The Damned Utd David Peace (most inspirational books .TXT) 📖

is how it works, you and Peter, this is the chemistry, the magic –

Observe. Expose. Replace –

This is Peter’s talent; spotting players. This is Peter’s hard work, how he earns his brass; travelling down to Devon on a Saturday in August to watch Torquay United vs Tranmere Rovers; to watch a centre-forward vs a centre- half; to watch Jim Fryatt vs Roy McFarland; to sneak out of the ground to find a phone box to ring you up – at the club, in a pub, at your home – and say, ‘I’ve found one.’

Because that’s all it takes, three little words, and off you set –

Derby to Liverpool. Liverpool to Tranmere.

The directors’ box at Prenton Park is overflowing with managers and scouts. They all ask you, ‘Who you after then, Brian?’

The Tranmere manager knows the moment he sees you both. Dave Russell says, ‘Don’t beat around the bush now, lads, it’s my young centre-half that’s brought you all the way up here, isn’t it, lads?’

You both nod. You say, ‘You can’t kid a kidder.’

‘Well then, you’ll both be happy to know that he’s available for the right price. How much you got to spend, lads?’

You cough. You take out your handkerchief. You tell him,‘£9,000.’

‘Fuck off,’ he laughs –

This is how it begins. How it always begins –

When you get to £20,000 you ask Dave Russell if you can use his phone, ‘Because this is getting so bloody high that I’ll need sanction from the chairman.’

You go over to his desk. You pick up the phone. You dial an empty office. You plead down the line to the ringing bell, ‘Please, Mr Longson.£24,000. That’s what they’re asking …’

‘They might want more … That’s your limit, I understand … I’ll tell him then. £24,000 and not a penny more…’

You hang up on the ringing phone. You look over at Dave Russell –

You know Dave wants more. You know you could go as high as £50,000 –

But he doesn’t and he never will.

You tell Dave, ‘You heard the chairman; £24,000. Not a penny more.’

Dave Russell sighs. Dave Russell shrugs his shoulders –

You shake hands with Dave. But then Dave says –

‘If he wants to go to Derby, that is.’

‘Course he bloody will,’ you tell him. ‘Don’t you fucking worry about that.’

It’s gone midnight as you drive through the Mersey Tunnel. You park outside a small terraced house and bang on its door. But Roy’s not here. His father tells you to try such-and-such a club where he sometimes goes. Roy’s not there either. You drive back to the small terraced house and bang on its door again. Roy’s here now but Roy’s in his bed. You get his father to bring him downstairs in his red-and-white striped pyjamas.

‘These gentlemen are from Derby County,’ Dave Russell tells young sleepyhead. ‘I have agreed a fee with them, Roy. So, if you want to go – and you don’t have to – but, if you want to go, you can become a Derby County player.’

But he doesn’t want to play for Derby. He wants to play for Liverpool –

For Bill Shankly.

Roy has spent his childhood on the Kop; his adolescence waiting for the call –

But Bill’s not called. Peter Taylor and Brian Howard Clough have.

‘I don’t care how long you take or how many questions you want to ask. We are going to create one of the best teams in England and I’m not going anywhere until you decide you want to be a part of that team.’

Roy’s father remembers you; remembers one of the goals you scored –

‘It was a beauty,’ he tells his son. ‘Even the Kop chanted his name and, if Brian Clough wants you for Derby County this much, I think you should go.’

You take out a contract. You take out a pen. You put it in Roy’s hand –

Peter has the eyes and the ears, but you have the stomach and the balls –

Not Peter and not Bill Shankly –

Brian Howard Clough.

You get back home with the dawn. You ring the Evening Telegraph –

You get the home phone number of the Sports Editor. You get him out of bed –

‘I’ve got a scoop for you,’ you tell him. ‘I’ve just signed Roy McFarland.’

‘Who the fuck is Roy McFarland?’ he asks. ‘And what bloody time is it?’

* * *

No one says good morning. No one says hello. I stand at the edge of the training pitch and watch Jimmy put them through their paces –

Running. Running. Running.

I call Frank Gray over. I tell him, ‘Need to have a chat about your contract.’

‘Been nice knowing you,’ shouts one of them –

Running. Running. Running.

But no one laughs. No one says another word.

* * *

You have bought Roy McFarland and you have bought John O’Hare from Sunderland. You have got rid of some of the deadwood and you win the opening game of the 1967–68 season against a Charlton side managed by Bob Stokoe –

‘Come on,’ Stokoe once laughed at you, laughed at you in the mud, in the mud and on your knees, on your knees that were shattered and shot, fucked and finished for ever –

Bob Stokoe who told the referee, ‘He’s fucking codding is Clough.’

You win that game but lose the next. Win the next and then the next –

Lose the one after that but win the next and the next again –

This is how it goes, this life of yours –

Win one, lose one. Win the next –

The performances improve and the attendances increase, but if the performances deteriorate then the gates go with them –

Then you’ll be next, you know that –

You’ll be next, fucked and finished for ever.

* * *

I don’t knock and they don’t offer me