The Damned Utd Read Online Free Page A

I shout. ‘Harvey over there, Stewart here. Reaney there, Cooper here. McQueen there, Hunter here. Bremner there, Cherry here. Lorimer there, Giles here. Bates there, Clarke here. Madeley over there, and I’ll be here. Jimmy gets the whistle. Now let’s get fucking going –’
    They amble about, pulling on bibs, kicking balls away, scratching their own.
    Jimmy puts the ball down in the centre circle of the practice pitch.
    ‘We’ll kick off,’ I tell him, tell them all.
    So Jimmy blows the whistle and off we go –
    For hours, hours and hours, I run and I shout, but no one speaks and no one passes, no one passes until I finally get the ball and am about to turn, about to turn to my left with the ball on my right foot, on my right foot when someone puts me on my arse –
    Flat on my arse like a sack of spuds, moaning and groaning in the mud .
    I look up and I see my youngest lad, my youngest lad watching and worried. I get up and I see them watching, watching and whispering –
    ‘I told you someone would get hurt,’ smiles Syd. ‘Bloody told you.’
    No one is laughing. But they will, later. In the dressing room and in the bath. In their cars and in their houses, when I’m not there.
    * * *
    You start to keep clean sheets. You start to build from the back. Even win away from home. You finish seventh from the bottom of the Fourth Division in your first season, 1965–66, and this is how your chairman says thank you –
    ‘ I can’t afford two men doing one man’s job any more .’
    You open the autobiography of Len Shackleton, Clown Prince of Soccer, to page 78. You show the blank page to Mr Ernest Ord, millionaire chairman of Hartlepools United:
    The Average Director’s Knowledge of Football.
    ‘ Piss off,’ you tell him. ‘Pete’s going nowhere .’
    ‘ You’re getting too much publicity and all,’ says Ord. ‘You’ll have to cut it ou t.’
    ‘ Piss off,’ you tell him again. ‘This town loves it. Loves me .’
    ‘ My son will handle publicity,’ says Ord. ‘You just manage the team. You manage it alone and all .’
    ‘ Pete’s staying put,’ you tell him. ‘And I’ll say what I want, when I want .’
    ‘ Right then,’ says Ord. ‘You’re both sacked then .’
    ‘ We’re going nowhere,’ you tell him –
    This is your first battle. Your first of many –
    You go to Conservative Councillor Curry. You tour the clubs. You get shipyards and breweries to pay players’ wages. You raise the £7 ,000 that the club owes the chairman. You are never out of the local papers. Never off the local telly –
    ‘ It’s him or me,’ you tell the board. The press. The fans. ‘Him or me .’
    Mr Ernest Ord, millionaire chairman of Hartlepools United, resigns –
    Your first coup. Your first blood –
    1–0.
    * * *
    I shower, bathe and dress alone. Except for my youngest lad. Then down the corridors, round the corners, back to the office, his office, to wait for Jimmy; Jimmy taking fucking for ever. I look at my watch. It’s not there. I look in my pockets. But it’s bloody gone –
    Maurice Lindley puts his head round the door. No knock –
    Maurice Lindley, assistant manager of Leeds United, right-hand man to the Don, another one of the Don’s backroom boys along with Les Cocker and Syd Owen, Bob English and Cyril Partridge, another one that the Don left behind …
    Maurice Lindley puts a thick file marked Top Secret down on that desk, his desk . Maurice says, ‘Thought you’d be wanting to see this.’
    Maurice Lindley, football’s master spy, in his trench coat and his disguises .
    I look down at that file on that desk. Top Secret . I ask him, ‘What the hell is it?’
    ‘Dossier on Huddersfield Town,’ says Maurice. ‘The bloody works.’
    ‘You’re joking?’ I ask him. ‘It’s a bloody testimonial. A fucking friendly.’
    ‘No such thing,’ says Maurice. ‘Not round here. Don didn’t believe in friendlies. Don believed in winning every game we played. Don believed