by David Peace
But the flag stays down and the goal goes in.
At half-time your team, your boys, protest. You tell them to shut their bloody mouths. You tell them to listen and fucking learn:
‘They are ruthless,’ you tell them. ‘They fight for every ball. They brush off every challenge. Now I want to see your courage and I want to see them defend.’
Leeds don’t get a sniff for the entire second half. Not a single one. But you don’t get a goal either. Not a single one –
In the tunnel, Revie shakes your hand. Revie says, ‘You were unlucky.’
‘There’s no such thing as luck,’ you tell him. ‘No such thing, Don.’
* * *
The Irishman puts the top back on his new pen, puts his pen back in his jacket pocket. The club secretary picks up the new contract, puts the contract in his drawer.
‘Pleasure doing business with you, gentlemen,’ says the Irishman.
‘Likewise,’ I tell him.
He laughs. ‘You wanted me gone and you still do and you might yet get your wish. But you’re also smart enough to know you need me now, now with all the injuries and the suspensions you’ve got, the start of the season upon you. You’ll be bloody glad of me come Saturday, sure enough.’
‘Sure enough,’ I tell him.
‘Be bleeding ironic though if Mr Nicholson agrees terms with us before then, now wouldn’t it, Mr Clough?’
‘You read my mind,’ I tell him.
* * *
You still have not won again, not won again since 4 October; already there are the doubters and the gloaters, on the terraces and behind the dug-out, outside the dressing room and in the corridors, the boardrooms and the bars, the ones who were right all along, who knew it wouldn’t last, just a flash in the pan, another false dawn, all this talk of a Golden Age, a Second Coming at Derby County –
But however loud the voices in the stands and in the streets, in the newsrooms and the boardrooms, they are never louder than the ones inside your head –
The voices that say the same, the voices that say you’ve shot it –
‘You’re all washed up, Brian. You’re finished, Clough.’
These are the voices you hear morning, noon and night; every morning, every noon and every night. These are the voices you must silence; the voices you must deafen:
‘I will win, I will not lose. I will win, I will not lose…’
On 1 November 1969 Bill Shankly’s Liverpool come to the Baseball Ground:
Lawrence. Lawler. Strong. Smith. Yeats. Hughes. Callaghan. Hunt. Graham. St. John and Thompson; their names are a poem to you, their manager a poet –
‘Win. Win. Win. Win …’
But you have been too long at this master’s knee; now the pupil wants to give the teacher a lesson, needs to:
‘Win. Win. Win …’
The first goal comes from McGovern after quarter of an hour; from the right-hand edge of the penalty area, he hits the ball with the outside of his right foot, curving it around a mass of players and inside the far post.
The second goal comes forty-seven seconds later; Hector takes the ball off Strong’s toes, races into the box and puts it between Lawrence and the near post.
‘Win. Win …’
For the third, McGovern turns the ball inside to Durban so he can deliver the pass that sends Hinton clear, who, just as the challenge comes in, chips the ball towards the far post for Hector to bury.
On sixty-eight minutes, Hector turns again, leaving Strong behind again, and passes to the overlapping Durban, who sends a low ball across the goalmouth that O’Hare back-heels into the net. But up goes the linesman’s flag, followed by 40,000 cries of injustice, but not from your team, not from your boys –
Your boys just get on with it and, one minute later, Hector is through again and on for a hat-trick but, with only Lawrence to beat, he rolls it to O’Hare, who puts it into an empty net.
‘I will win!’
‘It is no disgrace to be beaten by Derby,’ says Shankly. ‘When they play well, they’ll beat anybody.’
You will beat Liverpool again at Anfield in February, but there’s only one game on your mind, only one voice in your head from now to then –
The return of Leeds United and Don Revie.
* * *
‘Any discipline that might be taken will be taken in private.’
‘So you are saying there will be some disciplinary action against Bremner?’
‘I’m not saying yes, I’m not saying no,’ I tell them. ‘I’m simply saying that anything that might be done will be done in private.’
‘But, but, but …’ they stammer, stammer, stammer –
I already know their faces, already know their names and their papers; what time they have to have their copy in by and what time their presses roll; what they like to drink, when they like to drink it and how much they like to drink of it. And they already know just what to ask me and what not; what to write and what not; because I practically write their sodding copy for them; do their bleeding jobs for them –
And they bloody love me for it. Fucking love me –
Every time I open my mouth.
* * *
These should still be the happiest days, weeks and months of your life, but behind the scenes, upstairs and down, there is always doubt, always fear and always trouble –
Always trouble, round every corner, down every corridor.
In November 1969 the club secretary resigns, unable to cope with the demands of the First Division, unable to cope with the demands of the chairman and the board, the manager and the assistant manager.
The manager and the assistant manager –
Mistakes have been made. Books not balanced. Contracts not signed –
On promotion to the First Division, you and Peter were offered new contracts, new contracts that included no incentive clauses, new contracts that remain unsigned –
You have taken Derby County to the First Division –
You have been named as Manager of the Month –
‘But I am still interested in any job going,’ you tell the press, and the press know there is a vacancy at Barcelona. The press know Barcelona are interested in you. The press put two and two together. The press write another headline:
Clough and Taylor in Barcelona talks.
