The Damned Utd

The Stadio Comunale, the black and the white; the black-and-white flags of 72,000 Juventus fans; Juventus, the Old Lady herself, in black and white:

Zoff. Spinosi. Marchetti. Furino. Morini. Salvadore. Causio. Cuccureddu. Anastasi, Capello and Altafini –

‘Dirty, dirty, dirty bastards,’ Pete is saying, saying before you even get to the bench, before you even get sat down, before a ball has even been kicked.

For the first twenty-odd minutes, you ride the late tackles, the shirt-pulling and the gamesmanship –

‘They’re just bloody flinging themselves to the floor at the feet of the ref.’

The obstructing, the tripping, and the holding of players –

‘Dirty, diving, cheating, fucking Italian bastards.’

Then Furino puts his elbow in Archie Gemmill’s face. Gemmill trips him back, just a little trip, and Gemmill goes in the book –

‘Fuck off, ref! Fuck off!’ screams Pete. ‘What about fucking Furino?’

Roy McFarland goes up for a high ball with Cuccureddu. McFarland and Cuccureddu clash heads. McFarland goes in the book –

‘For what? For fucking what?’ yells Pete. ‘Fucking nothing. Nothing!’

Gemmill booked. For nothing. McFarland booked. For nothing –

‘By their bent axis mate of a fucking Kraut referee.’

Gemmill and McFarland already booked in previous legs, this was the one thing you didn’t want to happen tonight; the two players now suspended for the return leg, the one thing you didn’t want to happen –

‘And they fucking knew it,’ says Pete. ‘They fucking knew it.’

But it’s almost the half hour, almost the half hour and still 0–0 when Anastasi beats Webster and Todd, beats Webster and Todd to feed Altafini, feed Altafini to make it 1–0 to Juventus; 1–0 to Juventus but then, two minutes later, just two fucking minutes later, and out of nothing O’Hare knocks the ball to Hector and Hector takes the ball into their box and shapes to shoot with his left but brings it inside and shoots, shoots with his right and suddenly, just two minutes later and out of nothing, it’s –

1–1! 1–1! 1–1! 1–1! 1–1!

Salvadore and Morini beaten, Zoff on his arse, and the Stadio Comunale silent, those black-and-white flags fallen to the floor.

Causio misses a chance and blasts over the bar, Nish clears a shot off the line from Marchetti, but it stays 1–1 to half-time; half-fucking-time:

Haller, the Juventus substitute, is straight off their bench and walking off down the tunnel with Schulenberg, the referee –

‘Look at that,’ says Pete. ‘How much more fucking blatant can you get?’

And Pete is straight off your bench and running down the tunnel after them –

‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ he shouts. ‘I speak German. Do you mind if I listen?’

But Haller starts jabbing Pete in his ribs, keeping Pete from Schulenberg, and shouting for the security guards, who shove Pete against the wall of the tunnel and pin Pete there while you and the players file past the mêlée towards the dressing room –

There is nothing you can do for Pete. Nothing now. Not now –

Now you have to get to the dressing room, get to the dressing room because this is where you earn your money. This is where you bloody live –

This is where you have to be, to be with your team, your boys –

‘They are Third Division, this lot,’ you tell them. ‘Just keep your heads.’

But this is where things go wrong, thinking of Pete pinned up against the wall; this is where you make mistakes, thinking of Pete up against that wall –

Pete pinned up against the wall of that tunnel, his head lost –

Do you defend at 1–1? Do you attack at 1–1?

But Derby neither defend nor attack –

Your heads all lost.

Haller comes on for Cuccureddu in the sixty-third minute and everything changes; the end of anything good and the beginning of everything bad –

In the sixty-third minute of the first leg of the semi-final of the European Cup, Haller and Causio pass the ball across and back across the face of your penalty area, across and back across, until Causio suddenly turns and beats Boulton to make it 2–1 to Juventus in the sixty-sixth minute.

But 2–1 to Juventus is still not so bad; you still have Hector’s goal, an away goal;1–0 to Derby County in the return leg at the Baseball Ground and you’d be through; through to the final of the European Cup …

This is what you’re thinking, what you’re thinking just seven minutes from the end, just seven fucking minutes from the end as Altafini goes past two of yours and makes it 3–1 to Juventus, 3-fucking-1 and their flags are flying now –

Black and white. Black and white. Black and fucking white.

They are the better side, but that does not matter –

Because they are cheats and cheats should never beat:

‘Cheating fucking Italian bastards,’ you shout at their press and in case they didn’t understand, then again more slowly: ‘Cheating. Fucking. Bastards.’

‘Cos’ ha detto? Cos’ ha detto?’ they ask. ‘Cos’ ha detto?’

You are no diplomat. No ambassador for the game, the English game –

‘I don’t talk to cheating fucking bastards!’ you shout.

No diplomat. No ambassador. No future manager of England –

‘Cheats and fucking cowards!’ you scream.

You hate Italy. You hate Juventus –

The Old Fucking Lady of Turin –

The Whore of Europe –

You will remember her stink, the stench of Turin; you will remember it for the rest of your days; the stink of corruption, the stench of decay –

The end of anything good, the beginning of everything bad –

And you will remember this place and this month –

Turin, Italy; April 1973 –

Everything bad –

You’ve lost your mam. You’ve lost your mam. You’ve lost your mam.

Day Twenty-five

There would have been superstition. There would have been tradition. There would have been routine. There would have been ritual. There would have been the blue suit. There would have been the dossiers. The bingo and the bowls. There would have been the walk around the traffic lights. The same route to that bench in the dug-out. There would have been no pictures of birds. No peacock feathers. No ornamental animals –

Saturday 24 August 1974.

Under the feet. Under the stand. Through the doors. Round the corners. Down the corridors. In the office with the door locked and a chair against it, I hang my daughter’s picture of an owl upon the wall; hang it above the china elephant and the wooden horse; hang it next to the photograph of the peacock and the mirror –