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

won umpteen medals and nineteen caps, umpteen medals and seventeen more caps than me; Terry Cooper who fights back those tears and asks me again,‘£75,000?’

I finish my drink. I pour another. I light a fag and I nod.

‘That’s all you think I’m worth? £75,000?’

I finish that drink. I finish that fag and I nod again.

‘What about my testimonial?’ asks Terry Cooper. ‘What about that?’

‘What about it?’

‘I’ve been here fourteen years. I’ve played 327 times for this club,’ says Terry Cooper. ‘I scored the winning goal against Arsenal at Wembley, the winning goal that brought the League Cup here in 1968. First thing we’d ever won.’

‘That was then,’ I tell him. ‘This is 1974.’

Day Thirty-eight

You can’t let go. You can’t walk away. Because no one wants to train for him. No one wants to play for him. They’ve told you that, a hundred times. To your face and down the phone. No one wants to play for him –

They want to play for you. They want to work for you –

Not Dave Mackay. Not Sam Longson –

They want you –

Cloughie.

Today Derby County are travelling up to Roker Park for tonight’s League Cup replay against Sunderland. But no one wants to travel with him. No one wants to play for him. They’ve told you that, a thousand times. –

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

No one wants to play for him. No one wants to work for him –

They want to play for you. They want to work for you –

Not Dave Mackay. Not Sam Longson –

They want you –

Cloughie.

So if Derby County lose this game, if Mackay loses this game, then who knows? Who knows what tomorrow might bring?

Cloughie, risen and immaculate –

Cloughie, back again?

* * *

I am last out of bed this morning, down the stairs and into that new blue Mercedes-Benz. Last through the doors and to work, round the corner and down that corridor, the training finished but the players still here; the players still here and wanting a word; wanting a word because John Giles has been busy this morning –

The Irishman has told the rest of the team why he wants to go to Tottenham; why he wants to leave Leeds. Joe Jordan has been busy too. The Scotsman has told the rest of the team what he thinks about playing in the reserves; what he thinks about being sold to Birmingham City. Terry Yorath has also been busy. The Welshman has told the rest of the team what he thinks about moving to Everton. But Terry Cooper has been busiest of all. The Englishman has told the lot of them that he’s being sold to Forest; told them his testimonial is in doubt. The lot of them worried now. The lot of them scared. The lot of them angry. The lot of them wanting a word –

‘Are you there, Brian? Are you still there? Are you in there or what?’

Under the stands, through the doors, round the corner and down the corridor, I have locked that bloody door and put the fucking chair against it –

Doubt and fear. Doubt and fear. Doubt and fear.

I pour a drink. I light another fag. I cancel the Friday lunchtime press conference. I tell Harry, Ron and Mike that I’ll speak to them by phone:

‘You’re eighteen places below first place …’

‘I know that.’

‘You’re averaging a goal a game …’

‘I know that.’

‘But you’re still playing Jordan and McKenzie in the reserves …’

‘I know that.’

‘Playing O’Hare up front when he’s not even eligible for Europe …’

‘I know that.’

‘Twelve days before Europe …’

‘I know that.’

‘Talking of selling Terry Cooper and Joe Jordan, of Giles going to Tottenham, talking of bringing in other ineligible players …’

‘I know that.’

‘So what are you going to do?’ they ask. ‘What are you going to do, Brian?’

‘I’m going to sweat it out,’ I tell them.

‘What do you think Don Revie would have …’

‘I try not to think about Don Revie,’ I tell them. ‘But it’d have been the same.’

‘But he wouldn’t have bought McKenzie,’ they say. ‘He wouldn’t have bought McGovern or O’Hare. He wouldn’t be trying to sell Cooper, Giles and Jordan …’

‘Don’s gone,’ I tell them. ‘And it’s only winning that can change things now.’

‘And if you don’t win?’ they ask. ‘What changes then? Who changes?’

‘Nothing changes,’ I tell them.

‘Something must,’ they say. ‘Somebody must …’

‘No one changes,’ I insist. ‘Like I say, I’ll sweat it out –’

Out. Out. Out.

* * *

Mike Bamber and Harry Bloom, the Brighton vice-chairman, drive up to Derby. To the Midland Hotel. To meet you and Pete –

But you are not there. Just Pete –

Bill Wainwright, the manager of the Midland, calls you at home, in bed –

‘Give them some beer and sandwiches,’ you tell him, ‘and I’ll be right there.’

But you’re not. You are still two hours late. In your scruffy blue tracksuit –

Peter is furious. Fucking furious. Bamber and Bloom too –

‘You’re well out of order,’ says Mike Bamber. ‘Making us travel all the way up here and then making us wait around for two hours.’

‘Something came up,’ you tell them –

They are still furious, Bamber and Bloom, but they are also still desperate –

‘And I didn’t come all the way up here to fall out with you either,’ says Bamber. ‘So here’s the deal …’

Mike Bamber offers you and Pete £7,000 each just to sign for Brighton, then offers you and Pete an annual salary which is more than you were earning at Derby –

Pete’s already smiling. Peter’s already done his sums. Taylor’s already agreed.

‘But these are First Division wages,’ you tell Bamber –

‘You’re First Division managers,’ says Bamber.

‘But are you sure you can afford it?’

‘Are you sure you’re worth