There’s a knock on the door. It’s John Reynolds, the groundsman –
‘There you go, gaffer,’ he says and hands me my watch. ‘Look what turned up.’
‘Fucking hell! Where did you find that?’ I ask him.
‘It was over behind the goals on the practice pitch,’ says John. ‘Bit mucky like, but I’ve cleaned it up for you. Nice bloody watch that; still going and all.’
‘You’re a saint,’ I tell him and take out a new bottle of Martell from my drawer. ‘And you’ll have a seat and a drink with me, won’t you?’
‘Go on then, gaffer,’ he smiles. ‘Purely for medicinal reasons, of course.’
‘Summer colds,’ I laugh. ‘They’re the bloody worst, aren’t they?’
John Reynolds and I raise our glasses and have our drink, and then John asks, ‘Can I say something to you, gaffer?’
‘You can say what you like to me, John,’ I tell him. ‘I owe you that.’
‘Well, I know you want to make changes here,’ he says. ‘That one or two players and one or two of the staff might be on their way out but, if I were you, I wouldn’t rush it, gaffer. Don’t be in too much of a hurry, especially not here. They don’t take easily to change, so just take your time. Rome weren’t built in a day, as they say.’
I stare at John Reynolds. Then I stand up, stick out my hand and I tell him, ‘You’re a good man, John Reynolds. A good man and an excellent bloody groundsman. Thank you for your advice, for your friendship and for your kindness, sir.’
* * *
You never want to leave this place. You never want this feeling to finish –
The applause of the Benfica fans. The respect of the Benfica fans –
These nights you dream of, nights you were born and live for –
Drink and drink and drink and drink for.
In the restaurant, at the celebration, you stand up to speak, stand up and shout: ‘Hey, Toddy! I don’t like you and I don’t like your fucking missus!’
There’s no laughter, no applause and no respect now; just a cough here, embarrassed and muffled. Tomorrow you will telephone Mrs Todd. Tomorrow you will apologize and send her flowers. Tomorrow you will try to explain.
But tonight Longson hides his face while Kirkland taps his glass with his knife, slowly, slowly, slowly. Tap, tap, tap. Slowly, slowly, slowly –
‘I am going to bury you,’ Jack Kirkland whispers, his hate fresh upon his breath. ‘Bury you,’ he promises you –
You want to go home. You want to lock your door. You want to pull your curtains. Your fingers in your ears, your fingers in your ears –
You never want to leave your house again.
* * *
I am scared. I am afraid. Frightened and shitting bricks. I wish I had my two boys here, here to hold my hand, to give it a squeeze. But they’re back home in Derby, tucked up in their beds under their Derby County posters and their Derby County scarves, not here with me tonight at Elland Road, here with me tonight in front of 32,000 Yorkshiremen. Tonight it’s just me on my Jack bloody Jones in front of 32,000 fucking Yorkshiremen –
Tetley Bittermen, says the sign. Join ’em …
I take a deep breath and I swallow, I swallow and walk down that tunnel, walk down that tunnel and out into that stadium, out into that stadium to make my very, very long, long way to that bench but, as I make my way to that bench, tonight these 32,000 Yorkshiremen in Elland Road, tonight they rise as one to their feet and applaud me as I make my way to that bench in the dug-out, and I wave to the crowd and bow ever so slightly as I make my way, I wave and bow and then take my seat on that bench in the dug-out, take my seat on that bench as the manager of Leeds United; Leeds United, the Champions of England –
Tetley Bittermen, says the sign. Join ’em.
‘Welcome to Elland Road, Mr Clough,’ shouts a man from behind the dug-out. ‘Best of luck,’ shouts another, and Jimmy Gordon, Jimmy in his brand-new Leeds United Admiral tracksuit with his bloody name upon his back, he gives me a little nudge and a little wink, and I glance at my watch, my watch that is back on my wrist, and for the first time, the first time in a very long time, I think that maybe, just maybe this might work out.
* * *
The whispers. The whispers. The whispers. The whispers. The whispers. The way things are going, you’ve got to keep winning games, keep winning games otherwise that lot in the boardroom will slaughter you –
Slaughter you. Bury you.
So that’s what you do to Arsenal; you slaughter them, you bury them, 5–0; McGovern (21), Hinton (37), McFarland (40), Hector (42) and Davies (47).
‘I do not accept that was our best performance of the season,’ you tell the press and the cameras, the columns and the panels. ‘That was at Goodison on August the twenty-ninth when we lost 1–0 and you lot bloody wrote us off; slaughtered and buried us. That’s when the doubts crept in, the doubts and the fears that we could play that well and still lose. Well, today those doubts and those fears have been banished.’
It’s over three years since you hit Tottenham for five, three years since you and Dave Mackay slaughtered and buried Bill Nicholson and Tottenham.
Arsenal don’t leave the visitors’ dressing room for a full forty-five minutes after the match, locked in –
Slaughtered and buried –
Just like you know you will be, you will be if you slip, if you lose –
If you ever take your bloody eye off that fucking ball.
* * *
Fifteen minutes into the game, Harvey moves to get his body behind the ball, to take it on the first bounce, but the ball slips through and under him, into the net –
Two games. Two defeats. No goals.
‘Bad luck, lads,’ I tell the dressing room. ‘Didn’t deserve to lose, not tonight. There are things to work on tomorrow, things to take care of before Birmingham; but we can sort it out on the training pitch and get it right on Saturday. There’s no need to panic and there’s no need to blame yourselves. Just a matter of confidence, that’s all.’
‘Aye-aye-aye,’ mumbles Syd Owen from the back of the room. ‘Never heard such a load of fucking rubbish.’
I bite my bloody tongue, bite it till it fucking bleeds, and I go outside, outside to the corridor, to the press and the cameras, the vultures and the hyenas, and I tell them alclass="underline"
‘We did not play with confidence.’
‘Aye-aye-aye. Never heard such a load of fucking rubbish.’
‘We badly missed Bremner, Clarke and Hunter.’
‘Aye-aye-aye. Never heard such a load of fucking rubbish.’
‘I was very sorry for David Harvey, but it is essential he forgets it.’
‘Aye-aye-aye. Never heard such a load of fucking rubbish.’
‘We created enough chances, but we could not put them in.’
‘Aye-aye-aye. Never heard such a load of fucking rubbish.’
‘It is a bad start by anybody’s standards, particularly by Leeds’s standards.’
‘Aye-aye-aye. Never heard such a load of fucking rubbish.’
‘But we will be here in the morning, working like hell.’
‘Aye-aye-aye. Never heard such a load of fucking rubbish.’
‘This is all you can do. Goodnight, gentlemen.’
Then I walk away, away from the press and the cameras, the vultures and the hyenas, round the corner and down the corridor to the office, the telephone and the bottle: