Going home for Christmas

 

Going home for Christmas

Tony Daly loved these nights at Celtic Park, surrounded by his family. The Kerrydale Suite was packed for the Christmas eve dance and the band was in full swing. He sat at the table drinking his Guinness and watched the others dance. At 70, his dancing days were over and his doctor had been clear enough the previous week that time was short and any physical exertion might shorten it further. ‘Too bad we have tae get old,’ he thought to himself as he stood and headed out of the hall for a smoke. He took the stairs carefully, one at a time, wheezing with the exertion. The two men in smart Celtic blazers who minded the door and smiled at him. ‘Just going oot for a puff,’ Tony said as he passed them.

As he stood in the car park gazing around at the fine stadium Celtic had built for themselves, his mind drifted back to his many trips to Celtic Park with his old man and uncle Frank. They’d lift him over the turnstile and find a spot at the front of the Celtic end where he’d watch, entranced by Jimmy Johnstone, Murdoch, Auld and all the rest of that wonderful team. There had been some bad days too when he first started going regularly to matches. Heavy defeats, painful disappointments and a lot of false dawns. Things had changed when Jock Stein arrived though. The orchestra had a real conductor then.

He exhaled his smoke into the cold December air as he gazed across the car park at the three statues guarding the place; the good Brother, the boss and the winger. Each in their own way vital to Celtic. His eyes traversed along the banners covering the stadium walls. They showed great players, great victories and some of the men who made Celtic great. He recalled his old man limping up Kerrydale Street with him, his familiar gait caused by an accident in the old Caledonian railway works in Springburn. He always felt safe with him. He was always there to solve disputes, to deal with problems and support Tony and his brothers in every way he could. ‘I miss you, da,’ he said to no one in particular as he through his cigarette butt onto the tarmac and turned to go back inside.

The two green blazered door men where nowhere to be seen as Tony entered the Kerrydale Suite. He glanced at the stairway which led up to the Kerrydale Suite, then at the door which led under the Jock Stein stand. He paused momentarily before deciding to have a look around before heading back upstairs. He pushed through the doorway into the familiar concourse beneath the stand. The food and betting kiosks were closed and his slow footsteps echoed in the silent corridor. He turned right and walked down the entranceway to the lower stand and was rewarded with a fine view of that field of dreams he had visited so often as man and boy. It still entranced him as he gazed out over the dimly lit pitch. So many games he had watched here in his life, so many long-gone friends and relatives by his side. It was as if this place was a great cathedral of memory; the very air hung heavy with emotion, reminiscence of great games and players and the echoes of songs. God, he loved this place, loved his club.

He coughed one of those painful racking coughs, which had become more common as his illness had progressed. He sat on one of the green seats at the front of the stand to catch his breath. A wave of weariness flowed over him. When was the last time he had an unbroken sleep? He closed his eyes and exhaled, God, he was tired. Tired of broken sleep, of injections, of rattling like a pill bottle each day with all the medication he took. He breathed deeply and felt himself drifting off to sleep.

A familiar voice caused him to awake with a jolt, ‘come on Jimmy, get the ball passed out wide!’ Tony gazed at the pitch and saw several figures involved in training drills. The unmistakable figure of Jock Stein was barking out orders and players ran here and there with the ball. ‘Bertie! Ye don’t need to tackle like that in bloody training! I want him fit for Saturday.’ Tony watched as the dark-haired midfielder helped the diminutive Jimmy Johnstone to his feet, a roguish smile creasing his face. Tony smiled at the familiar faces he saw on the pitch. Billy, John Clarke, big Tam, Lemon, Murdy, Wispy, Faither, they were all there. He watched, utterly entranced as the heroes of his youth went through their paces.

Other players were jogging around the track and it was only as they approached, that he noticed something was amiss. Their training gear looked so old fashioned. It was only when they ran past him that he saw their faces. ‘My God, ‘he mumbled, ‘McGrory, Thomson, Peter Scarff…’ He was utterly bewildered when a familiar voice spoke to him, ‘Tony, son, it’s me,’ He turned to see his father hirpling towards him, his familiar limp as pronounced as ever. ‘Da? What’s going on?’ His old man smiled, taking off his Celtic scarf and putting it around Tony’s neck. ‘Nothing for you to worry about son. It’s just time to go home.’

As he took his father’s hand, he was a boy again. He felt that familiar strong grip and felt safe and secure. He was happy. He was going home.

The frantic search for Tony Daly by his family that Christmas eve only ended when a sharp-eyed policeman noticed the door to the concourse under the Jock Stein stand was unlocked. He had followed his instincts and looked around until he saw Tony sitting in the front row of the stand. A brief check for a pulse told him all he needed to know. He radioed it in and waited with the still and silent old man until help arrived. The old fella had a what looked like a contented smile on his face and in his hands, he held an old-style Celtic scarf. ‘Ah well, pal,’ the policeman said quietly, ‘at least you passed in a place you loved.’ 

He got that right.