252 Steps to Heaven

252 Steps to Heaven

Tony Bradley puffed as he continued his inexorable climb up the steep hill. ‘How many steps is it Cathie?’ he asked his diminutive wife who was demonstrating that determination she usually showed when bargain hunting around the shops or dealing with the council. ‘Two hundred and fifty two, Tony and we’re not stopping till we reach the top. There’s a queue behind us so stay oot ay that back pack.’ Tony’s eyebrows rose a little, how the hell did she know he had a half bottle of Bells in his backpack? His wife was a great loss to the KGB, he mused. She knows bloody everything. He glanced behind him to see people older than him struggling up the stairs and one young person who appeared to be doing it on her knees. With that sort of determination on display he knew he’d push on and make it to the top. Even at 60 and with his dodgy knee aching he would push on. He had his pride.

As Tony climbed the stairs in the heat of an early summer day in southern France, his mind wandered to thoughts of home. When Cathie pushed him to come with her to Lourdes his beloved Celtic were well out of contention for the league title. It had been a wretched, inconsistent season where moments of brilliance were often followed by poor displays. Hibs had knocked Celtic out of the cup after some calamitous defending and Hearts had powered to a strong position in the league so he had agreed to come to France. As spring arrived Celtic had finally found their form. A 4-4 draw at Ibrox was followed by seven straight wins which meant the final league match of the season at Love Street saw Celtic in with a slim chance of winning the title. It was slim, unlikely even, Tony mused but it was a chance. They needed Hearts to lose at Dens Park and Celtic to win well at Love Street. How he wished he was there with his son Sean and his brother Frankie.

At that precise moment, almost 2000km North West of Lourdes Sean Bradley poured the cool, amber lager down his throat feeling that familiar tang as he did so. The first pint of the day always tasted best. The pub by Gilmour Street station in Paisley was filling up with Celtic fans ahead of the final match of the season. They had travelled more in hope than expectation but the dull, damp weather couldn’t stop them hoping for a minor miracle. ‘My auld man will miss the game the day.’ he said above the noise of the bar to his uncle Frankie who was looking at his Guinness as if it were the love of his life. ‘Aye, Sean. Whit possessed him tae go tae bloody Lourdes?  Sean shook his head, ‘my maw talked him intae it. She’s always wanted tae go there and saved a few quid on the quiet. Said it’d dae him good and might even cure his sore knee.’ Frankie laughed, ‘A few pints of Guinness and my aches and pains vanish. Here’s tae the Celts winning and Dundee doing us a wee turn today!’ He raised his glass before pouring the cold, dark liquid into his mouth. ‘Ahhhh! Now that’s a pint!’

Somewhere out of sight in the crowded pub someone started singing and other voices joined in until the pub was filled with noise…. ‘In the war against Rangers in the fight for the cup, when Jimmy McGrory put Celtic one up, we’ve done it before and we’ll do it again, on Erin’s green valley look down in thy love.’ Sean and his uncle Frankie joined in, today was a big ask but hey this was Celtic, They knew they’d give their all and hopefully far to the north Dundee would too.

Far to the south Tony Bradley had completed the 252 steps to reach the grotto of Lourdes. Far below in the valley he could see the town and beyond that the patchwork of fields and forests which stretched into the distance. It was quite a sight. Cathie nudged him out of his thoughts, ‘mind and fill this bottle with water for your sister and if you do say a prayer can it be for something worthwhile like world peace and no fitbaw or the 3.30 at Ayr races?’ Tony smiled, she knew him well. They followed the line of pilgrims to the site where the Virgin Mary was said to have appeared to St Bernadette in 1858. Tony glanced at the scores of crutches and walking sticks hanging to the left of the grotto; left it is said by those healed by the miraculous waters of the spring nearby. A statue of the Virgin Mary stood in a hollow in the rock above them. Prayers were being said in a dozen languages and he and Cathie waited their turn to be close to the grotto.

When they reached the assigned spot Cathie took out her rosary beads and was soon lost in prayer. Tony stood silently contemplating his own beliefs. He was probably best described as a hopeful agnostic. Were those walking sticks and crutches left by people healed here or was the healing more psychosomatic? He grew up in a fairly religious house and of course that was reinforced in school. He recalled as a boy being sent on an errand by his teacher and stopping in the corridor to listen to a class somewhere singing a hymn. It was beautiful in its own way but as he grew up the hypocrisy of some ‘believers’ put him off religion a bit. The bible in one hand and the belt in another weren’t designed to inspire confidence. As he pondered these things, his mind slipped to thoughts of the match taking place in Paisley that very afternoon. Now there was something he could believe. Celtic had been part of his life since he could remember. His old man had taken him to his first game at Celtic Park in 1936 where he had watched Jimmy McGrory score a hat-trick as Celtic beat Ayr United 6-0 to seal their first title win in years. He had been hooked ever since. ‘Jeez, 1936?’ he thought to himself, ‘Man I feel old!’  He glanced at his wife, lost in her own thoughts to his left. Maybe she was right and folk shouldn’t ask God for unimportant things like their football team winning. He looked at the statue standing impassively above him, ‘Keep everyone I care about safe eh? 

Back in Paisley, Sean and Frankie were close to the halfway line in the shed opposite the main stand as Celtic in their lime green away strip were ripping St Mirren apart in a first half in which they had played some splendid football. McStay, McGrain, Aitken and Burns were dominating the game while up front McClair and Johnston were in superb form. They had raced into into a two goal lead before scoring a goal of sublime beauty. McGrain facing his own goal had calmly flicked the ball over his shoulder to McStay who exchanged passes with Aitken before slipping it back to McGrain who found Brian McClair with his pass. McClair glided forward, nutmegged a defender and squared the ball to Johnston who slotted the ball into the net. It was a goal of breath-taking beauty. A goal in the fine footballing traditions of Celtic; the game was won and all they needed now was Dundee to do them a big favour.

Sean and his uncle Frankie were delirious under the cover of the shed and sang their hearts out. Celtic were keeping their part of the bargain and now they just needed a break at Dens Park. Celtic went off to rapturous applause at Half time with a 4-0 lead and the job done. Hearts and Dundee were locked at 0-0 but you never knew in football what would happen. They still had hope in their hearts that Dundee would do something in the second half. The second half began in a strange atmosphere as the many thousands of Celtic fans there were intently waiting for news from Dens Park. Even the team seemed to be marking time waiting to see if there would be a breakthrough one way or another in the other game. The minutes ticked agonisingly past and it was still 0-0 at Dens. If it stayed that way Hearts would be champions. Sean looked at his uncle, the strain written on his face, ‘Hope to hell Dundee score!’ His uncle nodded, ‘It’s never over till it’s over.’ 

In Lourdes Tony Bradley was filling his sister’s water bottle at a line of taps which fed directly from the mountain spring at the grotto. Nearby was a pool it was said people in dire need bathed in to cure their ills. He finished and wandered over to the pool as Cathie filled her bottles. He put his right hand in his pocket and felt the metallic outline of an enamelled Celtic badge he had brought with him. He held it in the palm of his hand and studied it; it showed the club crest with a small silver European cup in the centre and the words ‘Lisbon 1967.’ His old man had given it to him and it was a sort of lucky talisman for him. Without thinking he glanced around before throwing it into the pool. ‘Aw right God, I know yer busy with wars and exploding nuclear plants but if ye can see yer way clear tae helping the Celts out today I’d be much obliged.’

2000km away in Dundee the home side were introducing their substitute, a boyhood Celtic fan who went by the name of Albert Kidd. It’s never over till it’s over.