Sunday 6 October 2024

Always have been and always will be - Celtic



The train glided into Dortmund Hauptbahnhof with almost stereotypical German efficiency. 'Right oan time,' smiled Barry looking at his long time friend Sniper. They been on many European trips together and had shared some interesting adventures from Seville to Trondheim as they followed Celtic. Sniper opened his bloodshot eyes, 'what the fuck was in that Dutch firewater we drank last night?' Barry sorted his bag as he replied, 'Jenever is gin but I only had a mouthful, you tanned the lot. I telt ye it was 50% proof, but wid ye listen?  Naw, wid ye feck! ' Sniper stood unsteadily, 'that us in Dortmund then?' Barry pointed through the window to a huge sign which read, 'Dortmund Hauptbahnhof.' 'Well spotted, Sherlock, noo lets find our digs before we head intae toon tae find the fanzone.'

Dortmund city centre looked shiny and modern, which in fact it was as the RAF had utterly destroyed it during the war. The two friends made their way through the busy streets towards Linienstrasse where a room and hopefully a shower awaited. The street was long and narrow with tall buildings on either side. The buildings on the right were orange in colour and Barry studied the numbers as they walked. Sniper looked at the graffiti covered walls, 'looks like fuckin Drumchapel here. You sure this place is legit?' Barry nodded, 'Aye. I typed in that we needed wan night's bed and board when I booked it.' He found the number he was looking for and pushed the buzzer. A woman responded in German, 'Hallo, wer is da?'  Barry rolled his eyes, 'morning. Ye speak English, doll?'  Without any further verbal response the door buzzed open and the two Glaswegians stepped into the dark interior of the building.

Barry and Sniper gazed at the black painted walls as they stood at the bottom of the stairway. 'She must be a Goth,' Sniper mumbled as he began to ascend the stairs. As they neared the top of the stairs, a woman appeared. She had a mop of untidy black hair and wore a short leather skirt and a white blouse. Barry looked at his friend but said nothing. 'Ah my Scottish guests have arrived,' she said with a smile, 'no kilts? I like kilts.' Sniper regarded her, 'naw doll, a bit hill-billy for the auld kilt.' The woman looked at him as if he was speaking Mandarin. Barry continued the conversation in slightly more formal English, 'can you show us our room please?' She nodded, 'follow me, Scottish boys. I am Krista.' 

They walked along a short corridor which had three black painted doors on either side. 'Like the fuckin Crystal maze in here, Barry,' Sniper mumbled. 'You can sure pick a B and B.' The woman stopped at a door and opened it. 'This is your room. I hope you enjoy your stay.' With that she pushed open the door and gestured for them to enter. They did as they were bid and found themselves standing in a curiously decorated room which had two single beds and a large wardrobe. Everything was the same colour; pillar-box red. 'Sniper looked around in silence before saying, 'who's her interior designer? Stevie fuckin Wonder?' As the woman left, Barry looked at his friend. 'I think this place is an ex-knocking shop.' Sniper shrugged, 'Aye, well we're here tae see the Hoops no get you yer Nat King. So drop the bags and lets head intae the toon.' 

A few hours and a few pints of Erdinger later, they were squeezing into the away section of the magnificent Westfalen Stadion to see their team take on the previous season's Champions League runners up. The opening minutes of the game were a blur of noise and action. Dortmund took the lead before Daizen Maeda bundled in an equaliser. The joy in the Celtic section was short lived as the slick and powerful German side clinically took Celtic apart. As the fifth goal was rattled past an exasperated Kasper Schmeichel, Sniper looked incredulously at Barry, 'they're good but by fuck we're wide open!' Barry had to agree. Brendan Rodgers had a track record of going toe to toe with much better sides and it usually ended badly for Celtic. Too many players were hiding or acting like rabbits caught in the headlights of an approaching car. The second half was a slight improvement, but only because the Germans had slipped down a gear or two. When the horror show was over, it was 7-1.

As they trooped out of the stadium, the Celtic fans were still singing defiantly, but they knew they'd been outclassed on the night. 'That was embarrassing, ' Barry said to Sniper, 'if they needed ten goals they'd probably have gotten them.'  Sniper nodded, 'I thought we were wisening up in Europe but we're still soft touches.' Barry nodded, 'aye, still, we have six more games. I still fancy us tae pick up nine or ten points.' Sniper shook his head, 'playing like that, they couldnae pick up flu in an epidemic!' Barry had to laugh. 'We're in this for the long haul, mate. Celtic's like a tattoo, once it's on ye, it's there for life.' Sniper looked at him, 'aye, yer right enough, short arse. Faithful through and through and aw that. Noo, let's go and get pished.' It sounded like a good idea to Barry.

