We, the undersigned players, refuse to report to Derby County Football Club until 1.00 p.m. on Saturday 24 November, for the following reasons:
Dissatisfaction with the present management and
The refusal to reinstate Mr Brian Clough and Mr Peter Taylor.
Your wife then marches the wives down to a meeting of the Protest Movement, while you open another crate of champagne and light another cigar –
No one is admitting defeat. Never. No one is saying goodbye. Ever –
The results are going against Mackay. The results going your way –
Only John O’Hare will report for training tomorrow morning.
* * *
Down the corridors and round the corners. Up the stairs and down another corridor. In the Yorkshire boardroom, the Yorkshire curtains drawn, I am drinking French brandy, tasting Yorkshire carpet.
‘You’re not selling Cooper and you’re not buying Todd,’ states Bolton again. ‘You’re not selling Harvey and you’re not buying Shilton.’
‘I bloody am.’
‘You’re bloody not,’ shouts Bolton. ‘Not Harvey. Not Cooper. Not for £75,000. Not for £175,000. Not when all you’ve bloody got is four bloody points out of twelve. Not when we’re bloody fourth from the fucking bottom.’
‘Is that what you all think?’ I ask them. ‘The whole bloody lot of you?’
The Yorkshire board stare back at me. The Yorkshire board nod.
‘What about Bob Roberts?’ I ask. ‘Where’s Bob Roberts?’
‘Bob’s on holiday,’ smiles Bolton. ‘Bob can’t help you now.’
On that Yorkshire carpet, behind those Yorkshire curtains, in that Yorkshire boardroom, this is when I see it, see it clearly in his eyes, in his eyes and all their eyes –
This is when the penny finally drop, drop, drops.
* * *
Dave Mackay has had enough; had enough of the rumours; had enough of the threats. He has lost to QPR. He has lost to Ipswich Town. He has lost to Sheffield United. Dave Mackay has yet to win and now he faces Leeds United, Arsenal and then Newcastle –
Dave Mackay has had enough; had enough of the results; had enough of the B.B.C. campaign; had enough of the Derby players, your players –
Dave Mackay has finally hit the roof. Dave Mackay has taken off his gloves now. Read them the bloody riot act. In no uncertain fucking terms:
‘Clough’s not bloody coming back,’ he tells them. ‘If it isn’t me here, it’ll be someone else, but it won’t be Brian fucking Clough. Now if you don’t want to play for me, then you can put in your transfer request and fuck off. If that means the lot of you, so be it; I’ll play the bloody reserves. The choice is yours — stay or fucking go.’
Dave Mackay then takes them to one side, one by one, player by player, and one by one, player by player, they make their peace with Dave Mackay. Last of them all, Roy McFarland makes his peace and he shakes Dave’s hand in front of the dressing room. Then Roy calls for the Derby County Protest Movement to end its activities.
But you still hope, hope against hope, that something will happen today because today Dave Mackay and Derby County are at home to Don Revie and Leeds United –
It is Saturday 24 November 1973.
Today Brighton are at home to Walton & Hersham, an amateur side, in the FA Cup. But you’re not thinking about the cup, not thinking about Walton & Hersham. Today you are distracted. Today you are diverted. Today you’re only thinking about Derby County, thinking about Leeds United. You know this is the big test, the big test for Dave Mackay. You know he is only one defeat away from the sack; the sack that could bring you back. Distracted and diverted, your thoughts at the Baseball Ground while here at the Goldstone Ground Brighton are losing –
Losing 1–0, losing 2–0, 3–0 and then 4–0 –
Brighton have lost 4–0 at home to an amateur side in the FA Cup.
You stand in that beaten dressing room. You stare at that beaten team; your beaten Brighton team who dare not even look you in the eye –
Who cannot pull on their shirts, who cannot lace up their boots –
Cannot pull on their bloody shirts or lace up their fucking boots without you –
That beaten bloody Brighton team who are scared fucking shitless of you –
Tears down their cheeks. Tears down their shirts. Tears down yours –
Derby County have drawn 0–0 with Leeds United.
* * *
The sharp knife and loaded gun. The long rope. The post-mortem. The press conference:
‘All we’ve got to do is get out there and bloody win on the field,’ I tell them. ‘That solves everything, a win on the bloody field.’
But there is something in their eyes …
‘There was no question of me being carpeted. The board wanted to be informed of everything that goes on within the club, and rightly so. I informed them of everything. It has always been my policy to work with the chairman of a club, and the board, and everyone connected with a club, and this will continue to be my policy.’
No questions today, just something in their eyes …
‘The bid from Forest wasn’t high enough. I feel Terry is worth more. We think he can do Leeds more good. Forest’s bid didn’t meet with our valuation of him. The price we have on Terry Cooper.’
The way they look at me, the way they stare, but only when I look away …
‘I have never been so convinced of anything in my life as that I am getting the full support of the players. That the players back me.’
Like I’m sick, like I’ve got cancer and I’m dying but no one dare tell me …
‘The situation is beautiful and clear.’
* * *
Just when you think things could get no worse, things get bloody worse, much, much fucking worse; Brighton and Hove Albion lose 8–2 at home to Bristol Rovers; this is the single worst defeat of your career, as a player or as a manager.
You put your youngest lad in the car and drive to London. You sit your youngest lad on your knee in the studios of LWT. In front of the TV cameras. This is your defence. This boy is your defence. This boy is your protection –
‘The Brighton players are a disgrace,’ you tell Brian Moore and his cameras. ‘They do not know their trade and they shirk all moral responsibilities –
‘All moral responsibilities.’
* * *
I put out my cig. I finish my drink. I lock up the office. I double check the door. I walk down that corridor. Past those trophies. Past those photographs. Through those doors and out into the car park. To my brand-new blue Mercedes-Benz –
There are two young lads stood beside the car, in their boots and in their jeans, their scarves round their necks, their scarves round their wrists, hands in their pockets –
‘How are you this evening, lads?’ I ask them.
They nod their heads and blink. They nudge each other with their elbows.
‘Were you here on Saturday, were you?’ I ask them.
They nod their heads again. They sway from side to side.
‘What did you think then?’ I ask them.
‘Rubbish,’ says one of them, and the other one giggles.
‘Why do you think that was then?’ I ask them.
‘Because of that John McGovern,’ says the one that speaks. ‘He’s rubbish, he is.’