You attack. You attack. You attack –
‘To go like this, from the macabre to the sublime,’ say the newspapers now, ‘means that Derby County are superbly managed. Nobody has ever doubted the ability of this team, but somebody had to make these players produce their best —’
Roger Davies stabs home a rebound after Kevin Hector’s shot is blocked –
‘That somebody is Brian Clough —’
Roy McFarland exchanges passes with Hector and fires in a well-taken strike –
‘Last Saturday, one had to scratch around to find someone who had played even adequately. Last night, one could fill a book describing the fluid moves and the brilliant individual performances —’
Then Nish, Davies and Gemmill combine before Hector scores the third –
‘Even Don Revie and Leeds United, gazing down with a three-point lead over the Rams, would have been pleased with McGovern, Powell and Gemmill.’
You’ve beaten the League Champions 3–1; beaten Kevin Keegan and Liverpool; beaten Bill Shankly; beaten and outplayed them –
Buried and slaughtered them.
You are on your way back to the top. Right back to where you belong –
It is Wednesday 12 September 1973.
* * *
There are no smiles on the team coach down to London. No smiles and no laughter. Just murmurs and whispers, packs of cards and paperback books. Bremner hasn’t travelled with us; he’ll be making his own way down tomorrow, ready for the FA Disciplinary Committee on Wednesday. I glance back down the aisle at Giles from time to time, the backseat boy, glance back to look for hints of doubt, hints of fear –
But the man doesn’t give a fuck.
Not smiling, not laughing, he plays a hand of cards here, then reads another page of his paperback book, The Exorcist.
There are still no smiles as we check in at the Royal Garden Hotel, Kensington. No smiles and no laughter at the team talk with their timetable for tomorrow. The drinks and then the dinner. No smiles and no laughter. Just murmurs and whispers –
The early night for them and the late, late night for me –
The late, late night with no, no sleep –
No, no sleep but dreams of dogs –
Big black dogs that bark:
‘Clough out!’
Day Twenty-eight
There is no beginning and there is no end. Things just going from bad to worse; worse and worse, week by week, worse and worse, day by day, worse and worse –
Longson wants his seat on the League Management Committee, his place on the plane when England travel abroad, a word or a wave from the Duke of Kent in the Royal Box at Wembley, dinner and drinks with Hardaker and Shipman –
Longson thought you were his passport to these places, his ticket to the top, and so he gave you the keys to his car and his bungalow at Anglesey, a waste-disposal unit for your kitchen and a Burberry suede coat for your back, presents for your kids and the photograph in his wallet of the son he never had –
‘It’s in the eyes, the power Brian has over the players, power he has over me.’
Now Longson wishes he’d never looked into your eyes, into the eyes of the son he never had; the son he no longer wants; this son he no longer speaks to.
So you dictate while Peter types:
‘Due to the complete breakdown of communication, common sense and ability to have a reasonable discussion with the chairman, we find it impossible to work with Mr Longson for the good of Derby County any more. Would you please advise the best way to resolve this urgent problem?’
You both sign the letter, put the letter into an envelope and then the post.
* * *
The sun is not shining, the sky is not blue, and it’s an ugly Tuesday morning in August 1974. The lack of sleep and the lack of dreams. The excess of nightmares and the excess of drink. The hangover and the call home. To the wife and to the kids. To say I love you and I miss you and wish I was there –
There, there, anywhere but here –
The Royal Garden Hotel, Kensington High Street, London.
* * *
There is no response. No answer to your letter. No beginning and no end. Things just getting worse and worse, day by day, worse and worse, hour by hour, worse and worse –
Jack Kirkland and Stuart Webb, the new director and the new secretary, have got their feet right under the table now, your table. Kirkland and Webby have unveiled their plans for a new 50,000-capacity stadium, a 50,000-capacity stadium with a sports and leisure centre attached, a 50,000-capacity stadium that means no more money for transfers, no more money for players and no more money for you.
You would protest to the chairman, but he is not speaking to you. You would protest to the board, but they are not speaking to you; no one is but Jack Kirkland:
‘I’m going to give you some good advice,’ he tells you. ‘No matter how good you are, or how powerful you think you are, the chairman is the boss, then come the directors and the secretary, then come the fans and the players, and finally and last of bloody all comes the fucking manager.’
But you’ve already got your fingers in your ears and your eyes on the clock; hour by hour, minute by minute, things just getting worse and worse –
Fingers in your ears, your eyes on the clock –
There is no beginning. There is no end.
* * *
There is no one in the dining room when I get down there. Breakfast has finished. The waiters clearing away the cups and the plates. The team gone. I sit down and drain the last dregs from a cold pot of tea and scrape a last bit of butter over a cold slice of toast. The waiters watching me from the doors to the kitchen –
‘Have a seat,’ I tell them. ‘Pull up a pew and let’s have a chat.’
But the waiters stay where they are by the door to the kitchen, watching me.
‘I’ll tell you this story, shall I?’ I ask them. ‘Frank Sinatra was once in this bar late at night in Palm Springs, just him and the barman, the barman tidying up and getting ready to shut up shop for the night when, suddenly, the door opens and in runs this woman and says, “Excuse me! Excuse me! Do you have a jukebox in here?” And Frank Sinatra turns around and looks her right in the face and says, “Excuse me? What did you say?” And so the woman says again, “Do they have a jukebox in here?” So Frank looks around the room and then turns back to her and says, “Doesn’t look like it but, if you want, I’ll sing for you.” And the woman says, “No thanks.” And she turns and walks out. So, anyway, the barman is very embarrassed and he says, “She obviously didn’t recognize you, Mr Sinatra.” But Frank just shrugs and says, “Or maybe she did.”’
The waiters walk over to my table by the window. The waiters have found their courage now, their pens and their pieces of paper –
‘He met me, you know,’ I tell them, as I sign my name for them –
‘Who did?’ they ask.
‘Frank Sinatra.’
* * *
You have been told there is no money. You have been told not to buy any new players. You have been told there is no money for transfers. But you lose 1–0 at Coventry and you know you have to buy some new players. You make a telephone call. You drive down to London. To the Churchill Hotel.
‘I hear you are interested in winning a Championship medal?’