They awoke in their red room early the next morning, heads throbbing and throats as dry as the Sahara. 'Whit time is it, Barry?' croaked Sniper. 'We need tae catch that train tae Amsterdam.'  Barry looked at his phone, 'five past seven. Best get up.' He wandered unsteadily into the small bathroom and clicked on the light. He looked at himself in the mirror over the sink, 'aw, Jesus, ah look as rough as a badger's arse.' A brief shower made little difference but at least he was ready for the journey home.

The train to Amsterdam was full of Celtic fans heading for Schiphol airport and their flights home. Most wanted to sleep the night's excesses away but oddly Barry and Sniper were wide awake. 'Seen us take a few gubbings in Europe but that wan was the worst,' Barry said, gazing at the back page of the newspaper being read by the man opposite him. Sniper disagreed, Barcelona and PSG were worse, but they were all pretty sore.' Barry looked at him, 'why do we follow this team? Spend hundreds of pounds and watch them get pumped?' Sniper shrugged, 'it's out team, mate. It was our da's team before that and our grandads tae. We're Celtic. We always have been and we always will be.' Barry smiled, 'aye. We've had some good time tae, eh? Liverpool, Blackburn, even yon time in Stuttgart when you thought you were nipping a burd and it turned out tae be a tranny.' He laughed and Sniper joined him, 'aye, clear case of hand ball that night.' Barry laughed, 'nae VAR needed that night, mate. Yer arm was in an unnatural position aw right.' They both laughed loudly, the bonds of shared experiences strong with them.

Somewhere down the train someone starting singing a familiar song and a good few weary voices joined in... 'We don't care if we win lose or draw, what the hell do we care. For we only know that there's gonnae be a show and the Glasgow Celtic will be there.' Sniper sipped his can of beer and looked at Barry. 'If Celtic think I'm gonnae haul my arse all the way tae Dingwall on Sunday after that shit show last night... they'd be dead right!'  Barry grinned, 'me tae, mate. Yer team is yer team.'





Saturday 21 September 2024

Last night as I lay dreaming



Last night as I lay dreaming

Watching Celtic play in the Champions League over the past decade or so has been akin to watching someone make the same mistake over and over again. Sloppy goals conceded, the more street wise teams we have played mugging us and those with more ability praising us for the atmosphere at Celtic Park before waltzing off with three points in the bag. There were hard luck stories along the way but in truth 3 wins in 32 Champions league matches before Wednesday night tells us all we need to know. Celtic has for too long been failing in Europe’s top club competition and seriously underperforming when compared to some clubs with less resources than us. Celtic have slipped to 66th place in UEFA’s co-efficient rankings, below clubs such as Bodo Glimpt. Molde, Tel Aviv and Dynamo Zagreb. All of those clubs, struggle to get 10,000 fans at their league matches.

Something was different on Wednesday night though. I fully accept that the relatively inexperienced Slovan Bratislava side was the perfect opponent for us on match day one, but Celtic was in the mood from the kick off and so too were the fans. The team has been playing well and continued in that vein against the Slovaks. Part of the problem Celtic have endured in the Champions League in recent years has been squandering most of the chances they create. That clinical edge we see from the best sides was often lacking. This week, the team scored 5 goals and could have had a few more. They have an attack with real pace and competition in key areas of the side. The manager is being backed in the transfer market and has added some quality to the squad. On top of this he seems to be improving individual players as well as impressing on the side the attitude they need to adopt to be successful.

The club’s model of developing young talent and selling them on to the richer leagues has been very successful financially and Matt O’Riley’s transfer fee covered most of this season’s purchases. In Arne Engels they look to have secured a young talent who will adequately replace Matt and who also has boundless potential. In the past we haven’t always replaced quality with quality like this and the depth of talent and experience in the squad clearly wasn’t adequate for the challenges of Europe. This season, the club seems to have got it right. The bench against Slovan Bratislava had men like Idah, Forrest, Bernardo, Trusty, McCowan, Palma, Ralston and Valle waiting to come on. That strength in depth will be needed in the depths of winter when the fixtures come thick and fast.

