‘He has that,’ smiles Bolton. ‘And one of them is for Mr John Giles.’
They all sit down now; Cussins, Roberts, Simon and Woodward.
Woodward leans forward. ‘Something you should know about Giles …’
‘What about him?’ I ask.
‘He wanted your job,’ says Woodward. ‘And Revie told him it was his.’
‘Did he now?’
‘Too big for his boots,’ nods Woodward. ‘The pair of them; him and Revie.’
‘Why didn’t you give it to him?’ I ask them. ‘Done a good job with the Irish.’
‘It wouldn’t have gone down well with Bremner,’ says Cussins.
‘I thought they were mates?’ I ask them. ‘Thick as thieves and all that.’
They all shake their heads; Cussins, Roberts, Simon and Woodward –
‘Well, you know what they say about honour and thieves?’ laughs Bolton.
‘Bremner’s the club captain,’ says Cussins. ‘Ambitions of his own, no doubt.’
I help myself to another brandy. I turn back to the table –
I clear my throat. I raise my glass and I say –
‘To happy bloody families then.’
* * *
This is the last goal you will ever score. September 1964. Eighteen months since your last. Sunderland are now in the First Division. Home to Leeds United. You put the ball through the legs of Jackie Charlton and you score –
The only First Division goal of your career –
The last goal you will ever score.
Your sharpness gone. You cannot turn. It’s over. The curtain down. You are twenty-nine years old and have scored 251 league goals in 274 games for Middlesbrough and Sunderland. A record. A bloody record in the Second Division. Two England caps. In the fucking Second Division –
But it’s over. It’s over and you know it –
No League Championships. No FA Cups. No European Cups –
The roar and the whistle. The applause and the adoration –
Finished for ever. Second best. For ever.
Sunderland Football Club get £40,000 in insurance as compensation for your injury. You get £1,500, the sack from coaching the youth team, and an education that will last you a lifetime –
You have a wife. Two sons. No trade. No brass –
That’s what you got for Christmas in 1962. You got done –
Finished off and washed up, before your time –
But you will never run a pub. You will never own a newsagent’s shop –
Instead, you will have your revenge –
That is how you shall live –
In place of a life, revenge.
* * *
These are the studios of Yorkshire TV. Of Calendar. Of their Special –
Clough Comes to Leeds.
Austin Mitchell is in a blue suit. I’m still wearing my grey suit but I’ve changed into a purple shirt and a different tie; always pack a spare shirt, your own Brylcreem and some toothpaste. Television has taught me these things.
Austin looks into the camera and says, ‘This week we welcome Brian Clough as manager of Leeds United. How will his outspoken personality fit in with Leeds, and what can he do for this team, this team that has won just about everything?’
‘Leeds United have been Champions,’ I tell him and every household in Yorkshire. ‘But they’ve not been good Champions, in the sense of wearing the crown well. I think they could have been a little bit more loved, a little bit more liked, and I want to change that. I want to bring a little bit more warmth and a little bit more honesty and a little bit more of me into the set-up.’
‘So we can expect a bit more warmth, a bit more honesty and a bit more Brian Clough from the League Champions,’ repeats Mitchell.
‘A lot more Brian Clough actually,’ I tell him. ‘A lot more.’
‘And hopefully win a lot more cups and another title?’
‘And win it better, Austin,’ I tell him. ‘I can win it better. You just watch me.’
‘And the Leeds set-up? The legendary back-room staff? The legacy of the Don?’
‘Well, I’ll tell you one thing: I had great fears of that lucky bloody suit of his, in the office when I walked in. You know, the one he’s had for thirteen years? I thought, if that’s there, that’s going straight in the bin because not only will it be old, it’ll smell …’
‘You’re not a superstitious man then, Brian?’
‘No, Austin, I’m not,’ I tell him. ‘I’m a socialist.’
Day Two
September 1965. The Chase Hotel, York. Five pints and five whiskies playing hide and seek in your guts. Jobless and boozing, fat and fucked, you are in hell. You’ll play one more match for Sunderland. Your testimonial in front of a record 31,000 fans. Ten grand in your pocket. But it won’t last. Jobless and boozing. Not at this rate. Fat and fucked. Not unless Peter says yes –
Peter Taylor. The only friend you’ve ever had. Peter Taylor –
He was a Probable and you were a Possible for Middlesbrough back in 1955. Their second-choice keeper and their fourth-choice striker –
But he liked you then. He believed in you then. He talked to you about football. Morning, noon and night. Taught you about football. He brought out the best in you. Moral courage. Physical bravery. The strength to run through brick walls. He brought out the worst. The arrogance. The selfishness. The rudeness. But he still liked you when you became club captain. Believed in you when the rest of the team despised you, when they plotted and petitioned the club to get rid of you –
And you need him now. That belief. That faith. More than ever –
‘I’ve been offered the manager’s job at Hartlepools United,’ you tell Peter. ‘And I don’t much fancy the place, the club or the man who’s offered me the bloody job but, if you come, I’ll take it.’
But Peter is
