourself to. Make no mistake.’

‘Not forgetting the eleven men you send out on that park,’ adds Maurice Lindley. ‘Not forgetting them.’

* * *

You beat Željezničar Sarajevo 2–0 in the first leg at the Baseball Ground, under your new, pylon-mounted floodlights; not only did you beat them, you tore their morale to shreds, such was your dominance, the magnificence of your display,