'The Drop'

This is one of the main stories in the book, about the night Leeds United visited West Brom in 1982 needing a draw to stay in the Division 1.

It is quite similar to my experience of that night though this chapter is told from the character Steve Bottomley's point of view.  In actual fact, I had a worse time than here but we won't go in to that.  

                The Drop 

I knocked school on the afternoon of the match, the coach was due to set off at three and none of the teachers would’ve noticed my absence, I think they’d given up with me at last.  No amount of their preaching to us the importance of O levels or CSEs could change what we all knew, that there were no jobs worth going for.  There didn’t seem much point in learning stuff I didn’t enjoy and that had no chance of improving the odds of my getting decent work.  So English, Art and Games were my subjects, the ones I worked hard at, and one of my favourite out of school subjects was spitting.  Walking down to school on a morning, me and Gaz used to play a game called ‘Headers’.  It was filthy but it was piss funny an’ all, snooking up big rubbery greenies and launching them in to the air, shouting ‘Headers’ when they were in flight.  Watching each other dive out of the way of plummeting spitbombs like demented hunchbacks was ace.  It was never what you could call pleasant, feeling someone’s warm phlegm landing in your hair or down your neck.  For some reason we think spitting - or gobbing or whatever you want to call it – makes you look tougher.  It doesn’t though, it makes you look like a dirty bastard, that’s all and it happened all the time at Leeds games, mainly away ones, whenever coppers walked in to our end of the football ground.  You prayed they’d stay away from you, not because you were scared of getting nicked or clouted but because you didn’t want to have to swim in the showers of saliva and phlegm aimed at them.  It was unbelievable how much fluid a bloke could produce in such a short space of opportunity - so much spit and snot - and so accurate with their missiles.  Poor sods those coppers, I always felt sorry for them and it’s not as if it was all their own doing either: much of the bad feeling towards them was thanks to their brethren in the London Met during the Miners Strike, they were the real animals.  These Cockney coppers who genuinely earned the popular term for the police of pigs.  Maggie Thatcher sent them up to beat down the miners’ picket lines and not only were they chuffed at getting paid rakes of overtime, they could get stuck in to the thick Northern bastards for fun as well.  AND they got away with it, there was no comeuppance for them boys from the Met, it was just the bobbies in the North wh ohad to suffer the consequences.

 I was skint and though I’d given up proper nicking now, I took a few quid out of my Mum’s purse.  She wouldn’t’ve given me it, not for a football match; all she did give me was continuous earache about it just being a game.  I don’t know what she had against it, she never whinged at my Dad for watching.  Whatever, now she couldn’t have stopped me going if she’d tried, it was our biggest match since the European Cup Final against Bayern Munich.  When we lost I cried myself to sleep and my Dad came back from Paris the next day with two black eyes and a nasty cut on his nose.  I reckoned he’d been smacked with a police baton when the Leeds fans had rioted as the French police didn’t like it, specially when millions of ripped out seats were flying at them like lethal frisbees.  It should’ve been the ref getting a beating, not the fans, he was the guilty one, guilty of being crap and guilty of being a crooked bastard.  No matter what, this game versus West Brom that I was intent on going to was definitely one my Dad would’ve let me to go to, even if it meant skipping lessons near exams.  In fact, he would’ve insisted I went: your team needs you through thick and thin, just like your family and friends. 

Gaz was supposed to go with me but he bottled it.  I was pissed off but it wasn’t really his fault, he was already on report and one more misdemeanour could get him expelled.  It’s true to say we were wasting our time at Matthew Murray, but getting expelled would help no one.  I picked my ticket up from National’s station on Wellington Street and might have stayed in their waiting room had it not been so damp and dirty and smelling of piss.  Instead, I went for a walk around town and bought a Puzzler from WH.Smiths, I had definitely reformed.  I’ve always loved Leeds city centre, it was another world from the suburbs like my Beeston: pen pushers in posh suits and sexy secretaries in short skirts rushing around all over the place.  It was forever busy and alive - I’d go mental living in the country, I swear.  Walking back on Boar Lane I decided to pop down Mill Hill in to the arcade for a few games of Space Invaders and PacMan to pass a bit more time away.

I returned to the coach station after inflicting sufficient video carnage for one afternoon.  Loads more blokes in Leeds scarves were already waiting around, drinking cans of beer.  There was a handful of biddies with suitcases as well, looking dead nervous.  Somehow, I think they were more likely going to Bournemouth for their jols rather than West Bromwich for beer, football and fighting.  You never know though, there were tales of Chelsea’s old soldier supporters - the Pensioners - who went to games in their uniforms and medals, wading in with walking sticks a blazing whenever there was any trouble.  Do me a favour, it’d be like punching your grandad if you got in a scrap with them.  