It was telling that Brendan Rodgers said, ‘this feels like the most-ready I’ve been as a manager. (for the Champions league) He clearly feels the squad is evolving in the correct manner. As an elite manager, he has demonstrated again that given the right backing, he can improve the Celtic team. The players are clearly responding to him and confidence is high. He handles the media well and knows that the Celtic support is hungry to make an impression on the park in Europe. It’s no longer enough for us to hear foreign players to say, ‘what an atmosphere,’ we want them to be speaking about the Celtic team too.

Nor are the fans content with staying ahead of Rangers domestically, they want to halt the slide of our European reputation and have a team to be proud of. We all recognise that the big leagues with their huge resources will always hoover up the top talent and our upcoming fixtures in the Champions league will be hugely challenging. No one expects us to go to Italy or Germany and cuff their multi-talented sides. We do however expect Celtic to go there and compete. We want their fans talking about our players and not just our terrific fans.

In 2004-05 season, Celtic was ranked 22nd in UEFA’s co-efficient. Twenty years on we have dropped 44 places to 66. The football world has moved on greatly in those twenty years and we recognise that Martin O’Neill had built a very good side back then. However, O’Neill was backed with relatively big money to bring in the likes of Hartson, Sutton and Lennon. He was also a good judge of a player who wouldn’t be fobbed off with inexpensive ‘projects.’ He knew the side needed quality, experienced professionals and when he got them, Celtic’s fortunes improved greatly. Celtic are now in a position of financial strength to back Brendan Rodgers in a similar way and get Celtic at least competing again with the big boys in Europe. We have the stadium, the fan base and the financial muscle to develop further and we must.

The banner in section 111 at Wednesday’s game with Slovan Bratislava contained the words ‘last night as I lay dreaming…’ alongside an image of John Clarke and Billy McNeill with the European cup. We all know that it is now a dream that a club from a country the size of Scotland could win the Champions league, but we do dream of building a side that is respected in Europe again; one that makes visiting Celtic Park a daunting prospect for any side. Brendan Rodgers said to his young side that they must make Celtic Park, ‘Paradise for us but hell for the opposition.’  Celtic now have all the pieces in place to make that come true again.

The first tentative step in the restoration of our European reputation came in that 5-1 victory over Slovan. It was the first chink of light after a long dark night in the Champions league for Celtic. I hope and pray that it isn’t another false dawn. There will be tough moments ahead but we face the future once more with hope in our hearts.



 


Friday 6 September 2024

The Bridges of Glasgow

 

Ireland 1881

Fergal O’Sullivan ran as fast as his young legs would carry him. The soft dampness of the bog, cushioning his feet as he sped over a familiar landscape. He knew that the mounted police detachment would be sticking to the roads and tracks, but it would still be a close thing if he was to warn his father and the others that they were coming. He leaped like a hare over puddles and low spots that he knew would slow him down; he had to reach the drier land of McTaggart’s meadow before the horsemen did. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest and his breath coming in cold, sharp mouthfuls as he sped onward. Two ravens cawed their complaints at him for disturbing their peace, flying to safety at the top of a gnarled old bog oak. They watched as Fergal leapt like a young deer over a dark puddle of brown water and at last reached the drier land of the meadow.

The large wooden barn stood a dozen yards ahead of him and gave the impression of being deserted. Fergal clambered over the rickety boundary fence almost without breaking stride.  He noticed a tall, thin man standing sentinel in front of the closed barn doors. He was sucking on a clay pipe and regarding the approaching boy with a concerned eye. Fergal splashed through the puddles in the farmyard, scattering the chickens as he went, and raced past the watching man without a word. He pushed at the heavy barn door and it opened enough for him to squeeze inside. He clambered onto a bale of hay and scanned the scores of faces, looking for his father. John O’Sullivan was near the front, avidly listening to the man standing on the bed of McTaggart’s cart, addressing the assembled farmers and agricultural labourers.  Even at twelve years of age, Fergal knew it was Michael Davitt. The missing arm he had lost in a mill accident in England when he was but a boy, meant one sleeve of his coat hung empty by his side. He also had a natural air of authority as he spoke and Fergal was loathe to interrupt him. There was no time to lose though and much as it embarrassed Fergal to shout over the man speaking, he knew he had to. He cupped his hands by his mouth and roared out, ‘Peelers, the peelers are coming!’

