Always Celtic

 

Glasgow 2026

Tony Walsh settled into his seat at the back of the South Stand at Celtic Park, easing himself down with the quiet deliberation of a man whose knees had begun to remind him of the passing years. Before him, the great green sweep of the pitch lay bathed in the soft golden light of a May afternoon, while across the field the vast North Stand rose into the Glasgow sky. He gazed at it for a long moment, though it wasn't really the North Stand he was seeing. In his mind's eye, the years fell away, and there it was again. The old Jungle. That glorious, ramshackle cathedral of noise and passion, where thousands had stood shoulder to shoulder, their voices rising together beneath a low roof that seemed barely capable of containing them. It had been rough and ready in those days, a place of rattling barriers, cigarette smoke, steaming breath and language that would have made a docker blush. But, by God, the lads and lassies who gathered there knew how to back their team. They had sung through the sunshine and the rain, through triumph and despair, and on the great European nights their roar had seemed powerful enough to shake the very foundations of dear old Paradise.

Tony could almost hear them now. He smiled to himself; a small, private smile touched with the melancholy that comes when a man remembers something wonderful that the world has long since swept away. Today was his sixtieth birthday. Sixty. The number seemed faintly ridiculous. He could scarcely reconcile it with the ten-year-old boy who had first fallen hopelessly in love with Celtic half a century before. Back then, summers had seemed endless, footballers had been giants, and the thought of growing old had belonged to some distant, unimaginable world. Yet here he was, with fifty years of memories tucked away inside him like old photographs in a battered shoebox.

He had lived through the magic of the Centenary season, when Billy McNeill had brought the glory home in a year that seemed written by the footballing gods themselves. He had known the almost unbearable joy of stopping the ten, when Henrik Larsson and his teammates had lifted a weight from the shoulders of a generation. He had witnessed another nine in a row, and that unforgettable November night when Barcelona, with all their riches and all their stars, had come to Celtic Park on the club's 125th birthday and departed defeated.

And there had been darker days, too. Days when the football was poor, the future uncertain and the old place seemed to echo with frustration rather than song. He had known disappointment enough to last several lifetimes. But never, not once, had he stopped loving Celtic. How could he? The club was woven into the fabric of his existence, stitched through the years as surely as the green and white hoops were stitched into the jerseys. It had been there through childhood and adolescence, through marriage, fatherhood, bereavement and all the ordinary triumphs and heartbreaks that make up a life. And now, on this warm May afternoon, with the league title hanging in the balance, Tony knew precisely what he wanted for his birthday.

There were few presents left that a man of sixty truly needed. But this one, he reckoned, would do very nicely indeed. ‘Alright, Tony. Are we winning this league today?’ The voice broke gently into his thoughts. Tony turned to see Alan McIntyre making his way along the row, wearing the familiar grin that had accompanied him through the best part of half a century. ‘Is the Pope a Catholic?’ Tony replied. Alan chuckled as he lowered himself carefully into the seat beside him. ‘This one is. The last one wasn't.’ They laughed, as they had laughed at a thousand daft remarks over the years, though Tony's amusement faded a little as he studied his old friend.

Everyone called him Aldo. They had done since school, and it was difficult now to imagine him answering to anything else. He had grown terribly thin. The cruel disease that had taken hold of him two years earlier had been an uninvited companion ever since, stealing a little more of him with every passing month. His face was pale, the bones more prominent than Tony cared to acknowledge, and there was a weariness about his movements that no amount of cheerful banter could quite disguise. Yet the old spark remained in his eyes. ‘How are you, Aldo?’ Tony asked, keeping his voice light. "You up for this today?’ ‘Aye, mate. As long as Martin doesn't want me in the midfield, I'll be fine.’ Tony laughed again, grateful for the joke, grateful for the familiar voice, grateful, most of all, that his friend was sitting beside him.

They had known each other since they were boys, two skinny wee rascals with scuffed knees and grand ambitions, chasing a football across the enormous black ash pitch behind St Roch’s. They had played until darkness swallowed the goalposts, until their mothers called them home, until their lungs burned and their legs could carry them no farther. In those days, they had imagined themselves wearing the Hoops, scoring winners at Hampden, hearing fifty thousand voices chanting their names. Life, of course, had made other arrangements. There had been jobs and mortgages, weddings and children, bills to pay and people to bury. There had been good years and bad years, arguments quickly forgotten and friendships that had endured everything the passing decades could throw at them. And somehow, through it all, there had always been Celtic.