All the yellow, white and blue scarves and a big Union Jack with LEEDS UNITED in gold sewn on gave me a brilliant buzz of pride - we were all in this battle together. The same couldn’t be said of the coach driver though, he wasn’t exactly what you could call team spirited.  Four or five lads with beer were pissed off with him - he wouldn’t let them bring booze on to the coach.  They wouldn’t mess with him though, he was a big bloke and his 5 o’clock shadow and dark looks made him look like a character from the Godfather.  Everyone could hear them slagging him off from the back seat but he took no notice and by the time we got to West Brom, they’d shouted for a toilet stop a million times.  He’d refused, unscheduled stops being a sackable offence, or so he’d said.  I reckon he was taking the piss but you had to laugh.  I had a window seat, next to a chubby bloke with a tash and greasy black  hair.  He was on his tod an’ all so I had to speak to him a bit though I did my best to concentrate on my Puzzler in peace.  It turned out he was one of the most loyal Leeds fans ever, having followed Leeds in nearly a thousand Leeds games home and away, on the trot. 

It was about five when the driver parked up near the stadium.  The drinkers shot off like greyhounds out of their traps, round the back of the coach and pissing like dogs in broad daylight.  It was funny listening to them swearing and groaning and seeing  streams of piss and puddles everywhere.  There was over two hours before kick off and I didn’t have enough money for the pub so I went looking for the away fans’ section on my own.  I hoped not to attract any attention from West Brom fans as my yellow Leeds shirt and bright blue Harrington jacket made me a sitting duck.  Fortunately, I didn’t see any dodgy characters for me to worry about.  I walked to the main gates, passing a few fans and hot dog and burger stands on the way.  The steam of fried onions and cooked meat wafted over the pavement and smelt delicious, as it always does; not that it ever tastes that good.  I wasn’t hungry anyway, I was too nervous about the match to eat.  I could smell horse muck too, though I never saw any horses.  Gaz always liked the smell would you believe but he ate his bogies as well so it shouldn’t come as that much of a surprise.  I had just enough cash for a match programme and bought one from an old beachball of a bloke in a long sheepskin and flat cap.  He must have been sweating cobs because it was a warm evening, specially as he had a black waffle knit jumper on which made his beer gut look even more immense.  He was a nice bloke though and I thought his Brummie accent was brilliant.  He said he’d loved Leeds when Revie was boss and he should never have left to take the England job.  I couldn’t fault him, my Dad would have agreed and so would I.  As I left he called, ‘Yow take care, mite’. 

They charged me full price to get in even though I was still at school – it was scandalous (three quid fifty worth of scandal).  Most clubs put their prices up for Leeds games because we had more supporters.  There was no choice but to accept it but bollocks like this is never justified.  I squeezed in through the squealing turnstile, to steps that led up to the terrace entrance.  From there I could see a row of houses and neat gardens just a stone’s throw away, or should that be brick?  I didn’t envy the people living in them, not because the houses were old and terraced – thousands the same in Leeds - but because it must’ve been awful living so close to a footie ground, with all the away fans nosing in your front room every week.  Worse if they were Scousers, they’d nick anything they could get their hands on and piss on your doorstep to demonstrate that famous sense of humour. 

There were about two hundred Leeds fans packed together in the stadium, if that’s what you’d call ancient concrete and bricks and corrugated roof.  We were situated in a corner, fenced in and segregated from the home fans.  There was a peaceful buzz of people talking, no chants or songs yet, sort of like they were waiting for more guests to arrive at a party.  At home in the Kop it regularly got so crammed you could easy be carried off your feet in tumbles which could be a laugh, unless you got sucked in and dragged to the floor or you splattered into a barrier.  This night I decided to stand at the back, safer that way I decided.  While the light was good enough I leant back on the cold metal of a barrier and flicked through the programme, looking at the mostly cheap black and white photos and soaking in the warm breezes of Bovril and crusty meat pies.  The DJ’s disco records, the floodlights flickering to life, players warming up and the ball boys fagging the balls stirred the crowd, and soon pockets of Leeds and West Brom fans were goading each other through the fencing.  By now our corner was pretty much full with mostly fellas, though there was a smattering of women.  There was no one younger than me that I could see and that made me more nervous.  I heard a vocal rumble which grew in to a roar of the ‘Leeds Leeds Leeds’ chant.  It was like we’d woken up at last, and Leeds songs started to rise from everywhere.  I’ve always loved some of them, like ‘Yorkshire Republican Army’, it gave me goose pimples when we sang it.  Not in the same way as the Beatles songs, this was real adrenalin pumping and pulsating.  Tonight’s main song, to the tune of ‘I Do Like to be Beside the Seaside’ about West Brom, has the last line was just ‘Fuck off West Brom, Fuck off West Brom’, over and over, and it repeatedly makes me laugh. 

