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

‘I’m sure,’ you tell him –

‘Then so am I,’ says Mike Bamber. ‘Then so am I.’

* * *

Under the stands, the weight on my back. Through the doors, the weight on my back. Round the corner, the weight on my back. Up the stairs, the weight on my back. Down the corridor, that weight on my back. That weight on my back as I push open the doors to the club dining room. The soup is oxtail again. The meat lamb. The vegetables soft and the wine cheap. Their suits are dark and their ties still black –

‘Of course he doesn’t want to bloody go,’ states Bolton. ‘This is Leeds United!’

‘But I need players who are thinking about winning cups and medals,’ I tell him. ‘He’s more bothered about his bloody testimonial than Leeds United.’

‘He’s played here fourteen years,’ says Cussins. ‘He deserves his testimonial.’

‘I never said he didn’t,’ I tell him, tell them all. ‘I played the game, you didn’t; none of you, not one of you. I got injured; you didn’t. I was finished, washed up, and we’d have bloody starved without my testimonial money. I’m just saying that half your fucking team are on testimonials this season –’

‘That’s an exaggeration,’ says Woodward. ‘It’s hardly half the team.’

‘Cooper, Giles, Paul Madeley, Paul Reaney, Norman Hunter and Peter Lorimer,’ I tell him, tell them all. ‘That’s six bloody first-team players on fucking testimonials this season and that makes it very, very difficult to sell any of them.’

‘So stop trying to bloody sell buggers then!’ shouts Bolton. ‘They’re Champions for Chrissakes, man. League bloody Champions.’

‘Not this bloody season, they’re not,’ I tell him, tell them all. ‘They’re old men.’

‘That’s bloody rubbish,’ says Woodward. ‘Absolute bloody rubbish.’

‘Is that right?’ I ask him, ask them all. ‘You fucking watching them play, are you?’

‘Some might say it’s not the players,’ says Bolton.

‘Is that right?’ I ask him, ask them all again. ‘So who might some say it is then?’

‘Some might say it’s their manager,’ states Bolton. ‘Some might say it’s thee.’

* * *

You should be letting go. You should be walking away. But you can’t let go. You can’t walk away. You should be thinking about Brighton, thinking about the future. But you just can’t stop thinking about Derby, about the past –

You just can’t stop thinking and thinking and thinking about it, about them:

Derby County only drew with Sunderland. Back from a penalty. Back from a goal down. Back to draw 1–1. But 1–1 is not good enough. Not against Sunderland. The Derby players, your players, know that. The fans and the press know that. Longson and the board know that and, most of all, Dave Mackay knows that –

Mackay then lost the bloody toss. The Derby players, your players, are furious, fucking furious about that too. Now Derby must play Sunderland at Roker Park again tomorrow night; the winner of that match will then be at home to Liverpool in the next round of the League Cup. But, but, but …

If Derby County lose tomorrow night. If Derby County fail to reach the next round of the League Cup. If Derby County are not at home to Liverpool …

If Derby lose this game, if Mackay loses this game, then who knows?

The players don’t want to play for him. The players don’t want to work for him. They want to play for you, your players. They want to work for you –

Not Dave Mackay. Not Sam Longson –

They want you, your players –

They want Cloughie; risen, immaculate and back.

So there’s no way you can let go yet. No way you can walk away now. No way you can stop thinking and thinking and thinking about it, about them. But, but, but …

You’ve done the deal with Brighton. You’ve shaken hands with Bamber. Tomorrow morning you’ll be flying from East Midlands airport down to Sussex –

But you hate bloody flying. You really hate fucking flying. Now you’ve found your excuse and got your cold feet; your address book out and your phone in your hands –

You call Phillip Whitehead, your MP. You ask him what you should do –

‘Everyone wants you back,’ he tells you. ‘But it’s your career.’

You call Brian Moore. You ask him what you should do –

‘Everyone at ITV wants you here full-time,’ he tells you. ‘The offer’s always open and you know that. But, in your heart of hearts, you’re a football manager. I know that, you know that. So I can’t tell you what to do, Brian, except to follow your heart.’

You call Mike Keeling. You ask him what you should do –

‘No one wants you to go,’ he tells you. ‘But, at the end of day, it’s up to you.’

You call John Shaw. You ask him what to bloody do –

‘The people of Derby want you to stay,’ he tells you. ‘The people of Derby, the supporters of Derby County Football Club, they all want you to stay and they’ll fight until you are back where you belong, and you know that I and everyone else involved in the Protest Movement will do everything we can to make that happen. Everything we can. But, in the meantime, you’ve also got a wife and three kids to feed …’

You can’t let go. You can’t walk away. Because you can’t stop thinking about it. You just can’t stop thinking and thinking and thinking about them –

You put down the phone. You ask your wife what you should do –

‘Talk to Peter,’ she tells you. ‘Tell him your doubts. See what he says.’

You have a drink. Then another. Then you