Tony looked out across the pitch again. The sunlight caught the white lines, and somewhere in the stands a familiar song was beginning to rise. ‘Do you remember the last time we had a last-day do-or-die involving Hearts?’ he asked. Aldo's expression brightened. ‘Love Street, '86. Who could ever forget that day? Christ, what an afternoon that was. Aye. Nearly gave me a heart attack, and I was only twenty.’ Tony shook his head, smiling at the memory. He could still recall the tension, the desperate waiting, the extraordinary release when news came through from Dens Park. Albert Kidd. Two goals that had travelled through the years and lodged themselves forever in Celtic folklore.

He remembered the celebrations afterwards, the sheer, unrestrained joy of being young and believing that nothing truly bad could ever happen while there was football to be played and another Saturday to look forward to. They had been twenty years old then. Twenty. Tony turned towards his friend, and for a fleeting moment he could see the boy Aldo had once been. The cheeky grin, the unruly hair, the skinny legs flying across the black ash pitch, the whole magnificent future stretching out before him. Now they were sixty, and the future no longer seemed quite so generous with its promises. ‘Where did those forty years go?’ Tony asked softly. Aldo looked at him, then out across the sunlit grass. For a while he said nothing. Perhaps he was searching for an answer. Perhaps, like Tony, he was watching for the ghosts of their younger selves, across the pitch in the old Jungle, a place and a time that existed only in memory.

At last, he gave a small shrug. ‘I don't know, mate,’ he said. "But we had some laughs along the way, didn't we?’ Tony swallowed, feeling an unexpected tightness in his throat. ‘Aye, Aldo,’ he replied. ‘We certainly did.’ And for a few moments they sat together in companionable silence, two old friends surrounded by thousands of other Celtic fans, listening to the gathering songs of Celtic Park. The afternoon was warm, the grass was green, and there was a championship to be won. For now, that was enough. Tony glanced once more at the man beside him, then towards the old Jungle that lived on in his imagination. He had come to Paradise hoping for a birthday present today. But as the voices rose around him, he wondered whether, in some quiet and immeasurable way, he had already received it. His mind drifted back to days long gone…

 

Glasgow 1986

The tv rental van purred to a stop outside the middle tower block of the three which stood on Roystonhill like grim, Orwellian filing cabinets. Tony picked up his ball and watched from the nearby red ash pitch as three guys he had gone to school with went into action. One followed the tv rental man into the flats and gave the thumbs up to two others outside once the unsuspecting delivery man was in the lift. In a flash they smashed the back window of the van and legged it down the road carrying with them two video recorders. It had all taken just a few seconds. Tony’s friend, Aldo, called to him. ‘Are we playing fitbaw or not?’ Tony looked at him, ‘aye, mate. Just watching the hole in the wall gang bump the Radio Rental van again. Asking for trouble. They’re doin’ that every bloody week now.’  Aldo gazed at the glass on the ground from the van, noticing that none of the passers-by batted an eyelid at the incident. The golden rule of the Glasgow schemes remained the same; it was none of your business- you saw and heard nothing. Especially if the police asked.

Tony and Aldo played football for an hour under leaden skies, before heading for home. As they parted, Tony shouted to his friend, ‘I’ll see ye for the bus at one o’clock. We’ve got a snowball in hells chance of winning this league but who knows, Hearts might bottle it.’ Two hours later, Aldo was at his door wearing his new lime green Celtic top. ‘Mon you, time to get moving.’ Tony smiled, sensing the excitement in his friend’s voice. ‘Let me grab my scarf and I’ll be right with you.’ As they piled onto the supporters bus with the old hands who had seen it all and the kids who were hungry to taste that history too, there was hope, however slim, in the air. As the bus pulled onto the M8 for the short journey to Paisley, the songs began to flow. The last act of a topsy turvy season was about to be played out.