The effect on the assembled crowd was instant and Fergal could feel the change in atmosphere his words had provoked in the barn. There was much worried murmuring and consternation before Davitt spoke in a commanding voice. ‘Gentlemen! Please be quiet!’ Turning to Fergal he asked, ‘How far away are they, lad? How many of them are there?’ Fergal felt every head in the cavernous barn turn to face him but remained composed, ‘Twenty at least, on horseback. They’re on the famine road, they’ll be here soon.’ Davitt ordered the assembled farmers to slip away quietly into the hills and woods and make their way home as best they could. In what seemed a moment, the barn emptied, Davitt himself being the last to leave. As he passed Fergal, he smiled and placed his hand on his shoulder, ‘Thank you, lad. You’ve saved a few honest men some trouble this day.’ With that he hurried from the barn and was spirited away into the Donegal hills.

Fergal and his father clambered over the fence into the bog and stealthily made their way back towards their own small plot of land which lay three miles away. The tell-tale sound of horses on the famine road to their north told John O’Sullivan that he had been wise to post Fergal and some other local lads as lookouts. The Police had been breaking up land league meetings with increasing brutality and those found in attendance ran the risk of being evicted from their smallholdings. No horses would risk the bog in the wet months though, so they knew they’d be safe using this route home.

Fergal’s grandfather had taught him at an early age to read the bog like a map and avoid its more dangerous places. He learned where to find cranberries and crowberries which were used to flavour food. His grandfather would collect sorrel leaves which he used to make a sharp, citrus tasting tea. They’d cut peat together in the warmer days of summer and let it dry before storing it closer to home for use in the winter months. His grandfather also told him the old legends about bog sprites and the Pooka; shape shifting spirits which could help or hinder travellers depending on their mood. The bog may have been considered a desolate and slightly dangerous place by some, but to Fergal, it was a living landscape, a place which offered much to those who knew and respected it.

As they neared home, Fergal’s father glanced back in the direction they had come from. A dark trail of smoke was drifting into the clear sky telling him that McTaggart’s barn was on fire. ‘Bastards!’ he muttered, ’Irishmen doing that to their own people for a few stinking shillings a week.’  Fergal said nothing as he watched the smoke in the distance rising higher into the sky. It could be seen for miles around, but then perhaps that was the intention. The increasingly ruthless behaviour  of the RIC was meant to cow and intimidate the people, and John O’Sullivan knew that it was having some effect. Numbers at meetings were down and some whispered darkly of informers and evictions. The ordinary people seemed caught in a hopeless bind as powerful forces allied themselves against them. The way John saw things, when people started to organise, it seemed to worry those in charge and they responded with repression.

Fergal rose with the sun the following morning and slipped quietly out of the cottage. As the oldest of five children, he had chores which required attending to before breakfast. He fed the chickens, fetched the water required for cooking and washing and took the bucket filled with potato peelings and various other left-over pieces of food, and used it to feed the family’s pigs. They’d bred their sow earlier in the year with neighbour, Ned Brannan’s boar and would split the litter once it was weaned. It was an odd number, so they’d give the runt to one of their poorer neighbours, as was tradition. The sow and her offspring were the only real thing of value his family possessed. The potatoes, barley and carrots his father grew were mostly sold but the money raised was insufficient to pay the rent on the few acres they farmed and Fergal’s father would often have to work on the landlord’s estate in order to make up for this. He would frequently come home utterly exhausted and would be asleep soon after eating his evening meal.

John O’Sullivan knew himself that it was a precarious way of life and that his frequent absences  meant his wife and the older children would be expected to complete much of the labour around their small patch of rocky land. That was the way it was and it seemed, the way it had always been. There was little time for schooling his children; hard work for little profit seemed to be all life offered them. Fergal and his sister Mary could only be spared for two days each week to attend school. There was too much work to be done and infants to be cared for. It hurt John, as he knew his older children to be bright and making progress with what he called the ‘book learning.’ He had managed to pick up the odd musty book at market for a few pennies, which he knew they’d devour, regardless of the topic. He augmented this with a bible and religious texts the church provided, but knew it wasn’t enough for them to feed their growing appetite for knowledge.

He had heard the land leaguers speak of rent strikes and giving ownership of the land to the poor farmers who toiled on it, but the landlords were unlikely to concede even a penny without a fight. All that mattered to them was that the rent was paid. It seemed that they had  powerful allies on their side, in parliament, the police and the court system. More than a few good men had been sent to prison or evicted from their land because of their involvement with the land league. It was a dangerous game to play when the landlords held all the cards and people like John O’Sullivan had a growing family to support.