You confirm nothing. You deny nothing.
Coventry City are interested in you. Birmingham City are interested in you –
‘We want a dynamic young manager,’ says the Birmingham chairman. ‘And Brian Clough obviously comes into that category.’
Birmingham offer you three times your Derby salary. Peter has already packed his bags and bought his ticket to Birmingham. Or Coventry. Or Barcelona –
But there is always doubt. There is always fear. Always Uncle Sam –
Sam Longson reads the headlines. Sam Longson shits his pants. Sam Longson locks you and Peter in the boardroom –
Sam Longson promises you whatever you want –
You and Peter sign the new contracts. Different contracts.
‘The understanding, kindness, honesty and trust you have shown Peter and I since we came to Derby makes it impossible for us to leave the club,’ you tell Uncle Sam. ‘And I am looking forward to many years of good relationship and success (not forgetting the hard work) with you.’
Uncle Sam pulls you closer. Tighter. His wings around you –
‘I will do anything necessary to keep you here,’ he tells the son he never had.
‘Then get bloody rid of that board; Bradley, Payne, Turner and Bob Kirkland. Those men are against us, against our ways, stood in our way.’
Uncle Sam nods his head. Uncle Sam stuffs banknotes into your pockets –
The board give you a new contract. The board give you a pay rise (and about bloody time too). Not Peter. But Peter doesn’t know that. Doesn’t know that you now get an annual salary of £15,000; double that of the Archbishop of Canterbury –
‘I can only say t
hat the Derby ground is full, but the churches are empty.’
* * *
Under the stand, through the doors. I’m walking round that bloody corner again, down that fucking corridor again, towards Syd Owen and Maurice Lindley. They walk past me without a word. Then Syd says behind my back. Under his breath. Behind his hand. Through gritted teeth, Syd says something that sounds like, ‘So long as they were kept, the daughters of the house would have no suitors for their hands … ‘
I stop. I turn round. ‘Pardon?’
‘Your phone is ringing.’
‘What? When?’
‘Just now,’ Syd says. ‘Just as we were walking past the office. Maurice was all for nipping in and answering it for you, and he would have as well, but I told him that you told us not to, didn’t you?’
‘Still might be ringing though,’ says Maurice Lindley. ‘If you hurry, you might just catch it.’
Round the corner, down the corridor, I walk towards the office. I can hear the phone still ringing. Ringing and ringing and ringing. I get out my keys. I unlock the door. I get to the desk –
I pick up the phone –
The line is dead.
* * *
You can’t sleep a wink. You have been waiting for this day since 25 October last year. You’ve been waiting for this fixture all season –
Easter Monday; 30 March 1970; Derby County vs Leeds United.
You have not lost since QPR in February. Not since you signed Terry Hennessey from Nottingham Forest for £100,000. You are right up there now, a top-five finish on the cards. Fairs Cup place. You are doing well –
But not as well as Leeds United. Not as well as Don Revie, OBE –
Leeds United are second in the league, in the semi-finals of the European Cup against Celtic, in the FA Cup final against Chelsea and on the verge of an unprecedented treble –
Leeds, Leeds, Leeds; marching on together:
David Harvey, Nigel Davey, Paul Peterson, Jimmy Lumsden, David Kennedy, Terry Yorath, Chris Galvin, Mick Bates, Rod Belfitt, Terry Hibbitt, Albert Johanneson –
It is their reserve side and the 41,000 fans jeer as the Leeds team is announced; the Baseball Ground has been cheated and they want their money back, and you’d bloody well give it to them if only you fucking could –
You are seething, fuming and looking for Revie. You find him in a huddle with Les Cocker, Lindley and Owen and you let him have it, both barrels:
‘Listen to that fucking crowd,’ you tell him. ‘They came here to see the League Champions. Paid their hard-earned brass to see the fucking Champions. Not Leeds United fucking reserves. You’ve cheated these folk. The people of Derby. My team.’
‘Take it up with the FA,’ says Revie. ‘Day after bloody tomorrow, we play Celtic in the semi-final of the European Cup and if you were in my shoes you’d do the same.’
‘Never,’ you tell him. ‘Never.’
You field your strongest side. You easily beat them 4–1, but the crowd continues to jeer for the full ninety minutes. They even slow-hand-clap your Derby –
And you don’t bloody blame them. You can’t and you won’t.
The FA will fine Leeds and Revie £5,000 for this, for failing to field their strongest side, and your hate will be as crisp and complete as Leeds United’s season will be barren and bare, finishing second to Everton, losing to Celtic in the semi-finals of the European Cup and to Chelsea in an FA Cup final replay –
‘But if you were me,’ says Revie in the tunnel, ‘you’d have done the same.’
You ignore his hand and tell him, promise him, ‘I’ll never be you, Don.’
Two months later, Revie is named Manager of the Year –
For the second successive season.
* * *
The door is locked and the chair against it; a cig in my mouth and the phone in my hand:
‘Mr Nicholson?’ I ask. ‘Brian Clough here.’
