‘We have Billy Bremner,’ says Bolton. ‘We don’t need John McGovern.’
‘You might be right,’ I tell him. ‘You might be wrong. But you pay me to be right every Saturday and I’m telling you, you need new players because some of the lot you’ve got have bloody shot it.’
‘They’re the League Champions,’ says Woodward.
‘Last season,’ I tell him. ‘Last season.’
‘Look,’ says Cussins. ‘The first priority is the contracts of the players we have. The ones we want to hang on to. There are still eight to be signed.’
‘These contracts?’ I ask them. ‘Why weren’t they done before I got here?’
‘It was difficult,’ says Cussins. ‘What with the World Cup and the close season.’
‘Rubbish,’ laughs Percy Woodward. ‘Bloody rubbish. Revie was too scared. Didn’t want to break up the family.’
‘Not a very happy family now,’ I tell them. ‘Some very worried men out there.’
‘What about our friend John Giles?’
‘Not my friend,’ I tell them.
‘But have you …’
‘Have I done your dirty work?’ I laugh. ‘Is that what you want to know?’
‘Brian, Brian,’ says Cussins. ‘It’s not like that. John Giles has been a loyal servant for this club and an important part of our success. But …’
‘But you’d like me to help you get shot of him?’
They don’t say yes. They don’t say no –
They dare not.
Twenty years ago, this lot would have been selecting the side then sacking the manager when they lost. Things haven’t changed; they never blame themselves for anything bad and they never say thank you for anything good –
Directors.
* * *
Peter shuts his little black book. Peter puts out his fag. Peter says, ‘I know just the player. Just the club.’
This time you and Peter go and do your shopping at Nottingham Forest –
Pete spends half his bloody life here. Never out the fucking place. Hometown boy; even played twice as an amateur for Forest’s first team against Notts County, a hometown derby in a wartime league.
Pete has two names at the top of his Nottingham shopping list:
Alan Hinton and Terry Hennessey.
Forest won’t sell Hennessey. Not yet. But Forest don’t seem too sorry to see the back of Hinton; dropped by England, over the hill, say the press, he’s being given the bird by his own supporters, week in, week out –
Gladys, they shout. Where’s your fucking handbag?
You couldn’t give a shit; Peter says he’s got pace and a left foot that can shoot and cross with equal accuracy, and that he can do both under pressure –
That’s all you need to know, all you need to hear.
You tell Hinton to come to the Baseball Ground for a chat and then you walk him round and round and round the cinder track as night comes down and the lights go on –
‘You’re destined to play for us,’ you tell him. ‘So don’t miss your chance.’
It’s well after midnight when you track down the Forest chairman to the Bridgford Hotel. He wants £30,000 for Hinton. You lie and tell him Hinton wants a grand for himself. The Forest chairman agrees to £29,000 and you’re laughing as you hang up; it’s the principle of the thing –
Never give the bastards what they want.
You pay £29,000 and Forest boast to your directors about how they’ve done you, how they’ve off-loaded a passenger –
What colour’s your fucking handbag, Gladys?
You couldn’t give a fuck; four years from now, then you’ll see who’s laughing.
But three months later you’re still winning and then losing, winning and then losing, and you’re still receiving hate mail –
Sidney Bradley, the vice-chairman, summons you and Peter to the carpet of his office. Sidney Bradley says, ‘I’m not happy with the way you two are operating.’
You’ve only been in the place five bloody minutes and already they want fucking rid. Shot of you both. You go to Sam Longson and you tell him, ‘You are the only chairman I can work with. You are the saviour of Derby County.’
Uncle Sam pulls you close. Tight. Uncle Sam puts his wings around you –
Then Uncle Sam kisses you better. Now Uncle Sam will protect you –
The son he never had.
* * *
The Monday press conference. The post-mortem. The long rope –
‘I don’t have any disputes on my hands and I don’t think there will be any problems because I’ve never had any trouble over players’ contracts in the past, but I still feel that they should be signed, sealed and delivered long before a new manager takes over and certainly before 5 August. The last thing I wanted to do when I arrived here was to start by having to talk contracts with men I’d never met.’
‘What about reports that Mr Revie is taking legal advice over the remarks you made on last Friday’s Calendar programme?’
‘Listen to me,’ I tell him. ‘Did you see that programme?’
The gentleman of the press nods.
‘And?’
The gentleman stammers. The man stutters and shits himself.
‘Anyone who saw that programme,’ I tell him and the whole fucking lot of them, ‘can make up their own minds and, as far as I’m concerned, Revie can have fifty transcripts of the broadcast if he wants them. Did you get all that down?’
The gentleman of the press nods.
‘Rest of you lot?’
The rest of the gentlemen of the press nod too.
‘You don’t want me to say it again. Bit more slowly?’
The gentlemen of the press shake their heads now.
‘Good work,’ I tell them. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, my wife’s got my tea on.’
* * *
You’ve gone from fifth to thirteenth and seen all hope of promotion slide away with you. The only good news is your cup form. You beat your old club Hartlepools, then Birmingham City, Lincoln City and Darlington to reach the semi-finals of the League Cup, where you’ll face Leeds United, home and away. Leeds United who, coincidentally, you’ve also been drawn against in the third round of the FA Cup. So, between 17 January and 7 February 1968, you’ll be playing Leeds United three times –
Leeds United and Don Revie, an inspiration to you and Peter –
Leeds United and Don Revie who went from the Second to the First Division as Champions in 1964 to become runners-up in the First Division and the FA Cup in 1965, First Division runners-up again in 1966 and runners-up in the Inter-Cities Fairs Cup final of 1967 –
United and County, sleeping giants in one-club towns; Leeds steeped in rugby and Derby steeped in cricket; sleeping giants awoken by men who were among the finest, most skilful and most neglected players of their day –
Don Revie was also born in Middlesbrough. Just like you –
Peas in a pod, you and Don. Peas in a pod –
Born just seven years and some streets apart.
The club and the whole town is excited at the prospect of these games –
Just like you. Unable to sleep. Unable to eat. Back at the ground at the crack of dawn to sweep the corridors, to clean the baths and polish the pegs –