John O’Sullivan knew well the harsh truth that finding the rent each month was what was impoverishing him and many of his neighbours. The factor, acting on the landlord’s instruction, was increasingly ruthless with those who failed to meet their monthly dues. John was lucky that he was young, strong and able to offer his labour in lieu of a portion of his rent. For older tenants, it was not an option. Davitt’s ideas about abolishing landlordism and allowing the farmers to own the land they worked, were good in principle, but the Coercion Act was now law and this meant that men could be imprisoned, if they were even suspected of being land leaguers or were heard to speak of withholding their rent. There was also the ever-present threat of eviction, which hung over so many families, like the sword of Damocles. Without the land to sustain them, they had nothing. They were at the mercy of landlords who could throw them off the land at a whim.

The so called ‘land war’ between poor tenant farmers and rapacious landlords had led to the foundation of the land league in Irishtown, county Mayo, two years earlier. John O’Sullivan had heard how the imminent eviction of local farmers had been stopped by the timely intervention of a priest named canon Burke. He had organised a meeting and helped the people stay together on the land question. They had refused to rent the land of evicted tenants and it lay fallow and useless. They had also enough numbers to negotiate a 20% reduction in monthly rent. That meeting was the genesis of the land league and it was said that there were now over 400 branches all over Ireland. Michael Davitt and Charles Stewart Parnell gave substance to the leadership, the latter agitating in parliament on behalf of struggling tenant farmers. With Gladstone prime minister again, there was hope that a land act might be drafted before too long in order to ease the burden on the long-suffering farmers. As things stood though, landlords, for the most part, remained stubborn and unbending on the question of evictions. Following two poor harvests, many tenants did not have the money to pay their rent and were turfed-out onto the road. That angered many, who saw the injustice of poor families being made homeless for trifling amounts of money by landlords who lost far more on the card tables of London.

John O’Sullivan knew of tenant farmers who had joined secret organisations to try and fight for justice, but after reading of a man who had been shot dead by persons unknown after he took on the farm of an evicted tenant, he had decided against such a move himself. He had attended the occasional clandestine meeting of the land league and agreed with much of what was said. In his heart though, he would never contemplate the use of violence to achieve the justice they sought. That dragged the whole movement down and simply invited further repression.

As a steady drizzle began drifting down from leaden skies, Fergal glanced at the modest thatched cottage he lived in with his four younger siblings and his parents; it was small and increasingly cramped for seven people. He could see that it would soon be eight as his mother was clearly pregnant again. The cottage consisted of one large room with a compacted dirt floor and no windows. Fergal had paced the room many times and knew it to be twelve steps long and eight wide. At one end of the room stood the stone fireplace his father had built. It provided heat and light, as well as the place where all their meals were cooked. It was dark inside, even in the summer months, and Fergal much preferred being outside. His father had spoken of extending it when time and money allowed, but that seemed a distant prospect.

As the Donegal rain began to fall more heavily and thunder groaned and rumbled like a distant giant, Fergal headed for the cottage to start the fire for cooking the morning meal. He also had to rouse his father, who was once more heading to the estate to offer his labour in lieu of rent. Fergal knew that the hard physical labour his father endured for six days each week had made him strong and durable, but he also knew from watching his grandfather, that in time, age would take its inevitable toll on him. For now, he admired his father’s strength and his ability to turn his hand to most things. He had a quiet air of authority about him and seldom needed to tell his children to do something twice. For all of that, he was a kind man and a good father.

As John O’Sullivan dressed for his day’s labour, the noise of approaching horses drew his attention. He stepped outside his modest home and watched the Constables approach. There were eight mounted Police officers approaching the farm. He could see the ghostly breath of the horses on the damp morning air as they came to a halt a few yards from the cabin. The leader, a bearded sergeant called Campbell, dismounted with two of his fellows and approached John as his children watched tentatively from the dark doorway of the cabin. Campbell was a stocky man with dark suspicious eyes. ‘John O’Sullivan, tis yourself,’ the Sergeant began, stopping a yard from the tall farmer. ‘Well now, if it isn’t Thomas Campbell, one time sheep stealer and now an officer of the law, no less?’ The Policeman’s face remained unchanged, ‘I have reason to believe you attended an illegal and seditious meeting yesterday and under the terms of the Protection of the Person and Property in Ireland Act, I have been ordered to bring you into custody. For the sake of your family, I suggest you come peacefully.’ 

