The child of Lisbon

 

The child of Lisbon

Johnny Doolin counted out the money again onto the coffee table in his mother’s house. ‘Eighteen quid, ten and six.  Still nearly thirty quid short.’ His older brother, Harry shook his head. ‘We still have a week tae find the money but this flying caper scares the living daylights oot of me.’ Johnny regarded him, ‘Harry we need tae get there on Thursday and be back on Friday. I’ll be papped oot my job if I’m no on the shop floor on the Monday morning. It takes too long on the bus and it’d knacker ye.’ The older of the Doolin boys nodded his head, ‘McKay won’t pay me till the Friday so we need to find thirty quid plus spending money- and the money for the tickets by next week. Any ideas?’ Harry thought for a moment, ’there is always Geezer?’ Johnny Doolin looked at his brother, ‘that parasite?  Borrow ten, pay back fifteen or we break yer legs?’ Harry shrugged, ‘if we don’t have the money for the flights and tickets soon, we might as well watch it on the telly.’ Johnny sighed, ‘I want tae go tae Lisbon, Harry. We might never have a chance like this again.’

Andy McGee, known as Geezer to one and all in the Gorbals looked at Johnny Doolin in the manner a lion looks at a wildebeest. Two of his acolytes, mean looking men with scarred faces and restless eyes, silently observed Johnny too. Geezer laid out his terms in a monotone voice, ‘forty quid? Ye pay back fifty within two weeks or it goes up by a fiver a week after that. Non payment leads to consequences, a vanishing act leads tae consequences for yer maw’s windaes and yer da’s face. We got a deal?’ Johnny nodded and the money lender counted out the money in crisp five-pound notes. ‘Aw this for a fitbaw match?  Ye must love that fuckin team.’ Johnny left the pub feeling a little grubby having dealings with such a man but it was deadline day for the flights and his contact for the match tickets.

He laid the flight tickets on the table as his brother Harry watched him with a serious face. ‘Flight and match tickets sorted, Portuguese money in that envelope and two days off work organised. We’re good tae go.’ Harry pursed his lips, ‘I hear you tapped that shark, McGee for the money. You aff yer fuckin’ head? How are we going to find fifty quid in two weeks? I earn fifteen quid a week and you’re oan less at the railway?’ Johnny Doolin sighed, ‘Harry, this is history. Let’s just go tae Lisbon, cheer the Celts on and we’ll deal with Geezer when we get back.’ His brother looked angry as he replied, ‘Johnny, the man’s a maniac. He had a guy chibbed for not paying back ten quid. If we cannae pay him back, he’ll get his gorillas tae hospitalise us both.’ Johnny shrugged, ‘we’ll deal with it. Meanwhile, pack a bag for Lisbon.’  Harry Doolin was silent for a moment as he thought of what to do. ‘Right, Johnny, we’ll go but they’d better win or all of this is for nothing.’

The night before the flight to Lisbon, Johnny Doolin went into his mother’s room while she was watching tv. On the dressing table sat a statue of the child of Prague. Johnny had knocked it over as a boy and the head had come off. His late father had glued it back on, assuring him that it was good luck to decapitate this particular statue. He carefully lifted the child of Prague statue from the dresser and turned it upside down. The bottom of the statue was stamped with a number 21 and also had a small hole in it which led to the hollow interior. He rolled up a piece of paper until it resembled a small cigarette and pushed it into the hole.

He had neglected to tell Harry that ten pounds of the money he borrowed from Geezer had been bet on Celtic winning the cup. If things worked out, he’d have enough to pay off Geezer and a bit left over. They had staked a lot on this trip and Celtic needed to help them out. He carefully placed the statue back on the dresser, patting it on the head and saying quietly, ‘geeza break, Jesus, eh?’

Lisbon was like a dream. The two working class young men from Glasgow joined the legions of Celtic supporters descending on the Portuguese capital for the 1967 European Cup final. They caught a taxi out to the stadium for the match and found the very air there throbbed and hummed with Celtic songs. This was it. Celtic’s date with destiny. A club born into an impoverished migrant community had reached the very top of Scottish football, could they climb this final Everest and conquer Europe too?

Harry and Johnny Doolin had put all thoughts of Glasgow and Geezer out of their minds as the match started. The sunlit amphitheatre of the Estadio Nacional became the centre of the universe for the brothers as it was for hundreds of thousands of Celtic fans around the world. As the play raged towards the Inter goal, Johnny said a quiet prayer, ‘I don’t ask ye for much, God, but I’m asking ye noo. Let Celtic win this one, eh?’ Harry looked at his brother, who had his eyes momentarily closed. ‘You praying, bro? Johnny nodded as he focused on the game. Harry smiled, ‘I suppose it’s good tae have faith in God, but I’ve got faith Jock and the team too.’

The next two hours had a dream like quality about them. Inter took the lead against the run of play but Celtic refused to buckle. Wave after wave of Celtic attacks broke on the finest defence in Europe but even a fool could see they were living a charmed life. Celtic rained shots on the Inter goal. Sarti performed heroics for the Italians but it was coming, it had to come. In 63 minutes, the world seemed to go momentarily silent as Johnny Doolin watched Jim Craig hold the ball on the edge of the Inter box. Craig held up the ball as if waiting on something, before playing a crisp pass across the 18 yard line where his fellow full back, Tommy Gemmell, was arriving like a train. There beneath the azure skies of Portugal, the big Lanarkshire man met the ball with a crashing right foot and it exploded into the net behind Sarti. Inter were broken, the walls were tumbling down and there would only be one winner now. The two brothers held each other close for the longest time as the supporters around them went crazy. ‘Come on Celtic!’ Johnny roared, ‘one more, just one more…’

The journey back to Glasgow was a haze of laughter, joy and alcohol. They had done it. Celtic were champions of Europe! The touched down in Glasgow airport and were applauded through arrivals as if they were players. It was the happiest day of their lives. Glasgow was buzzing as they made their way home. People wore smiles and greeted each other with hugs in the street. The brothers hugged their mother when they entered their humble tenement flat. ‘We did it, ma! We did it!’ In the hallway, the two sons and their mother held each other close and cried tears of absolute joy. ‘I know you did, boys. I watched it oan the telly, it was magnificent.’

Agnes Doolin fed her boys well as she knew they’d doubtless be heading for the pub later that evening. When the meal was over and she popped across the landing to show her neighbour the sombrero Johnny had brought back from Lisbon for her. As she did so, her youngest son slipped quietly into her room to recover the betting slip. He lifted the statue and using a small screwdriver, widened the hole in the base until he was able to prise it out. He had convinced himself before he put his bet on that the number 21 stamped onto the bottom of the statue was an omen.

He held the small piece of paper up and read it quietly to himself. ‘Celtic to beat Inter Milan 2-1. Odds 9/1.’ He smiled at the cherub like face of the stature. ‘Thanks, wee man. I knew you wouldn’t let us down.’ As he left the room, he turned and smiled at the statue again, ‘and I knew Jock and the boys wouldn’t let us down either. By the way, you’ll be known as the child of Lisbon from now on. I hope that’s okay.’