‘I could not let down the Leeds supporters in the type of quality players they are used to. We were faced with an absolute crisis for Wednesday night with Allan Clarke, Norman Hunter and Billy Bremner under suspension, Terry Yorath recovering from enteritis, Eddie Gray out of action after breaking down in the reserves with thigh trouble, Mick Jones recovering from a knee operation and Frank Gray going down with influenza.
‘So I am absolutely delighted to get McGovern and O’Hare, for the type of players they are and the type of people they are. They are both players of character and skill and they give me cover at a time when injuries and suspensions are a real problem.’
— the press put down their drinks. The press pick up the telephones.
* * *
You did not make an appointment. You did not telephone. You do not wait in line and you do not knock. You just walk straight into the Leicester City boardroom and tell them, ‘I’ve come to buy your full-back.’
Len Shipman, the chairman of Leicester City and the president of the Football League, is not impressed. Shipman says, ‘This is a very important meeting and you can’t just come barging in here, uninvited.’
‘Very good,’ you tell him. ‘I’ll wait outside, but you’ll still be skint.’
You don’t care; don’t give a fuck. You’re going to buy David Nish for £225,000 whether Leicester like it or not; whether Derby like it or not –
‘Derby County — the Biggest Spending Club in the League!’
Derby County do not like it. Sam Longson says, ‘That’s a hell of a lot of money to spend on a full-back with no caps; a full-back who won’t even be eligible for the opening European Cup games. A hell of a lot of money to spend without even asking.’
‘There wasn’t the time,’ you lie. ‘There were other clubs knocking.’
‘Look, Brian, we’ve always done our best to provide cash for Peter and yourself. But where is the consultation, where is the conversation? The respect and the trust?’
‘Like I told you, no time.’
‘But the board firmly believes we could have got Nish for considerably less than the £225,000 you paid for him, had we been consulted.’
‘I telephoned, didn’t I?’
‘From the hotel bar,’ says Longson. ‘Drunk as a lord.’
‘We were celebrating a job well done.’
‘I will bite my tongue,’ he says. ‘And I will swallow my pride as best I can.’
‘You do that then,’ you tell him. ‘You do that, Sam.’
* * *
It is late when I get a taxi from the Midland Hotel back to the house. I make it go past the Baseball Ground on the way, the long way home –
‘Never should have done what they did to you,’ says the driver. ‘Outrageous.’
‘Did it all to ourselves,’ I tell him. ‘It was all bloody self-inflicted, mate.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ says the driver. ‘But it wasn’t right, I do know that.’
‘You’re a good man,’ I tell him.
‘Not right,’ he says again. ‘Everybody knows that. You ask anybody.’
‘Not in Leeds,’ I tell him.
The driver stops the taxi outside the house. He turns round to face me in the back. He asks, ‘What did you go there for, Brian? They don’t deserve you. Not Leeds.’
* * *
Kirkland stops you and Peter in the corridor outside the visitors’ dressing room at Carrow Road; stops you after you’ve just lost to Norwich City on David Nish’s début for Derby County; Derby County, the Champions of England, now sixteenth in the league; Jack Kirkland stops you and says, ‘That’s your lot.’
‘Our bloody what?’ says Peter.
‘Big-money signings like Nish,’ Kirkland says. ‘That’s your lot.’
‘The influx of players must never stop,’ says Peter. ‘It’s a club’s lifeblood.’
‘No more transfusions then,’ Kirkland laughs. ‘That’s your lot.’
‘Fuck off,’ shouts Peter. ‘Fuck off!’
‘No chance,’ Kirkland winks. ‘Be you two gone before me, I promise you.’
Day Twenty-one
My car is still at Elland Road, so Jimmy Gordon comes to the house for me at half eight and then we go to pick up McGovern and O’Hare from the Midland.
‘Be able to run a bloody bus service soon,’ laughs Jimmy. ‘The Derby Express.’
‘Fucking hope so,’ I tell him. ‘The sooner the bloody better and all.’
* * *
Four days after losing to bottom-placed West Bromwich Albion, on a day when you, the Champions of England, are still sixteenth in the league table, despite having beaten Liverpool but still having lost four out of eight games, winning just twice and scoring only six goals, on this day you take your European bow. Not in the Inter-Cities Fairs Cup; not in the Cup Winners’ Cup; but in the Holy Grail itself, the European Cup.
Only Jock Stein and Celtic, Busby and United have drunk from this cup; this cup that you dream of, that would make the nightmares cease –
The doubts and the fears; give what you want above all else –
Because this is what you want and this is what you’ll get.
It is 13 September 1972 and you are at home to željezničar Sarajevo of Yugoslavia in the preliminary round; two legs, home and away, winner takes all.
‘Forget West Bromwich fucking Albion. Forget Everton. Forget Norwich and forget Chelsea,’ you tell the Derby dressing room. ‘Anybody can play against West Bromwich Albion. Against Everton, Norwich and bloody Chelsea –
‘But this is the European Cup. The European fucking Cup. Only one English team a year plays for this cup. Tonight we’re that team –
‘Not Liverpool. Not Arsenal. Not Manchester United. Not Leeds United –
‘Derby fucking County are out there, on that pitch and in the history books –
‘So you go out there, onto that pitch, into those history books, and you fucking enjoy yourselves because, if you don’t, it might never bloody happen to you again.’
* * *
Under the stand and through the doors and round the corner, I am walking down and down and down that corridor, past Syd Owen and past Maurice Lindley, when Syd says behind my back and under his breath, behind his hand and through gritted teeth, he says something that sounds like, ‘The fucking hell did he buy them for?’
I stop in my tracks. I turn back and I ask, ‘You what?’
‘Pair of reserves,’ agrees Maurice. ‘Reserves.’
‘They couldn’t even get a fucking game at Derby bloody County,’ says Syd.
‘They’re internationals,’ I tell them. ‘Both with Championship medals.’
‘Championship medals?’ asks Maurice. ‘When was that then?’
‘Nineteen seventy-bloody-two,’ I tell him. ‘And you fucking know it.’
‘They didn’t really win them then, did they?’ says Syd. ‘Not really.’
‘So what did they bloody do then?’ I ask him. ‘Fucking find them?’
‘Yes, you could say that,’ smiles Maurice.
‘In a way,’ laughs Syd.
‘They’ll show you their medals,’ I tell them.
‘But medals won’t do them much good tomorrow,’ says Maurice.