‘Enough pissing about,’ I tell them. ‘Let’s get into two teams, now!’
In their purple tracksuits with their names on their backs, they pull on their bibs and wait for the whistle and then off we go, go, go –
For hours and hours I run and I shout and no one speaks and no one passes, but I can read their game, I can read their moves, so when the Irishman picks up the ball in his own half and shapes to pass, I move in towards him, to close him down, and the Irishman is forced to turn, to pass back to Hunter, a short, bad pass back, and I’m after it, this short, bad and deliberately stray pass, Hunter and Giles coming, Hunter and Giles coming, my eye on the ball, my mind on the ball, and Hunter is here, Giles is here and –
Cruuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuunch …
Black and blue, purple and yellow; the silence and the lights out –
‘Get up, Clough! He’s fucking codding is Clough …’
I am on the ground, in the mud, my eyes wide and the ball gone. I see their faces standing over me, looking down at me. They are dirty moons. They are panting moons –
‘How shall we live, Brian? How shall we live?’
‘We call that the suicide ball, Mr Clough.’
* * *
It is the dead of night, November 1973. The dead of a Derby night. You have driven through this night. From Brighton. Back to Derby. You park outside the Barry McGuinness Health Club in London Road. You take the carrier bag off the passenger seat. You lock the car door. You walk into that health club –
The Derby players look up. John Shaw and Barry McGuinness look up –
‘I’ll burn down this restaurant, Barry, and kidnap your kids, John,’ you tell them, ‘if you bloody damage these players’ fucking careers.’
John and Barry blanch. John and Barry nod.
‘And I want you lot bloody home,’ you tell the players. ‘In your beds now, go!’
The players nod, your players, and they get to their feet. They start to leave, slowly. David Nish the last. Always the bloody last. David Nish dawdling –
‘Go on with you, David,’ you shout after him. ‘Dragging them bloody feet would have cost you ten fucking quid a few weeks ago.’
You open the carrier bag. You take out three bottles of ale and three glasses –
‘I’ve brought my own beer and one each for you two,’ you tell John and Barry. ‘Now then, gentlemen, what are you two going to do for me?’
‘You’ve just bloody blown it,’ mumbles John. ‘The players had come here to tell us they were all ready to come out on fucking strike for you.’
You pour your brown ale. You drink it down in one. You wipe your mouth –
‘Go to the Baseball Ground,’ you tell John and Barry. ‘Find Tommy Mason. He’s in the second team. Nice lad. Never make it. Tell him to get the bloody reserves out on strike. Then the fucking first team will follow.’
* * *
I am alone in the shower, I am alone in the bath, I am alone in the dressing room, sat on that bench, beneath those pegs, my towel around my waist and over my legs, my legs bruised but not broken, not broken but hurting, Keep on fighting above the door, the exit.
* * *
You don’t like driving so you get Bill from the Midland, your old mate Colin or John Shaw to drive you back and forth, Brighton to Derby, back and forth, Derby to Brighton. Today, it’s Bill with his foot down as you change into your tracksuit on the back seat –
Bamber has a meeting with you in your office at the Goldstone Ground –
But you are late, late again, and he’s waiting, waiting again –
Him in his suit and tie, you in your tracksuit and boots –
You put them boots up on your desk, your hands behind your head and tell him, ‘Mr Chairman, I’ve shot it. I’ve been off for three weeks and training’s whacked me.’
‘You’re a bloody liar, Brian,’ laughs Bamber. ‘It’s been pouring with rain here all morning and your bloody boots are as clean as a fucking whistle.’
‘Well done!’ you tell him. ‘You’ve caught me out already!’
* * *
Under the stands, through the doors, round the corners and down the corridors, here come the feet, here come the voices and here come the knocks –
‘Boss?’ say John McGovern and John O’Hare. ‘You wanted to see us?’
‘Yes,’ I tell them. ‘Sit yourselves down. Drink? Fag?’
John McGovern shakes his head. John O’Hare shakes his head.
‘Right, listen,’ I tell them both. ‘There’s no bloody way I can play you two, because you don’t fucking deserve to take all this off them. I’ve got to leave you both out. You understand why, don’t you? You understand my position?’
John McGovern nods. John O’Hare nods.
I light another cig. I pour another drink –
I offer them the open packet, the bottle –
They shake their heads again. They get up. They go.
* * *
Back to square one; John Shaw went round to Tommy Mason’s digs; John drank cups of tea with Tommy’s landlady; John heard Tommy coming down the street, back from training; Tommy saw John; Tommy couldn’t believe his luck; Tommy thought you wanted him down at Brighton; John broke the bad news, then John broke the good news; Tommy agreed to bring the second team out on strike. But Webby heard the rumours of plots, the rumours of strikes; so then Webby issued threats, threats of writs; so the rumours of plots, the rumours of strikes rescinded –
Back to square one; back to Plan B; Operation Snowball –
You are sat alone in Mike Keeling’s flat. Mike Keeling and John Shaw are across the road with Archie Gemmill and Colin Todd in Gemmill’s flat.
‘When you hear the word “snowball”,’ Shaw and Keeling are telling Gemmill and Todd, ‘you and the rest of the team are to come out on strike.’
‘Did the Boss tell you to tell me that?’ asks Gemmill.
‘No,’ says Keeling. ‘He’s the manager of Brighton now. This is me telling you.’
‘Will you do it?’ asks John Shaw.
‘Only if the Boss tells me.’
Mike Keeling and John Shaw come back across the road to where you are sat alone waiting in Keeling’s flat. Keeling and Shaw tell you what Gemmill said –
‘Send the wee lad over here,’ you tell them.
John Shaw goes back across the road. John Shaw returns with Gemmill –
‘Would you go on strike to get me back?’ you ask him.
‘I would, Boss,’ says Gemmill.
‘Would you do it without my asking?’
‘No,’ he says. ‘I’d only strike if you told me to.’
And so that is the end of Plan B; the end of Operation Snowball.
But that very night, you meet your Derby players and their wives again; you meet them at the Midland Hotel, then invite them back to yours –
To finally admit defeat. To finally say goodbye. But the players won’t admit defeat. The players won’t say goodbye –
They’ll never admit defeat. Never say goodbye –
The Derby players, your players, draft a letter to Dave Mackay: