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

Just four days ago you went to Maine Road and Manchester City hammered you; off-sides, own goals and fucking Marsh again. You conceded five against Leeds. Three against Manchester United. Now four against City –

‘And they didn’t even play that well,’ Pete said. ‘They’re not that good.’

‘Just like you then,’ you snapped back. ‘Because that’s all you ever say.’

The doubt. The fear. The trouble. The tension.

You went round later. You knocked on his door. You shouted through his letterbox. You waited until he put down his Nazi history books and finally answered his front door. Then you kissed and made up, and now here you are, side by side again, in Lisbon –

In the Estadio da Luz with 75,000 Benfica fans; with the walls and walls of bodies, the walls and walls of noise; the waves and waves of red shirts, the waves and waves of red shirts from the first whistle to the last –

But your team, your boys, they stand firm and Boulton has the game of his life, saving time after time from Eusebio, from Baptista, from Jordao, until half-time comes and the Eagles of Lisbon begin to fall to the ground, time against them now –

The Mighty Rams of Derby against them now –

No fear. No doubt. No trouble. No tension.

There are whistles at the end, but not for you, not for Derby County, whistles and cushions hurled onto the pitch of the Estadio da Luz, but not for you and Derby County –

In the last twelve seasons of European football, only Ajax of Amsterdam have ever stopped Eusebio and the Eagles of Lisbon from scoring, only Ajax and now Derby –

For you and Derby there is applause. For you and Derby there is respect –

For you and Derby there are the quarter-finals of the European Cup.

* * *

The team bus brings us back to Elland Road for half five and there are already folk about, queuing for their tickets and buying their programmes, eating their burgers and drinking their Bovril. I hide in the office, down the corridor and round the corner, through the doors and under the stand. I hide and I listen to the feet above me, climbing to their seats and taking their places, sharpening their knives and poisoning their darts, clearing their throats and beginning to chant, chant, chant; chant, chant, chant –

Leeds, Leeds, Leeds. Leeds, Leeds, Leeds. Leeds, Leeds, Leeds –

I put my head on the desk. My fingers in my ears. I close my eyes. In that office. Down that corridor. Round that corner. Through those doors. Under that stand and under their feet, feet, feet –

There’s a knock on the door. It’s John Reynolds, the groundsman –

‘There you go, gaffer,’ he says and hands me my watch. ‘Look what turned up.’

‘Fucking hell! Where did you find that?’ I ask him.

‘It was over behind the goals on the practice pitch,’ says John. ‘Bit mucky like, but I’ve cleaned it up for you. Nice bloody watch that; still going and all.’

‘You’re a saint,’ I tell him and take out a new bottle of Martell from my drawer. ‘And you’ll have a seat and a drink with me, won’t you?’

‘Go on then, gaffer,’ he smiles. ‘Purely for medicinal reasons, of course.’

‘Summer colds,’ I laugh. ‘They’re the bloody worst, aren’t they?’

John Reynolds and I raise our glasses and have our drink, and then John asks, ‘Can I say something to you, gaffer?’

‘You can say what you like to me, John,’ I tell him. ‘I owe you that.’

‘Well, I know you want to make changes here,’ he says. ‘That one or two players and one or two of the staff might be on their way out but, if I were you, I wouldn’t rush it, gaffer. Don’t be in too much of a hurry, especially not here. They don’t take easily to change, so just take your time. Rome weren’t built in a day, as they say.’

I stare at John Reynolds. Then I stand up, stick out my hand and I tell him, ‘You’re a good man, John Reynolds. A good man and an excellent bloody groundsman. Thank you for your advice, for your friendship and for your kindness, sir.’

* * *

You never want to leave this place. You never want this feeling to finish –

The applause of the Benfica fans. The respect of the Benfica fans –

These nights you dream of, nights you were born and live for –

Drink and drink and drink and drink for.

In the restaurant, at the celebration, you stand up to speak, stand up and shout: ‘Hey, Toddy! I don’t like you and I don’t like your fucking missus!’

There’s no laughter, no applause and no respect now; just a cough here, embarrassed and muffled. Tomorrow you will telephone Mrs Todd. Tomorrow you will apologize and send her flowers. Tomorrow you will try to explain.

But tonight Longson hides his face while Kirkland taps his glass with his knife, slowly, slowly, slowly. Tap, tap, tap. Slowly, slowly, slowly –

‘I am going to bury you,’ Jack Kirkland whispers, his hate fresh upon his breath. ‘Bury you,’ he promises you –

You want to go home. You want to lock your door. You want to pull your curtains. Your fingers in your ears, your fingers in your ears –

You never want to leave your house again.

* * *

I am scared. I am afraid. Frightened and shitting bricks. I wish I had my two boys here, here to hold my hand, to give it a squeeze. But they’re back home in Derby, tucked up in their beds under their Derby County posters and their Derby County scarves, not here with me tonight