John O’Sullivan’s fists clenched as he looked into the eyes of the Policeman, ‘what happened to you Thomas, that you so mistreat your own people?’  Campbell nodded to his underlings, ‘seize him and hold him fast.’ Two burly policemen grabbed O’Sullivan roughly by the arms and held him tightly as Campbell approached, drawing his baton. ‘You and your kind are not my people,’ he hissed as he delivered a backhanded, blow with his baton across O’Sullivan’s face. Fergal heard his mother scream as more blows were delivered and his father fell to his knees, spitting blood into the mud at his tormentor’s feet.

A burning anger filled Fergal O’Sullivan as he watched the scene unfold. He seized the peat spade by the door and ran towards his father. One of the mounted Policemen, seeing his intention, spurred his horse forward and blocked his path. Fergal swung the spade with all the force he could muster at the man’s booted leg. There was a scream of pain and the policeman roared, ‘arrrgh! You little bastard!’  Campbell seeing what had occurred stepped behind Fergal and felled him with one swipe of his baton to the back of the boy’s head. Darkness swirled around Fergal as he lay prostrate in the mud.

John O’Sullivan, head bloodied, was tied behind one of the Police horses and dragged away as his wife and younger children cried for him. He stumbled and fell in the mud and was dragged along for some yards before the horse paused to allow him to regain his feet. Campbell was the last to leave the small farm, his impassive face glancing at the tear-streaked Kathleen O’Sullivan, ‘I’ll be informing the land agent of this assault on my officer and recommending that you be evicted from this plot as the dissolute trouble makers you are. Good day to you now.’ Kathleen glared at him with undisguised contempt, ‘how do you sleep at night?’ Campbell did not respond, but rather turned his horse away from her and followed the grim procession.


The above passage is an excerpt from the upcoming novel 'The Bridges of Glasgow.'  You can purchase it here:  

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Bridges-Glasgow-PJ-Marrinan/dp/B0DFWV6C1P?source=ps-sl-shoppingads-lpcontext&ref_=fplfs&psc=1&smid=A3P5ROKL5A1OLE





Sunday 28 July 2024

The Fighting Irish

 


The Fighting Irish

Watching Celtic defeat Chelsea in the magnificent Notre Dame Stadium last night reminded me of the commonalities that the Irish in America and their cousins here in Scotland faced in the 19th and early 20th century. Prejudice against Irish people and in the USA was widespread at one time and the foundation of Notre Dame du Luc (our Lady of the Lake) University offered the chance to educate many of Irish descent and set them on the road to a better life. The establishment was founded by French Priests to offer a primary and secondary education to Catholics in the area but in time grew into a prestigious and highly regarded place of higher education. Being just 95 miles from Chicago, a city with 2 million Catholics, it would not lack for prospective students.

The university’s sporting teams were noted for their pugnacious ‘never say die’ spirit and were a source of pride to the Irish and wider Catholic community of the USA. Indeed, the university’s football team, under legendary coach Knute Rockne swept all before it in a golden era between 1918 and 1931, winning 105 games, drawing 5 and losing just 12. Huge crowds attended their games and millions tuned in on the radio when Notre Dame played. It gave great pleasure to many when the ‘fighting Irish’ defeated those bastions of the American WASP establishment, Yale, Harvard and Princeton. The success of the university’s sporting teams helped it grow into one of the biggest and best Universities in the United States.

One hundred years ago, as the university was still fighting to establish its reputation, the Ku Klux Klan decided they would gather in South Bend, Indianna for what it termed a three day ‘picnic and parade.’ It was in reality a show of strength in a predominantly Catholic town. The Klan was a powerful organisation then and their decision to hold a rally in the most Catholic part of the state was no coincidence. They were there to intimidate and demonstrate their power to the ‘papists’ of South Bend. It should be remembered that the white robed bigots disliked Catholics and Jews as well as African Americans. On that day in May in 1924, the Klan, so used to dominating wherever they went were in for a shock.

In those days, most students of Notre Dame lived off campus and in the town itself. Contemporary newspaper reports speak of them clashing with the arriving Klansmen and refusing to play the victim. They chased the Klansmen and engaged in mass fistfights with them. Klan robes and hoods were ripped from them and kept as battle trophies. The Klan headquarters in the town and an illuminated ‘fiery cross’ above the door and this symbol of intolerance was destroyed by students throwing potatoes at it.

