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

dirty and panting again, dirty and panting in their purple tracksuits with their names on their backs. There are still no smiles. There is still no laughter. Just the stains on their knees, the stains on their arses. I have given up on smiles here. I have given up on laughter now.

Maurice and Sydney stand to one side, heads together, crooked and hunched, whispering and muttering, whispering and muttering, whispering and muttering.

Jimmy stands in the middle, doing a bit of this, doing a bit of that, a joke here and a joke there. But no one is smiling. No one is laughing. No one is even listening –

Except the press and the fans. Behind the fence. Through the wire –

Their eyes are on me now, inspecting and examining, watching and observing me, staring and staring and staring at me –

No more zombies, I’m thinking. No more fucking zombies, Brian.

I walk up to Maurice and Sydney. I take the whistle off Sydney. I take the bibs off Maurice and I get some five-a-sides going; me on one side, Clarkey on another.

I know they all want to tackle me, to tackle me hard, to bring me down, down to the ground, back down to earth, to see me fall flat on my face or my arse again –

Bruised and aching, aching and hurting, hurting and smarting …

But I read the move and I collect the pass, collect the pass with my back to the goal, back to the goal and I shield the ball from McQueen, shield the ball from McQueen and I hold it, hold it and I turn, turn and I hit it, hit it on the volley, on the volley straight into the top corner, into the top corner and past Stewart’s hand, past Stewart’s hand as it flails around, as it flails around and the ball hits the back of the net –

The back of the fucking net, the fucking net –

But there’s no applause. No adoration. No love here –

No smiles here. No laughter here.

‘Two-hundred and fifty-one goals,’ I tell them again. ‘Beat that!’

But they’re already walking off the training pitch, back to the dressing room, taking off their bibs and their tracksuit tops, throwing them to the ground –

Dirty and panting, panting and plotting, plotting and scheming.

The press and the fans. Behind the fence. Through the wire –

Their eyes on me, inspecting and examining me, watching and observing me, staring and staring and staring at me, but only when I look away –

I feel like death. I feel like death. I feel like death.

John Giles walks over to me. John Giles tells me, ‘I’ll be meeting up with the Eire squad on Sunday and then I’ll be going to go see the Spurs.’

‘Are you asking me or telling me, Irishman?’

‘Telling you, I suppose.’

‘Fingers crossed then,’ I tell him. ‘Fingers crossed.’

‘And there was me thinking you weren’t a superstitious man,’ he laughs.

* * *

It takes you a moment to remember. To remember why the phone is ringing. To remember why the doorbell is ringing. To remember why the press and the television, the pens and the microphones, the cameras and the lights, are all camped outside your house –

To remember why your three children are hiding in their rooms, under their beds with their fingers in their ears, their eyes closed –

It takes you that moment to remember you are no longer the manager of the Derby County Football Club, that you are out of a job and out of work –

But then you remember you’re not out of work. You do still have a job. You still have television. Still have ITV. England vs Poland. The World Cup qualifier –

The match they must win. Tonight. The biggest story since 1966 –

Bigger even than the resignation of Brian bloody Clough.

* * *

Bones. Muscles. Broken bones. Torn muscles. Flesh and meat. Carcasses and cadavers. The Friday lunchtime press conference; there should be no post-mortems here, only prophecies; no excuses, only optimism; confidence, not doubt; hope and never fear:

‘I only wish I had a fit Duncan McKenzie, a fit Paul Madeley, a fit Michael Jones, a fit Eddie Gray and an available Billy Bremner to take on Manchester City.’

‘Would you also like an available Hartford?’ they ask me; ask because Manchester City’s Asa Hartford was involved in an on-off transfer with Leeds back in 1971, a transfer Don pulled out of on medical grounds –

A hole in the heart; Hartford, not Revie.

‘He’ll be wanting to show off against us,’ I tell them. ‘Lots of players want to.’

But they don’t smile. They don’t laugh. They just look down at their notebooks, their spiral-bound notebooks, and they flick and click the tops of their ballpoint pens, flick and click, flick and click –

In and out. In and out. In and out –

Something in their eyes again –

Carcasses, cadavers and death.

* * *

The day after your resignation from Derby, the England team are out on the pitch, warming up in the Wembley night, waving to their families and friends, posing for the official photographs, steadying their nerves, their stomachs and their bowels.

You walk down from the gantry, across the pitch, that hallowed turf, to the centre circle, to Roy McFarland, to David Nish, to Colin Todd, to Kevin Hector, and you stick out your hand and tell them, ‘Don’t worry, lads. It’ll all work out.’

And they shake your hand four times but look at you in confusion and in despair, doubt and fear, with worry in their wide eyes, worry on their open mouths, for the things they’ve seen, the things they’ve heard –

The things they feel but do not understand.

But then you’re