cut, your suit pressed and your shoes shined –
The players, your players, do a lap of honour while Bristol stand on the pitch and wait for the game to begin, the mauling to begin –
The midfield of John McGovern, Alan Durban and Willie Carlin are in their element with a first-half hat-trick from Durban, plus one from Kevin Hector, and then one from Alan Hinton which is the pick of the five –
Dave Mackay clips the ball forward to Willie Carlin. Carlin takes the ball into the box then back-heels the ball to Alan Hinton. Hinton runs onto the ball and never stops, never breaks stride, just lashes it with his left foot into the bottom corner of the net –
Unstoppable. Unstoppable. Un- fucking- stoppable –
Green. Webster. Robson. Durban. McFarland. Mackay. McGovern. Carlin. O’Hare. Hector and Hinton .
Dave Mackay goes up the steps. Mackay picks up the trophy –
The Second Division Championship trophy –
Mackay holds it aloft in his right hand –
The crowd roars. The crowd chants –
‘ Derby! Derby! Derby! ’
You stand before the chairman, the directors and the board, stand before them with your players and your trophy, the sound of the crowd ringing around the Baseball Ground, ringing around the whole of the bloody town –
This time last year there were 20,000 here to see you lose to Blackpool. The year before 11,000. This time last year Dave Mackay thought he’d played his last game. Today there are 32,000 here. Today you are Champions –
You shake Dave’s hand. Peter pats Dave’s back –
Dave Mackay is one year older than you; umpteen medals, cups and caps heavier than you, he will be named joint Footballer of the Year for this season –
But you are still smiling from ear to bloody ear –
Still smiling from ear to fucking ear –
The chairman too. The board –
The whole fucking town .
* * *
They are not my team. Not mine. Not this team, and they never will be. They are his team. His Leeds . His dirty fucking Leeds, and they always will be. Not my team. Never. Not mine. Never. Not mine. Never. Not this team. Never –
It is gone midnight and I cannot sleep. I’ve drunk too bloody much again and I’ve got a thumping fucking headache. The hotel room is too hot and the pillows are too hard and I miss my wife, I miss my kids and I wish I wasn’t me, Brian Howard Clough. Not for tonight and not for tomorrow. I get out my address book. I pick up the phone. I dial his number and I wake him up:
‘Who is this?’
‘It’s Brian Clough,’ I tell him.
‘What the hell do you want, Brian? It’s past midnight.’
‘I know,’ I tell him. ‘I’m very sorry to wake you up like this.’
‘Are you drunk, man? What’s wrong with you?’
‘This is your team,’ I tell him. ‘I want you to lead them out at Wembley.’
‘Pardon?’
‘You won the league,’ I tell him. ‘You lead them out tomorrow.’
‘You’ve got the job now, Brian,’ says Don Revie. ‘It’s your privilege.’
* * *
The sky is dark but clear, the stands empty but for the rubbish and the echoes. The crowd have all gone home or to the pub, to celebrate the Second Division Championship; the start of the Golden Age. But not you –
You stand in the mouth of the tunnel at the Baseball Ground and you watch Dave Mackay practising with your eldest and your youngest, kicking ball after ball after ball into the wooden shooting box, a little wooden target area beneath the old main stand –
Put it in a box, hide it in a tree, the tallest tree you can see…
Ball after ball after ball, ball after ball after ball –
Because this is the happiest day of your life …
Because this is the first thing you have ever won and, like your first pair of boots, your first kiss and your first car, you’ll never forget the hours of this day –
Saturday 19 April 1969.
Day Eleven
Bill Shankly walks out of the Wembley tunnel alone, out onto the Wembley pitch, out to a massive ovation from the whole of the Wembley stadium, the
The players, your players, do a lap of honour while Bristol stand on the pitch and wait for the game to begin, the mauling to begin –
The midfield of John McGovern, Alan Durban and Willie Carlin are in their element with a first-half hat-trick from Durban, plus one from Kevin Hector, and then one from Alan Hinton which is the pick of the five –
Dave Mackay clips the ball forward to Willie Carlin. Carlin takes the ball into the box then back-heels the ball to Alan Hinton. Hinton runs onto the ball and never stops, never breaks stride, just lashes it with his left foot into the bottom corner of the net –
Unstoppable. Unstoppable. Un- fucking- stoppable –
Green. Webster. Robson. Durban. McFarland. Mackay. McGovern. Carlin. O’Hare. Hector and Hinton .
Dave Mackay goes up the steps. Mackay picks up the trophy –
The Second Division Championship trophy –
Mackay holds it aloft in his right hand –
The crowd roars. The crowd chants –
‘ Derby! Derby! Derby! ’
You stand before the chairman, the directors and the board, stand before them with your players and your trophy, the sound of the crowd ringing around the Baseball Ground, ringing around the whole of the bloody town –
This time last year there were 20,000 here to see you lose to Blackpool. The year before 11,000. This time last year Dave Mackay thought he’d played his last game. Today there are 32,000 here. Today you are Champions –
You shake Dave’s hand. Peter pats Dave’s back –
Dave Mackay is one year older than you; umpteen medals, cups and caps heavier than you, he will be named joint Footballer of the Year for this season –
But you are still smiling from ear to bloody ear –
Still smiling from ear to fucking ear –
The chairman too. The board –
The whole fucking town .
* * *
They are not my team. Not mine. Not this team, and they never will be. They are his team. His Leeds . His dirty fucking Leeds, and they always will be. Not my team. Never. Not mine. Never. Not mine. Never. Not this team. Never –
It is gone midnight and I cannot sleep. I’ve drunk too bloody much again and I’ve got a thumping fucking headache. The hotel room is too hot and the pillows are too hard and I miss my wife, I miss my kids and I wish I wasn’t me, Brian Howard Clough. Not for tonight and not for tomorrow. I get out my address book. I pick up the phone. I dial his number and I wake him up:
‘Who is this?’
‘It’s Brian Clough,’ I tell him.
‘What the hell do you want, Brian? It’s past midnight.’
‘I know,’ I tell him. ‘I’m very sorry to wake you up like this.’
‘Are you drunk, man? What’s wrong with you?’
‘This is your team,’ I tell him. ‘I want you to lead them out at Wembley.’
‘Pardon?’
‘You won the league,’ I tell him. ‘You lead them out tomorrow.’
‘You’ve got the job now, Brian,’ says Don Revie. ‘It’s your privilege.’
* * *
The sky is dark but clear, the stands empty but for the rubbish and the echoes. The crowd have all gone home or to the pub, to celebrate the Second Division Championship; the start of the Golden Age. But not you –
You stand in the mouth of the tunnel at the Baseball Ground and you watch Dave Mackay practising with your eldest and your youngest, kicking ball after ball after ball into the wooden shooting box, a little wooden target area beneath the old main stand –
Put it in a box, hide it in a tree, the tallest tree you can see…
Ball after ball after ball, ball after ball after ball –
Because this is the happiest day of your life …
Because this is the first thing you have ever won and, like your first pair of boots, your first kiss and your first car, you’ll never forget the hours of this day –
Saturday 19 April 1969.
Day Eleven
Bill Shankly walks out of the Wembley tunnel alone, out onto the Wembley pitch, out to a massive ovation from the whole of the Wembley stadium, the
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