Some moments pass in a blur, while others embed themselves in memory like jewels on a crown. Such a moment came to pass at Love Street on that damp May afternoon in 1986. With Celtic already 2 goals ahead, Danny McGrain flicked a defensive clearance over his head with considerable skill to Murdo MacLeod who played it back to him. The veteran full back fed Paul McStay who performed a slick Cruyff turn to lose a St Mirren midfielder. He slipped the ball infield to Aitken who instantly fed the overlapping McGrain. The bearded full back played it forward to Brian McClair who nutmegged the centre half before driving into the box and crossing for Maurice Johnston, who swept the ball into the net. It was a goal of breathtaking beauty. This was football as it was meant to be played. This was football played the Celtic way. They had swept St Mirren aside, now they could only wait for news from Dundee…

The following morning Tony dragged himself to the local shop. Irn Bru might not cure hangovers but it helped a little. He was surprised to see Aldo already there. ‘Alright mate? You survive last night?’ Aldo managed a bleary grin. ‘Aye, just getting the papers tae read about it all again. That was some finish tae a season.’ As they stepped out of the shop, Tony swigging his Irn Bru, a big lorry drew up at the flats bearing the livery of Radio Rentals. From their customary vantage point, the Hole in the Wall Gang watched with the keen interest of prospectors discovering an unexpected seam of gold. Their eyes travelled over the enormous vehicle, their imaginations already furnishing its interior with televisions, video recorders and enough electronic treasure to keep them in beer money for months. ‘Here we go again,’ said the watching Tony. As the truck driver headed into the flats, the signal was given and five eager young men raced quickly towards the rear of the truck. One of them gave the roller door a push and it flew upwards. What happed next would become the stuff of local legend. Aldo and Tony saw the astonishing sight of a dozen police officers leaping from the back of the truck as the gang scattered like scalded cats! ‘Aldo looked on, his mouth hanging open, watching as the hunters became the hunted. He looked at Tony. ‘I never saw that coming!’ Tony laughed, ‘this place is feckin mental.’

Glasgow 2026

The two old friends watched as an afternoon filled with tension unfolded before them. As the game entered its dying embers, Aldo looked at Tony, ‘We need a goal here. One like that third one in 86 will do fine.’ Tony, his nerves fraught kept his eyes on the field as Callum Osmand burst into the penalty area, carrying with him the hopes of an entire stadium. For one brief, breathless instant, time seemed to slow. He drove the ball across the face of goal, where Daizen Maeda arrived in a tangle of limbs and desperate determination to bundle it over the line. Celtic Park erupted. Then as deafening whistles urged the referee to end the match, Hearts won a free kick thirty yards from goal. Aldo closed his eyes, ‘I cannae watch this, pal. My nerves are shredded.’ Through the self-imposed darkness he heard Tony screaming, ‘Look Aldo! Open yer bloody eyes, mate!’ Aldo uncovered his eyes to see that a small miracle had occurred. Instead of Hearts piling players into the Celtic box, three Celtic players, their green and white shirts glowing magically in the May sunshine, raced towards an unguarded Hearts goal to deliver the deciding blow in a long season with literally the last kick of the game.

Tony turned towards Aldo, his face wet with tears. For a moment neither man could speak. Then Aldo threw his arms around his oldest friend with a strength that seemed to come from somewhere beyond his failing body. ‘We've done it, Tony! We've bloody done it!’ They clung to one another as the stadium trembled around them, two sixty-year-old men weeping without shame, just as they had embraced amid the glorious pandemonium of Love Street forty years before.

Tony closed his eyes and there, for the briefest instant, he was twenty again. He could smell the damp terraces of Love Street, hear the crackle of the old transistor radios, feel the crush of the crowd as news of Albert Kidd's goals swept through the Celtic support. He could see Aldo as he had been then, young and strong, his whole life stretching out before him like a road without end. The years had taken much from them. They always did. But they had not taken this. Not the friendship. Not the memories. Not the love of a football club that had accompanied them from the bright innocence of childhood to the gentler, more fragile light of their later years. Aldo slipped an arm around Tony's shoulder, and together they joined the singing, their voices lost among the thousands.

For one more golden afternoon, the years had fallen away. The old place still held its magic. And the fairy-tale, thank God, still had a few chapters left to tell.