‘Pleasure doing business with you, gentlemen,’ says the Irishman.
‘Likewise,’ I tell him.
He laughs. ‘You wanted me gone and you still do and you might yet get your wish. But you’re also smart enough to know you need me now, now with all the injuries and the suspensions you’ve got, the start of the season upon you. You’ll be bloody glad of me come Saturday, sure enough.’
‘Sure enough,’ I tell him.
‘Be bleeding ironic though if Mr Nicholson agrees terms with us before then, now wouldn’t it, Mr Clough?’
‘You read my mind,’ I tell him.
* * *
You still have not won again, not won again since 4 October; already there are the doubters and the gloaters, on the terraces and behind the dug-out, outside the dressing room and in the corridors, the boardrooms and the bars, the ones who were right all along, who knew it wouldn’t last, just a flash in the pan, another false dawn, all this talk of a Golden Age, a Second Coming at Derby County –
But however loud the voices in the stands and in the streets, in the newsrooms and the boardrooms, they are never louder than the ones inside your head –
The voices that say the same, the voices that say you’ve shot it –
‘You’re all washed up, Brian. You’re finished, Clough.’
These are the voices you hear morning, noon and night; every morning, every noon and every night. These are the voices you must silence; the voices you must deafen:
‘I will win, I will not lose. I will win, I will not lose…’
On 1 November 1969 Bill Shankly’s Liverpool come to the Baseball Ground:
Lawrence. Lawler. Strong. Smith. Yeats. Hughes. Callaghan. Hunt. Graham. St. John and Thompson; their names are a poem to you, their manager a poet –
‘Win. Win. Win. Win …’
But you have been too long at this master’s knee; now the pupil wants to give the teacher a lesson, needs to:
‘Win. Win. Win …’
The first goal comes from McGovern after quarter of an hour; from the right-hand edge of the penalty area, he hits the ball with the outside of his right foot, curving it around a mass of players and inside the far post.
The second goal comes forty-seven seconds later; Hector takes the ball off Strong’s toes, races into the box and puts it between Lawrence and the near post.
‘Win. Win …’
For the third, McGovern turns the ball inside to Durban so he can deliver the pass that sends Hinton clear, who, just as the challenge comes in, chips the ball towards the far post for Hector to bury.
On sixty-eight minutes, Hector turns again, leaving Strong behind again, and passes to the overlapping Durban, who sends a low ball across the goalmouth that O’Hare back-heels into the net. But up goes the linesman’s flag, followed by 40,000 cries of injustice, but not from your team, not from your boys –
Your boys just get on with it and, one minute later, Hector is through again and on for a hat-trick but, with only Lawrence to beat, he rolls it to O’Hare, who puts it into an empty net.
‘I will win!’
‘It is no disgrace to be beaten by Derby,’ says Shankly. ‘When they play well, they’ll beat anybody.’
You will beat Liverpool again at Anfield in February, but there’s only one game on your mind, only one voice in your head from now to then –
The return of Leeds United and Don Revie.
* * *
‘Any discipline that might be taken will be taken in private.’
‘So you are saying there will be some disciplinary action against Bremner?’
‘I’m not saying yes, I’m not saying no,’ I tell them. ‘I’m simply saying that anything that might be done will be done in private.’
‘But, but, but …’ they stammer, stammer, stammer –
I already know their faces, already know their names and their papers; what time they have to have their copy in by and what time their presses roll; what they like to drink, when they like to drink it and how much they like to drink of it. And they already know just what to ask me and what not; what to write and what not; because I practically write their sodding copy for them; do their bleeding jobs for them –
And they bloody love me for it. Fucking love me –
Every time I open my mouth.
* * *
These should still be the happiest days, weeks and months of your life, but behind the scenes, upstairs and down, there is always doubt, always fear and always trouble –
Always trouble, round every corner, down every corridor.
In November 1969 the club secretary resigns, unable to cope with the demands of the First Division, unable to cope with the demands of the chairman and the board, the manager and the assistant manager.
The manager and the assistant manager –
Mistakes have been made. Books not balanced. Contracts not signed –
On promotion to the First Division, you and Peter were offered new contracts, new contracts that included no incentive clauses, new contracts that remain unsigned –
You have taken Derby County to the First Division –
You have been named as Manager of the Month –
‘But I am still interested in any job going,’ you tell the press, and the press know there is a vacancy at Barcelona. The press know Barcelona are interested in you. The press put two and two together. The press write another headline:
Clough and Taylor in Barcelona talks.
You confirm nothing. You deny nothing.
Coventry City are interested in you. Birmingham City are interested in you –
‘We want a dynamic young manager,’ says the Birmingham chairman. ‘And Brian Clough obviously comes into that category.’
Birmingham offer you three times your Derby salary. Peter has already packed his bags and bought his ticket to Birmingham. Or Coventry. Or Barcelona –
But there is always doubt. There is always fear. Always Uncle Sam –
Sam Longson reads the headlines. Sam Longson shits his pants. Sam Longson locks you and Peter in the boardroom –
Sam Longson promises you whatever you want –
You and Peter sign the new contracts. Different contracts.
‘The understanding, kindness, honesty and trust you have shown Peter and I since we came to Derby makes it impossible for us to leave the club,’ you tell Uncle Sam. ‘And I am looking forward to many years of good relationship and success (not forgetting the hard work) with you.’
Uncle Sam pulls you closer. Tighter. His wings around you –
‘I will do anything necessary to keep you here,’ he tells the son he never had.
‘Then get bloody rid of that board; Bradley, Payne, Turner and Bob Kirkland. Those men are against us, against our ways, stood in our way.’
Uncle Sam nods his head. Uncle Sam stuffs banknotes into your pockets –
The board give you a new contract. The board give you a pay rise (and about bloody time too). Not Peter. But Peter doesn’t know that. Doesn’t know that you now get an annual salary of £15,000; double that of the Archbishop of Canterbury –