‘Dave,’ Peter says to Mackay, ‘the gaffer’s got a wee bit of a shock for you.’
Mackay is sat in your office with his accountant and his solicitor –
The signed contract is in your drawer. The pen back in his pocket –
There is a smile on your face. A smile on his face –
£250 a week, plus promotion bonuses –
Dave Mackay is on £16,000 a year –
More than George Best and Denis Law. More than Bobby Moore –
You have the most expensive player in the entire Football League –
Now you’re going to turn him into the best.
Peter locks the door. Takes the phone off the hook –
Dave Mackay stops smiling. Dave Mackay asks, ‘What kind of shock?’
‘He wants you to play a different role here,’ says Peter.
‘What kind of role?’
‘The boss wants to play you as a sweeper.’
Dave Mackay looks across the desk at you. Dave says, ‘I can’t do it.’
‘Listen to me. We’ve got this young lad here called Roy McFarland,’ you tell him. ‘He’s the best centre-half in the league. He’s that quick that your pace won’t be needed. So I want you to drop off him. Then you’ll be able to see everything —’
‘Use your loaf and your tongue,’ says Pete. ‘Let the young lads do the running.’
‘They need a captain; someone with experience; someone to tell them when to hold it and when to pass it. That’s you, Dave.’
Dave Mackay is full of doubts. Fears. Dave Mackay is shaking his head.
‘You’ll control the game,’ you tell him. ‘We’ll win the league. We promise you.’
‘Look,’ he says, ‘I cover every blade of grass.’
‘You’re a stone overweight,’ you tell him. ‘And a year older than me.’
‘Every blade of grass,’ says Dave Mackay again. ‘That’s my game.’
‘That was then,’ you tell him. ‘This is now.’
* * *
‘Apart from Leeds United,’ Duncan McKenzie is telling the press in the Victoria Hotel, ‘I also spoke to Spurs and Birmingham City. But when Mr Clough here, whom I had not met before, when he came to see me, I was very flattered and so naturally I chose Leeds United. I think the move will also improve my chances of playing for England.’
‘What do you feel about Leeds paying £250,000 for you?’
‘It’s a rather inflated market in football these days and you just have to live with these high fees. But it’s not a problem for me.’
‘What do you feel about your rivals for a first-team place? The likes of Allan Clarke, Mick Jones and Joe Jordan?’
‘I know I will have to fight hard for my place at Leeds United. I do not expect anything gift-wrapped or on a plate for me. I never have.’
‘Brian?’ they ask me. ‘Anything you want to add?’
‘Duncan is a superb acquisition to the Leeds squad. He is a highly intelligent young man and among the things that have appealed to me about him were his approach to the game and his desire to score goals. I am delighted that he has joined Leeds but, of course, I have known about him for some time. After all, I lived next door to him, as it were, when I was manager at Derby.’
‘Were there any problems?’ they ask. ‘Any problems signing him?’
‘None,’ I tell them. ‘Because when anyone gets the chance to join Leeds United and Brian Clough there are never any problems.’
‘Will he be in the squad for the Villa game tomorrow night?’
‘I doubt that,’ I tell them. ‘He’ll meet the rest of the players tomorrow morning.’
‘Duncan?’ they ask again. ‘How do you feel about meeting the rest of the team and joining the League Champions? Are you nervous?’
‘They have proved themselves to be Britain’s top side for the last five or six years.’
I give him a nudge to his ribs. A wink and tell him, ‘Apart from when I was at Derby County, that is.’
Duncan blinks. Duncan smiles. Duncan says, ‘Apart from Derby County, yes.’
The press take their notes. The press take their photos –
The press finish their drinks and I order some more –
I look at my watch. It’s not there –
‘What time is it, lad?’ I ask McKenzie.
‘Half past eight, Boss,’ he says.
‘Fucking hell,’ I tell him and the bar of the Victoria Hotel. ‘The meal!’
‘What meal, Boss?’ asks McKenzie.
‘None of your bloody business,’ I tell him. ‘You get yourself off home to bed. I’ll see you at half eight tomorrow morning at Elland Road. And Duncan?’
‘Yes, Boss?’
‘You’d better not be fucking late.’
* * *
You take Dave Mackay on a tour of the Baseball Ground. The dressing rooms and the training pitch, off the ring road, with its old railway carriage where the players change for the practice matches. Dave Mackay is thinking about White Hart Lane, about the china cups and the china plates, about the cups he’s won and the medals he owns –
Dave Mackay is full of doubts again. Fears. Dave is shaking his head again –
‘You’ll win the league?’ he asks. ‘You promise me, do you?’
‘Cross our hearts,’ you tell him. ‘Cross our hearts.’
* * *
‘You’re fucking well late,’ hisses Sam Bolton as I take my seat at the table. The top table. The Harewood Rooms. The Queen’s Hotel –
The directors, the players, the coaching staff, the office staff, even the bleeding tea ladies; the entire Leeds United family and their wives and their husbands on their Big Night Out.
‘I’ve lost my watch,’ I tell him. ‘Or someone’s nicked it.’
‘Food’s finished,’ says Sam Bolton. ‘Folk are just waiting for you.’
I stand up. I straighten the cuffs of my shirt and I tell them, ‘I feel like a bloody intruder at a party you have all worked for over the past year. It is a great pity that Don Revie and Les Cocker are not here to enjoy it because they are the men who won the Championship with you. Not me. But it will be my turn next year. Mark my words.’
I sit back down. I light another fag. I pour myself another drink –
I listen for the sound of a pin drop, drop, dropping.
Day Eight
You have bought Dave Mackay to be your sweeper. You have bought Pete’s old mate Les Green from the Southern League to be your keeper. You know that this time the final pieces are in their places. You know that this time the traditional pre-season optimism is well-founded, built on bloody rock, rock, rock –
Rock, rock, rocks like Dave Mackay and Les Green.
You can’t wait for the first game of the new season, can’t fucking wait –
Away at Blackburn Rovers. Roy McFarland scores. But so do they –
You draw 1–1. One point. Away from home. Not bad.
Back at home you play Blackpool. John O’Hare scores. But so do they –
You draw 1–1 again. One point again. But at home. Not good.
You go to Bramall Lane. To Sheffield United. You don’t score. But they do –
You lose 2–0. No points. Bad, bad, bad; you are eighteenth in Division Two. Eighteenth again and on sinking shifting, fucking sand, sand, sands –