The Damned Utd

You pushing and pulling, pushing and pulling her all the way, all the way up the hill, up the hill to the very top, and you’ll never forget those first few weeks at the top, those first few weeks in the First Division, that first Saturday –

Home to Burnley, Burnley who finished mid-table last season. Home, in front of 29,000 supporters. That’ll change with the results. Soon be gates of 40,000 or more; 40,000 or more to watch your team, your boys:

Green, Webster, Robson, Durban, McFarland, Mackay, McGovern, Carlin, O’Hare, Hector and Hinton.

You’re lucky to draw 0–0 and you would’ve lost had it not been for the quick reflexes of your keeper Les Green, who saves a penalty –

But it’s not luck. Not today. Not ever –

You play good methodical football; on the ground, to feet, passed forward –

You are not out of your depth. You have no vertigo here –

Not today; this first Saturday, these first few weeks, this first month: the first Tuesday away at Ipswich and your first win. Down to Coventry the following Saturday for a draw. Home to Ipswich again and another win. More draws against Stoke and Wolves. Then the 2–0 win away at West Brom –

Next comes the trip back up to Hartlepools in the League Cup –

Time has stood still here. Time has not changed here. Not moved fast:

Still more weeds than grass on the pitch at the Victoria Ground, still as even as a cobbled street, still no floodlights until the eightieth minute. But Hartlepools throw themselves into the match and at half-time it’s only 0–0 –

Second half and McFarland and Carlin score, but Hartlepools pull one back before Hinton finishes things off with a penalty –

This is how far you have come. This is who you are now:

You are named England’s Manager of the Month for August. You are given a £50 cheque and a gallon bottle of Scotch whisky:

‘His Derby County team is probably the first side since Ipswich under Alf Ramsey or Leeds under Don Revie to make such an immediate impact on the First Division,’ says the spokesman for the sponsors of the award. ‘Clough has succeeded in restoring genuine enthusiasm to one of the great traditional strongholds of football and in re-establishing the soccer prestige of Derby County and the Midlands.’

You go on to beat Everton 2–1 in front of the Match of the Day cameras. Then Southampton 3–0 and Newcastle 1–0 away, and you are still unbeaten. Next come Tottenham and the 5–0 win in front of a record gate of just under 42,000 –

Easy. Easy. Easy, they chant. Easy. Easy. Easy –

The Tottenham of Jimmy Greaves and Alan Mullery. Of Bill Nicholson –

‘They humiliated us,’ says Bill Nicholson. ‘They are very talented and they don’t just run, they know where to run and when. Dave Mackay? If I wanted all this to happen for anybody it would be him. Six Dave Mackays and you wouldn’t need anybody else. An inspiration to everybody and a credit to the game. One of the all-time greats.’

‘I am happy for the team because everybody played so well,’ says Dave Mackay. ‘Not because it was Spurs we beat but because you can’t be anything but happy when you are in a team which plays like that. It is the best we have played since I came here.’

And you? The Biggest Mouth in Football? What do you say?

‘You don’t need to say anything after that. I was very proud of the lads.’

This is how far you’ve come. This is who you are. This is where you are –

The First Division, the very top. You don’t ever want to leave here.

* * *

The sun never shines at Elland Road. Not on the training ground. Not since I’ve been here. No wonder the kids don’t want to come to work with me. The wife too. Just wind and shadow, mist and rain; dogshit and puddles, purple tracksuits and purple faces –

They’ve had enough of me and I’ve had enough of them –

But they’ve made their beds. Their own fucking beds:

‘I’m only going to say this once,’ I tell them. ‘I don’t care what you were told before, what little tricks and little tactics, little deceits and little cheats your old manager and your old coaches taught you, but there’s no room for them in my team. None whatsoever. So there’ll be no repetition of the kind of things that went on at Wembley on Saturday. None whatsoever. I was embarrassed to be associated with you, with this club, the way some of you — most of you — behaved, and I’ll not have it. Not at this club, not while I’m the manager –

‘So any repetition and you’ll not only be finding the money to pay your own bloody fines, you’ll also be finding another fucking club to play for and all!’

* * *

You bring your team, your boys, to Elland Road on Saturday 25 October 1969 to play the Champions, the First Division Champions.

This will not be the same as last year. Not the same as those three cup defeats. This time you are in the First Division too –

This time will not be the same –

This time he will notice you. This time he will respect you.

But suddenly things have not been going as well for you. Perhaps things had been going too well for you, perhaps you were becoming complacent; you were the last unbeaten side in Division One until you lost to Wednesday, then you drew with Chelsea and Palace and lost at home again to Manchester City. Now Robson is out injured and the rest of the team are only playing thanks to cortisone injections –

Cortisone to mask the pain, to mask the bloody fear, to mask the fucking doubt:

Derby County have not won a game since you beat Manchester United 2–0 –

Beat Manchester United with Charlton, Best and Kidd –

But that was then and this is Leeds, Leeds, Leeds:

Sprake. Reaney. Madeley. Bremner. Charlton. Hunter. Lorimer. Clarke. Jones. Bates and Gray –

Leeds United, First Division Champions, 1968–69.

There are 45,000 here at Elland Road to watch them beat you 2–0 with two trademark Leeds United goals; the first from Clarke as the linesman flags for a foul throw from Bremner; the second three minutes later as Bates plays the ball forward to Clarke, who is at least three or four yards offside –

But the flag stays down and the goal goes in.

At half-time your team, your boys, protest. You tell them to shut their bloody mouths. You tell them to listen and fucking learn:

‘They are ruthless,’ you tell them. ‘They fight for every ball. They brush off every challenge. Now I want to see your courage and I want to see them defend.’

Leeds don’t get a sniff for the entire second half. Not a single one. But you don’t get a goal either. Not a single one –

In the tunnel, Revie shakes your hand. Revie says, ‘You were unlucky.’

‘There’s no such thing as luck,’ you tell him. ‘No such thing, Don.’

* * *

The Irishman puts the top back on his new pen, puts his pen back in his jacket pocket. The club secretary picks up the new contract, puts the contract in his drawer.