The Damned Utd

* * *

Under skies. Under bloated skies. Under bloated grey skies. Under bloated grey Yorkshire skies, I walk from the taxi straight up the banking and onto the training ground.

Six days into the new season and the team already look like they need a week off. But there are no weeks off, no days off now, not now; Birmingham at home on Saturday, the day after tomorrow. Queen’s Park Rangers again, three days after that. No days off –

‘They can get here on bloody time,’ says Syd. ‘Why can’t he?’

‘It sets a bad example,’ adds Maurice. ‘A very bad example, in fact.’

Jimmy jogs up to me. Jimmy in his Admiral fucking tracksuit. And Jimmy says, ‘I think they’ve done enough for today, Boss.’

I shake my head. I shout, ‘Let’s start again. From the fucking top.’

From the fucking top with the running and the lifting, the passing and the shooting, the free kicks and the corners, the goal kicks and the throw-ins, the set plays to plan and the walls to build, attack against defence, defence against attack, attacks to sharpen and defences to stiffen, stiffen and make resolute under these skies. These bloated skies. These bloated grey skies. These bloated grey Yorkshire fucking skies.

* * *

Soon there will be European nights again, soon there will be sunshine again. No one walks away from Europe. No one walks away from sunshine. Taylor showed up in the snow at Anfield and you drew 1–1 on a miserable, miserable day.

‘It’s this bloody weather, Pete,’ you told him. ‘We’re warm weather creatures, you and me. Marjorca, that’s us. We ought to fucking migrate each bloody winter.’

‘And the board will help us bloody pack,’ said Pete. ‘Way things are going.’

But then things, these things that are always going, these things start to look up; Derby go on a little run, a little run to keep you warm in these long, dark winter months. You beat West Brom in the league and then draw against Tottenham in the cup, going on to win the replay 5–3 after extra time –

Back from 3–1 down with just twelve minutes to go; back with a Roger Davies hat-trick; back to beat QPR 4–2 in the fifth round.

But all good things, these good things, must come to an end and you go and get Leeds United in the quarter-finals of the FA Cup. This means Derby have to play Leeds twice in two weeks, once in the league and once in the cup, and these are not just any two weeks; you have to play Leeds United four days before you meet Spartak Trnava in the quarter-finals of the European Cup; then you have to play Leeds again, four days before the return leg against Trnava. If you were a superstitious man, you’d think Lady Luck had deserted you, turned her back against you –

But you’re not a superstitious man and you never will be.

If you were a religious man, you’d think God had deserted you, turned his back against you. But you’re not a religious man and never will be. You don’t believe in God –

You believe in football; in the repetition of football; the repetition within each game, within each season, within the history of each club, the history of the game –

That is what you believe in; that and Brian Howard Clough.

* * *

The sharp knife and loaded gun. The long rope. The post-mortem. The press conference: Not since Leeds United returned to the First Division in 1964 have Leeds United lost their opening two games of the season –

‘We are not gloomy,’ I tell the press. ‘We will just have to work harder.’

Not since Leeds United returned to the First Division in 1964 have Leeds United lost their opening two games of the season –

‘Certain players have been badly missed,’ I tell them.

Not since Leeds United returned to the First Division in 1964 have Leeds United lost their opening two games of the season –

‘I am delighted that Clarke and Hunter will be available for Saturday.’

Not since Leeds United returned to the First Division in 1964 have Leeds United lost their opening two games of the season –

‘We are not gloomy,’ I tell the press again. ‘We will just have to work harder.’

Not since Leeds United returned to the First Division in 1964 have Leeds United lost their opening two games of the season; the door and the exit. The corners and the corridors. The office. The long rope. The sharp knife. The loaded gun. The door. The exit.

* * *

The winter is almost gone and Europe is here again. But Europe will be gone too, if you do not win tonight. For these have not been a happy two weeks –

For the first time in Europe, you were drawn to play the first leg away, away in a small, provincial Czechoslovakian town that’s home to Spartak Trnava:

‘The Derby County of Czechoslovakia,’ you joked, but it wasn’t funny and you were lucky to lose only 1–0 to the Czech Champions, the Czech Champions four years out of the last five, seven years unbeaten at home in their own league and boasting 164 caps between them –

‘That wasn’t luck,’ you told the press. ‘That was our keeper, Colin Boulton.’

Four days before that game Don Revie and Leeds United had beaten you 3–2 at home in your own league; your much vaunted, talented and expensive Derby defence conceding two silly penalties and a daft goal in the course of being kicked, punched, grappled and wrestled off the park, Mick McManus-style –

‘You should be in the book for that, Cherry,’ you shouted from the side –

Tackle after tackle, foul after bloody foul, crime after fucking crime –

‘McQueen!’ you screamed. ‘You’re not fit to play in this bloody league.’

You were incensed, you were bloody outraged, you were fucking furious because you know exactly why Leeds played like this, why Revie told Leeds to play like this, because Derby won the league and they didn’t, you did and he didn’t –

Daylight Robbery. Daylight Robbery. Daylight Robbery –

Because you’re in the European Cup and he’s not –

‘You’re an animal,’ you shouted and screamed. ‘A fucking animal, Hunter!’

You did not shake Revie’s hand after the game and you never will again.

Then, four days before this game tonight, ten days after you lost in Czechoslovakia, Leeds beat you again, beat you 1–0 at home in the FA Cup –

Fields of loss. Fields of hate. Fields of blood. Fields of war –

Fuck Lorimer. Fuck Revie. Fuck Leeds. Fuck them all.

There was no Hinton for these last three games. Tonight there’s Hinton:

21 March 1973; Derby County vs Spartak Trnava –

The quarter-finals of the European Cup, second leg; nigh on 36,500 here at the Baseball Ground to see it –

See it. Hear it. Smell it. Taste it. Bloody touch and fucking feel it –

The tension. The tension. The tension. The tension –

Two goals or you’re out of Europe, your hopes and your dreams buried, and while Alan Hinton might well be back for you, bloody Kuna is back for them –

The tension. The tension. The tension –

The fresh lines. The new ball –

The tension. The tension –

Two goals or out –

The tension, then the whistle and it starts, starts at long, long fucking last and you hope, you even pray, for an early goal, but it doesn’t come and you know now Trnava are the best team you’ve played this year, better than bloody Benfica, better than fucking Leeds; they hold the ball, they keep it close and they don’t let go, second after second, minute after minute, they don’t let go, don’t let go until Adamec does and Gemmill’s there, there to take it away, away with a pass to McGovern, who centres it for Hector to hit low into that beautiful, beautiful fucking net and bring the scores level on aggregate, level at 1–1; level at 1–1 for two minutes, just two minutes until Hinton crosses and Davies is knocked to the ground in the box and the whole area freezes expecting the whistle, expecting the penalty, the whole area but for Hector, who leans back into that bouncing bloody ball to volley that fucking thing home from fifteen yards and from then, from then on you can only look at your watch, the only place you can stand to look –