The Damned Utd, David Peace [sight word books TXT] 📗

bloody liar, Brian,’ laughs Bamber. ‘It’s been pouring with rain here all morning and your bloody boots are as clean as a fucking whistle.’

‘Well done!’ you tell him. ‘You’ve caught me out already!’

* * *

Under the stands, through the doors, round the corners and down the corridors, here come the feet, here come the voices and here come the knocks –

‘Boss?’ say John McGovern and John O’Hare. ‘You wanted to see us?’

‘Yes,’ I tell them. ‘Sit yourselves down. Drink? Fag?’

John McGovern shakes his head. John O’Hare shakes his head.

‘Right, listen,’ I tell them both. ‘There’s no bloody way I can play you two, because you don’t fucking deserve to take all this off them. I’ve got to leave you both out. You understand why, don’t you? You understand my position?’

John McGovern nods. John O’Hare nods.

I light another cig. I pour another drink –

I offer them the open packet, the bottle –

They shake their heads again. They get up. They go.

* * *

Back to square one; John Shaw went round to Tommy Mason’s digs; John drank cups of tea with Tommy’s landlady; John heard Tommy coming down the street, back from training; Tommy saw John; Tommy couldn’t believe his luck; Tommy thought you wanted him down at Brighton; John broke the bad news, then John broke the good news; Tommy agreed to bring the second team out on strike. But Webby heard the rumours of plots, the rumours of strikes; so then Webby issued threats, threats of writs; so the rumours of plots, the rumours of strikes rescinded –

Back to square one; back to Plan B; Operation Snowball –

You are sat alone in Mike Keeling’s flat. Mike Keeling and John Shaw are across the road with Archie Gemmill and Colin Todd in Gemmill’s flat.

‘When you hear the word “snowball”,’ Shaw and Keeling are telling Gemmill and Todd, ‘you and the rest of the team are to come out on strike.’

‘Did the Boss tell you to tell me that?’ asks Gemmill.

‘No,’ says Keeling. ‘He’s the manager of Brighton now. This is me telling you.’

‘Will you do it?’ asks John Shaw.

‘Only if the Boss tells me.’

Mike Keeling and John Shaw come back across the road to where you are sat alone waiting in Keeling’s flat. Keeling and Shaw tell you what Gemmill said –

‘Send the wee lad over here,’ you tell them.

John Shaw goes back across the road. John Shaw returns with Gemmill –

‘Would you go on strike to get me back?’ you ask him.

‘I would, Boss,’ says Gemmill.

‘Would you do it without my asking?’

‘No,’ he says. ‘I’d only strike if you told me to.’

And so that is the end of Plan B; the end of Operation Snowball.

But that very night, you meet your Derby players and their wives again; you meet them at the Midland Hotel, then invite them back to yours –

To finally admit defeat. To finally say goodbye. But the players won’t admit defeat. The players won’t say goodbye –

They’ll never admit defeat. Never say goodbye –

The Derby players, your players, draft a letter to Dave Mackay:

We, the undersigned players, refuse to report to Derby County Football Club until 1.00 p.m. on Saturday 24 November, for the following reasons:

a) Dissatisfaction with the present management and

b) The refusal to reinstate Mr Brian Clough and Mr Peter Taylor.

Your wife then marches the wives down to a meeting of the Protest Movement, while you open another crate of champagne and light another cigar –

No one is admitting defeat. Never. No one is saying goodbye. Ever –

The results are going against Mackay. The results going your way –

Only John O’Hare will report for training tomorrow morning.

* * *

Down the corridors and round the corners. Up the stairs and down another corridor. In the Yorkshire boardroom, the Yorkshire curtains drawn, I am drinking French brandy, tasting Yorkshire carpet.

‘You’re not selling Cooper and you’re not buying Todd,’ states Bolton again. ‘You’re not selling Harvey and you’re not buying Shilton.’

‘I bloody am.’

‘You’re bloody not,’ shouts Bolton. ‘Not Harvey. Not Cooper. Not for £75,000. Not for £175,000. Not when all you’ve bloody got is four bloody points out of twelve. Not when we’re bloody fourth from the fucking bottom.’

‘Is that what you all think?’ I ask them. ‘The whole bloody lot of you?’

The Yorkshire board stare back at me. The Yorkshire board nod.

‘What about Bob Roberts?’ I ask. ‘Where’s Bob Roberts?’

‘Bob’s on holiday,’ smiles Bolton. ‘Bob can’t help you now.’

On that Yorkshire carpet, behind those Yorkshire curtains, in that Yorkshire boardroom, this is when I see it, see it clearly in his eyes, in his eyes and all their eyes –

This is when the penny finally drop, drop, drops.

* * *

Dave Mackay has had enough; had enough of the rumours; had enough of the threats. He has lost to QPR. He has lost to Ipswich Town. He has lost to Sheffield United. Dave Mackay has yet to win and now he faces Leeds United, Arsenal and then Newcastle –

Dave Mackay has had enough; had enough of the results; had enough of the B.B.C. campaign; had enough of the Derby players, your players –

Dave Mackay has finally hit the roof. Dave Mackay has taken off his gloves now. Read them the bloody riot act. In no uncertain fucking terms:

‘Clough’s not bloody coming back,’ he tells them. ‘If it isn’t me here, it’ll be someone else, but it won’t be Brian fucking Clough. Now if you don’t want to play for me, then you can put in your transfer request and fuck off. If that means the lot of you, so be it; I’ll play the bloody reserves. The choice is yours – stay or fucking go.’

Dave Mackay then takes them