I felt confident, I couldn’t see us losing if the players had enough passion - Allan Clarke would make sure they did.  We’d never been thrashed all season but we’d lost a lot of games by the odd goal or drew when we should’ve won.  Even the Saturday before, we beat Brighton and we thought we were safe, but the other bottom teams won so we were no better off.  Tonight was the moment of truth, I hoped the players didn’t bottle it.  As I looked at my watch urging the time to speed up, loads of police streamed in around the pitch from the opposite corner towards us.  I looked around me and there were about thirty black uniforms behind us.  The ref blew his whistle to start the game. We waited, for Leeds to do something, to show that the players did care and that the glory years of Revie’s team weren’t just distant memories.  Leeds dropping into Division Two would be like a royal death, only worse.  We went close to scoring a couple of times in the first twenty minutes.  Gary Hamson had a thirty yarder well saved and Kenny Burns just failed to reach a cross in front of goal – he would’ve got to it if he hadn’t’ve been so bleeding fat – but it was easy to see why both teams were so low in the league.  We only needed a draw but the players hardly seem bothered, I couldn’t believe it.  Before, when Billy Bremner pulled on the number 4 shirt you knew he’d give his all for Leeds, for Don Revie, for the supporters and for the whole bloody city.  He’d never give up ‘til the final whistle: Keep on Fighting.   There was hardly any of that tonight, no spirit or guts and the players were nearly always second best.  We chanted and sang to spur them on, ‘Come on Leeds! Come on Leeds!’  but it didn’t work.  The longer the match went on the more aggravated we got, with more pushing and shoving and threats between the rival fans.  Suddenly there’s this loud clang above us like a big block of cement landing on metal.  The swaying and jostling gets worse and a spill of people makes me lose my balance and bump the bloke in front of me, a big skinhead in an olive green jacket and swastika on the arm.  And as nazi fuckwits do, he picks on the nearest and smallest person to him.  He stares at me as if I’ve done it on purpose and I’m shitting my pants.  I say sorry but he carries on giving me daggers and I carry on bricking it - even after he turns back I don’t feel safe - fucking hell we’re supposed to be on the same side.  And then West Brom score and most of the ground explodes with a roar, a horrible feeling, as if thousands of people are taking the piss.  The police seem to enjoy it as well as they prod and push us in the back with their truncheons.  I look puzzled at one of them to find out what his game is but he just calls me a Leeds bastard, telling me to watch the match.  And then he pokes me in the back harder, and I fall forward, in to the twatting skinhead again.  I freeze as he turns around and grunts  ‘Stop fucking pushing’ and he punches me hard – it’s like a warm half brick has been slammed in to my nose.  I fall back, banging my head on someone’s shins as I land on my backside.  The legs are that copper’s and he yanks me up.  I’m nearly grateful and like a tit think he’s going to help me but before I know it he’s dragging me away and down some steps, pushing me out of the ground through a big iron gate.  I’m pleading with him but he just tells me to piss off home, slamming the gate in my face.  The pain really kicks in now: my head’s pounding and my nose is throbbing like a bastard.  I gag with the thickness of blood and snot flooding my head and I shake like a shiting dog.  I spit in disgust on to a turnstile door but that just makes me feel more pathetic.  Now I know where my urge to spit on people in authority or who piss me off comes from.  Outside the stadium it’s eerie, there’s no one else around and the sound of the crowd feels miles away.  I’m wishing I’m at home with my Mum and our kid - even with the nagging and shit - and I burst out crying.  I can’t help it, my voice is whining an’ all, it’s sickening hearing myself doing it.  It’s the first time since my Dad died and it’s not the last, either.  I trudge off to find the coach, launching missiles of blood and snot in to the floodlit air.  Fucking 1982 what a great year; I leave school for what and Leeds get relegated. 

The journey back was dark and lonely and dragged forever.  Hardly anyone said a word on the coach, not even the bloke next to me.  I felt bad for him because it meant even more to him than to me and I never thought that possible.  Later on we heard there’d been about eighty or so Leeds fans arrested, for fighting and ripping down the fences and invading the pitch.  A couple of coppers got done in an’ all and sad to say it, I really hoped one of them was the bastard who’d shafted me.  We got back at about one in the morning and the driver went out of his way to drop me near our house.  It might not seem like much but I was dead grateful to him, they usually drop you in town, miles away.  From the bottom of our street I could see our yellow living room curtains glowing in the orange darkness, meaning my Mum was still up.  In a way it was a relief - I’d forgotten my key and I knew I was in for a bollocking - I didn’t want to get her out of bed to receive it.  The door was unlocked.  I crept in and found her awake in the armchair in her horrible blue wool dressing gown and even more horrible pink rollers.  She was a good looking woman my Mum, but not in that get up, and her mood was no prettier.  Before she could finish demanding to know where the hell had I been I was kneeling next to her, head on her lap with it all flooding out, crying and apologising.  She stroked my head and said I’d get over it, and then twice she said it, her favourite, ‘It’s only a game’.  And you know what ?  I laughed, I did, I actually laughed.