‘They just want to play well —’
‘Fucking shut up about them, will you?’ I tell him. ‘What about me? No one understands my position. No one understands the mess Revie left them in and put me in; no contracts, over-the-hill the lot of them. Team had shot it and he knew it. No chance in hell they can win the European Cup. That’s why he fucked off and took the England job. You think he’d have walked out on a team that he thought was going to win the European Cup? The fucking European Cup? That man? Never in a month of bloody Sundays. They’ve fucking shot it; he knew it and I know it. Half them bloody players fucking know it and all; know it in their boots; know it in their hearts. But now it’s my job to tell them, tell them what they already bloody know but don’t want to fucking hear.’
He’s a good lad is Duncan. Duncan won’t argue. Duncan will nod.
‘Thank Christ I got you,’ I tell him. ‘Now bugger off.’
Duncan stands up. Duncan smiles. Duncan says, ‘Goodnight, Boss.’
‘Fuck off,’ I tell him. ‘Before I give you a bloody kiss goodnight.’
But Duncan doesn’t move. ‘Boss, can I ask you one question?’
‘If you give us another fag.’
Duncan hands me one, then asks, ‘What did you think of my goal?’
‘It was good,’ I tell him and Duncan smiles –
A right broad Cheshire Cat of a grin –
Just like my eldest. Just like my youngest –
‘Almost bloody good enough to make up for the other hundred fucking sitters you missed. Now get off to bloody bed, you’ve got fucking training tomorrow morning!’
* * *
It is the early hours of Saturday 9 January 1971. You are home to Wolves this afternoon. You are lying awake next to the wife –
You cannot sleep. You cannot dream –
You thought things had been on the up again; the draws with Liverpool and Manchester City, the wins over Blackpool and Forest. But then you lost at home to West Ham and away at Stoke, drawing 4–4 with Manchester United at home on Boxing Day –
4–4 when you’d been leading 2–0 at half-time; you blame Les bloody Green for that. Blame fucking Pete; it was Peter who brought him from Burton Albion with him; Taylor who’s kept defending him, paying off his gambling debts, fending off the paternity suits, lending him money and keeping him in the side when he’s cost you games.
You hear the phone ringing. You get out of bed. You go downstairs –
‘You won’t see me today,’ says Taylor. ‘I’ve not slept a bloody wink. I feel like fucking death. I think I’ve got cancer.’
‘Be at the ground in half an hour,’ you tell him.
‘It’s no good,’ he says. ‘I’ve had it.’
‘I want you there not later than nine,’ you tell him and hang up –
I feel like death. I feel like death. I feel like death.
You get out your address book and the phone book and you start to make the calls; to call in favours, to trade on your fame; to pull strings, to get what you want –
The best possible care for Peter.
You get the X-ray department of your local hospital to open on their weekend. You get the best doctor in Derby to come in, to bring a cancer specialist with him.
You pick Pete up at the ground. You drive him to the hospital –
And then you wait, wait in the corridor, wait and pray for Pete.
‘He’s had a heart attack,’ the doctor says. ‘Probably about eight weeks ago.’
‘The Arsenal game,’ you tell Pete. ‘Remember how you were?’
‘When was that?’ asks the doctor.
‘October thirty-first,’ I tell him. ‘We lost 2–0.’
‘Well, that certainly fits,’ says the doctor. ‘Now you need to drive him home slowly and make sure he stays there.’
‘We’ve got a match against Wolves this afternoon,’ says Pete. ‘I can’t.’
‘You’ve got no match. Nor will you have for several weeks,’ the doctor tells Pete. ‘It’s important that you rest completely.’
You both thank the doctor, the consultant, the specialist and the X-ray department. Then you drive Pete home slowly and see him into his house, making sure he stays put.
Back at the ground, you drop Peter’s old mate Les Green; drop him after 129 consecutive league and cup appearances; drop him and tell him he will never play for Derby County or Brian Clough again –
You play Colin Boulton in goal. You lose 2–1 –
It’s your twelfth defeat of the season.
Day Fifteen
I wake up in my modern luxury hotel bed in my modern luxury hotel room with an old-fashioned fucking hangover and no one but myself to blame –
No one but myself and Harvey, Stewart, Lorimer, the Grays, Bates, Clarke, Hunter, McQueen, Reaney, Yorath, Cherry, Jordan, Giles, Madeley, Bremner, Cooper, Maurice bloody Lindley and Sydney fucking Owen.
Two wins, one draw and one defeat (on penalties) and I should be happy; if this was for real, Leeds would have five points from four games, four games away from home, and I would be happy; not ecstatic, not over-the-moon but not gutted; not sick-as-a-parrot, just happy. But this is not for real –
For real is Saturday. For real is away at Stoke.
I get out of bed. I have a wash and a shave. I get dressed. I go downstairs to see if I can still get any breakfast. I sit in the deserted dining room and stare at my bacon and eggs, my tea and my toast, trying not to throw up again –
This is not real life. Not the life I wanted –
Those days gone. These days here –
Not the life for me.
* * *
January 1971 is a miserable month; Peter’s still at home ill, Sam still on his holidays; no one here but you and Webby, and you’re already regretting appointing Stuart bloody Webb as club fucking secretary; too bloody big for his bloody posh boots is Stuart Webb.
Folk had been coming up to the ground all morning for tickets for the cup tie against Wolves; almost sold the bloody lot; got a carpet of fucking cash, the apprentices stuffing it into plastic bags and wastepaper baskets, anything and anywhere to get it out the way. Now here’s this bloody johnny-come-lately of a secretary, a secretary you fucking appointed, here he bloody is giving you the third fucking degree –
‘The ladies in the office say there were four whole bins full of cash,’ he says. ‘There’s three here; now where’s the fourth?’
‘How the bloody hell should I know?’ you tell him.
‘Well, someone said you took one home at lunchtime, for safe keeping.’
‘Who the fucking hell told you that?’
‘It doesn’t matter who told me,’ he says. ‘What matters is where the cash is.’
‘Exactly,’ you tell him. ‘So stop bloody yapping and start fucking looking!’
‘All right,’ he says. ‘I will and I’ll get the police to help me, shall I?’
‘All right, all right,’ you tell him. ‘It’s at home. I’ll bring it in tomorrow.’
‘Why did you take it home?’
‘Because, one, you won’t give us a key to the bloody safe and, two, it’s safer in my house than in this fucking office and, three, I can do what the bloody hell I want here because I’m the fucking boss — not you. You’re a secretary and you answer to me.’