‘Afternoon, Mr Clough,’ says Bill Nicholson. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Well, it’s about John Giles –’
‘What about him?’
‘Well, about him coming to you –’
‘I hope you’re joking with me? After Saturday?’
‘Saturday?’
‘I was at Wembley, Mr Clough. Giles was worse than Bremner. Ten times worse. He should never have stayed on that pitch.’
‘That’s your final word, is it?’
‘You can take it as that, aye.’
I hang up. I get out my address book. I pick up the phone –
‘Brian Clough here,’ I tell Huddersfield. ‘Can I speak to Bobby Collins please?’
* * *
There is always doubt, always fear, and always trouble –
Round every corner. Down every corridor. Behind every door. In every drawer.
Four days after you beat Leeds United reserves, four days after that win guarantees you a place in the Fairs Cup, a place in Europe, the joint League and FA commission into the bookkeeping at Derby County makes its report; the Derby County books have been inspected by the joint League and FA commission because there have been administrative blunders. Big bloody blunders. Huge fucking blunders –
Tickets oversold. Books unbalanced. Contracts unsigned. Illegal payments made.
The joint League and FA commission find Derby County guilty of eight charges of gross negligence in the administration of the club; of failing to lodge the contracts of three players with the League; of varying the contracted payments to players during the season; of paying £2,000 to Dave Mackay Limited for programme articles; and of paying lodging allowances to your apprentices instead of their landladies –
Every technicality. Every little thing –
‘The offences enumerated in the charges were admitted by the representatives of the club. The commission, therefore, finds the club guilty of the offences with which they have been charged and, as a result of the investigation of the charges, the commission has reached the conclusion that there has been gross negligence in the administration of the club, for which the members of the board must accept some responsibility. Taking the offences as a whole, the commission has imposed a fine of £10,000 and has further decided that the club be prohibited from playing in European competition during the season 1970/71 and also from playing any friendly matches against a club under the jurisdiction of any other National Association prior to April 30, 1971.’
The FA and the League have thrown the book at you – with a vengeance – and have imposed the heaviest penalties in the history of English football: a £10,000 fine and a one-year ban from European football and the loss of £100,000 in European revenue –
‘A terrible injustice,’ says the Mayor of Derby.
But this is personal, you know it is; because of the things you’ve written –
Because of the things you’ve said, in the papers and on the telly:
‘Trouble has blown up because I’ve been so open in my criticism of Alan Hardaker, the League Secretary. It seems you cannot say that he has too much power.’
But every cloud has its silver lining and this is just the ammunition Longson needs:
‘For some time now,’ Sam Longson tells the local press and the national press, ‘I have not agreed with the policy and approach of some of the directors. In fact, I asked the chairman to resign last November and told him we wanted a stronger man. He talks of a united board, but the truth of the matter is that three of them, Mr Paine, Mr Turner and Mr Kirkland, have not spoken to me for about six months.’
Longson asks for the resignations of Paine, Turner and Kirkland –
Payne, Turner and Kirkland ask for the resignations of Longson, Peter and you –
You phone Birmingham City. Birmingham City rub their hands –
The very first Keep Clough at Derby campaign begins –
There can only be one winner –
Harry Paine resigns. Ken Turner resigns. Bob Kirkland resigns:
‘When I became a director of Derby C
ounty Football Club,’ writes Bob Kirkland, ‘I assumed certain responsibilities. To discharge these responsibilities, it is necessary to be kept informed of all major decisions within the club. I regret to say that I feel that I have not been kept informed and particularly with regard to the matters which gave rise to the recent inquiry by the Football Association and the Football League. I must make it quite clear that these matters only came to my knowledge at the conclusion of the investigation. I felt it my duty to remain on the board so as not to prejudice the result of the inquiry, but in view of the deep divisions on the board which have now been revealed, I feel that I must now tender my immediate resignation as a director.’
There’s only one winner; only ever one winner –
Brian Howard Clough.
* * *
‘You’re home early,’ says my wife. ‘Not like you. Are you feeling all right?’
‘You want me to go back out? Find a pub?’ I ask her.
‘Don’t be daft,’ she says. ‘It’s a nice surprise.’
‘Make the most of it,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll be away a bit this week.’
‘You’ve got enough shirts, have you?’
‘I’ll get by,’ I tell her.
She walks over to me. She puts her arms around my neck and asks, ‘Will you?’
‘I’ll have to,’ I tell her. ‘Not much choice, have I?’
‘Never say that,’ she says. ‘You’ve always got us. You know that, don’t you?’
‘What do you think keeps me sane?’
‘I don’t know,’ she smiles. ‘Thought you said it was football that kept you sane.’
‘Not any more,’ I tell her. ‘Not any more.’
Day Fourteen
Cassius Clay becomes Muhammad Ali. The Quarrymen become the Beatles. Lesley Hornby becomes Twiggy and George Best becomes Georgie Best –
Superstar.
It is a new world. It is a new England –
The colour supplements. The colour televisions. The brand-new papers. The Sun. The columns and the panels. The columns and the panels that need opinions. Minds with opinions. Mouths with opinions –
A mind and a mouth like yours, open wide.
