Mackay then lost the bloody toss. The Derby players, your players, are furious, fucking furious about that too. Now Derby must play Sunderland at Roker Park again tomorrow night; the winner of that match will then be at home to Liverpool in the next round of the League Cup. But, but, but …
If Derby County lose tomorrow night. If Derby County fail to reach the next round of the League Cup. If Derby County are not at home to Liverpool …
If Derby lose this game, if Mackay loses this game, then who knows?
The players don’t want to play for him. The players don’t want to work for him. They want to play for you, your players. They want to work for you –
Not Dave Mackay. Not Sam Longson –
They want you, your players –
They want Cloughie; risen, immaculate and back.
So there’s no way you can let go yet. No way you can walk away now. No way you can stop thinking and thinking and thinking about it, about them. But, but, but …
You’ve done the deal with Brighton. You’ve shaken hands with Bamber. Tomorrow morning you’ll be flying from East Midlands airport down to Sussex –
But you hate bloody flying. You really hate fucking flying. Now you’ve found your excuse and got your cold feet; your address book out and your phone in your hands –
You call Phillip Whitehead, your MP. You ask him what you should do –
‘Everyone wants you back,’ he tells you. ‘But it’s your career.’
You call Brian Moore. You ask him what you should do –
‘Everyone at ITV wants you here full-time,’ he tells you. ‘The offer’s always open and you know that. But, in your heart of hearts, you’re a football manager. I know that, you know that. So I can’t tell you what to do, Brian, except to follow your heart.’
You call Mike Keeling. You ask him what you should do –
‘No one wants you to go,’ he tells you. ‘But, at the end of day, it’s up to you.’
You call John Shaw. You ask him what to bloody do –
‘The people of Derby want you to stay,’ he tells you. ‘The people of Derby, the supporters of Derby County Football Club, they all want you to stay and they’ll fight until you are back where you belong, and you know that I and everyone else involved in the Protest Movement will do everything we can to make that happen. Everything we can. But, in the meantime, you’ve also got a wife and three kids to feed …’
You can’t let go. You can’t walk away. Because you can’t stop thinking about it. You just can’t stop thinking and thinking and thinking about them –
You put down the phone. You ask your wife what you should do –
‘Talk to Peter,’ she tells you. ‘Tell him your doubts. See what he says.’
You have a drink. Then another. Then you call Peter; Pete busy packing his case, whistling, ‘Oh, I do like to be beside the seaside …’
‘I can’t go through with it,’ you tell him. ‘I just can’t, Pete.’
‘We’ve got a great deal,’ says Peter. ‘A better deal than the one we were on.’
‘It’s not about the money,’ you tell him. ‘I just can’t go through with it.’
‘Then we’re finished,’ he shouts, he screams, he rants and he raves –
‘That’s you and me fucking finished!’
Day Thirty-nine
Saturday’s come again, with Saturday’s stink again; the sweat and the mud, the liniment and the grease; the steam and the soap, the sewer and the shampoo. The doubt and the fear. The doubt and the fear. The doubt and the fear –
‘Some might say it’s their manager. Some might say it’s thee …’
I know no one wants to play for me. To pull on a shirt for me. To put on their boots for me. To walk down that tunnel. To walk onto that pitch for me –
‘Some might say it’s their manager. Some might say it’s thee …’
Not Harvey or Stewart. Not Reaney or Madeley. Not Cherry or Yorath. Not Hunter or McQueen. Not Jordan or Jones. Not Cooper or Lorimer. Not Bates or the Grays. Not Giles or Bremner. Not Allan Clarke or Duncan McKenzie. Not even John McGovern or John O’Hare. Not these days. This Saturday –
Saturday 7 September 1974.
Under their feet and under their stand, through their doors and round their corners, I stay out of their dressing room, I stay out of their boardroom; down the corridors, I stay locked in my office with my ornamental animals and my pictures of birds, pouring my drinks and lighting my fags, listening for their feet, listening for their voices –
‘Some might say it’s their manager. Some might say it’s thee …’
I pour another drink and I light another fag; another drink, another fag; another drink, another fag. More feet and more voices, knocking on the door, rattling at the lock –
‘Boss,’ calls Jimmy. ‘Boss, the players are waiting for you in the dressing room.’
‘What the hell for?’ I answer. ‘To whisper and mutter behind my bloody back? To ignore and fucking mock me? To plot and to …’
‘They just want to know who’s playing,’ says Jimmy. ‘That’s all, Boss.’
‘Harvey. Reaney. Cherry. McGovern. McQueen. Hunter. Lorimer. Clarke. O’Hare. Giles and Madeley,’ I tell him. ‘With Yorath on the bench.’
‘You’re not coming down then?’ he asks. ‘Not even for a word?’
‘Not today,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll see you out there …’
The sound of Jimmy’s feet retreat and echo down the corridor and round the corner; retreat and echo and hide among the sound of thousands of other pairs of feet, climbing to their seats, taking their places for the showdown, this final exhibition –
‘Are you there, Brian? Are you still there?’
I finish my drink and put out my fag. I unlock the door and open it. I close and lock it again. I walk down the corridor and round the corner, past the dressing room and down the tunnel. The teams already out on the pitch. I walk into the light and the stadium. Into the silence. I make my way along to the dug-out. To that bench. To that seat. In that silence –
‘How shall we live, Brian? How shall we live?’
The 26, 450 Yorkshire zombies inside Elland Road silent today. The 26,450 Yorkshire zombies silent until some big black fucking dog barks, ‘Bugger off, Clough! You’re not the bloody Don and you never fucking will be.’
* * *
Last night Derby County were beaten by Sunderland. Beaten by a Vic Halom hat-trick. Beaten 3–0 and knocked out of the League Cup. Derby did not play particularly badly, Derby did not play particularly well; but the difference between Derby and Sunderland, according to the press, the difference was that Sunderland would do anything their manager asked of them –
Walk on water! Run through fire!
Anything bloody Bob fucking Stokoe asked of them; they hung on his every word, they lived by his every word, just like your team did, just like your boys –
But Derby County would not do what Dave Mackay asked of them. Derby County do not hang on Dave Mackay’s every word. They will not listen to Dave Mackay at all –