US Senator Todd Young said in a speech to mark the centenary of the Klan being routed by the Notre Dame ‘fighting Irish’ in May 2024…

‘Mr. President, one hundred years ago this week, a legend was born. One hundred years ago, the champions of religious freedom refused to back down in the face of intolerance and hate. One hundred years ago today, the University of Notre Dame earned the moniker “the Fighting Irish.” On May 17, 1924, thousands of members of the Indiana Chapter of the Ku Klux Klan gathered in South Bend, Indiana for a rally called by their infamous leader, D.C. Stephenson. The target that day for their despicable and misguided message of “true Americanism” was the Catholic institution of the University of Notre Dame, the young men who attended the university, and the Holy Cross priests who taught at it.

In the years that immediately preceded that fateful day, the KKK had watched with despair as Coach Knute Rockne and his football “Ramblers” had barnstormed across the country, winning praise for their fighting spirit and the University. Mr. President, we can’t forget that, at the time, Catholics were a major target for the KKK in the Midwest. And Notre Dame’s success on and off the field was an affront to the Klan’s false message of superiority.

And so, the KKK gathered outside the Golden Dome for what was to be a three-day rally, complete with a parade, speeches, dances…and no small amount of overtly violent intimidation. They weren’t used to anyone standing up to them. They weren’t expecting anyone to stand up to them. Little did they know that the mostly Irish Catholic student body across the street had no intention of being intimidated. Little did they know that the students were so animated that the university president, Father Matthew Walsh, a World War I veteran, had been trying in vain to tell his students to stay safe and shelter in the school.

Little did the KKK know that on that day, the intended aspersion that the student body had co-opted as their preferred nickname – the Fighting Irish – was about to reach a national audience.

At first, the students almost playfully offered to assist the Klansmen in finding lodging and food, sometimes leading them down alleys; other times leading them back out of town. However, when one KKK leader evidently became wise to the ruse and pointed a pistol at a student who had intended to pull down the unsacred cross of lights hung in a downtown third floor window, well, as they say, all hell broke loose. Klansmen that chose to fight quickly met their match and scrambled out of town.

Students grabbed produce – yes, even potatoes – from a local vegetable stand and hurled them at the cross, taking out all but the uppermost bulb. At that moment, legendary “Four Horsemen” quarterback Harry Stuhldreher launched an impossible shot – He threw a potato 40 feet in the air at the bulb, successfully darkening the last unholy light. Moments later, the rest of the Klansmen were run out of town, tails between their legs. A subsequent exchange the next day led to another route by Notre Dame, running their record to 2-0 against the Klansmen that weekend.’

Watching Celtic play so well on the hallowed turf of Notre Dame stadium was pleasing on many levels. The Irish, in both the USA and Scotland, have come a long way since the students of Notre Dame stood up to the haters of the Klan. Notre Dame’s ‘fighting Irish’ American football team was an inspiration to many on that journey. So too with Celtic here in Glasgow, who gave pride, identity and a focus in the lives of many since 1888.

We've come a long way since the students of Notre Dame stood up to hate. There's no going back.

A Notre Dame Student wearing 
captured KKK robes.


Saturday 22 June 2024

Nice guys finish last

 


Nice guys finish last

Watching the Euros on tv has demonstrated the pace, athleticism and technical ability of the top players in Europe. Watching them in action is a sobering reminder of the challenge faced by Scottish clubs when they come up against the better European sides. Not only are these guys super-fit athletes, they also have a firm grasp of the tactical side of the game and do their homework on the opposition. We saw this in the France v Netherlands game were two fine attacking sides essentially cancelled each other out and chances were few and far between.

At this level of competitive football, games can be decided on moments of brilliance or by the sort of forced errors the high pressing, high pressure style of play most teams adopt. Professional sport is about winning and players will seek any advantage they can on the field. It can be frustrating when the play acting starts and players look to have opponents carded for very little. That being said, it is amusing how quickly players who go down as if they’ve been shot get back up when the ref spots their theatrics and doesn’t award a foul.

What place is there in this world of ultra-competitive sport for old fashioned sportsmanship? We have seen examples of it over the years but it is increasingly rare. In football we saw Paolo Di Canio catch the ball when West Ham were in a good attacking position because he saw the Everton keeper, Paul Gerrard was injured. Robbie Fowler was once awarded a penalty for Liverpool but went to the referee and told him that he’d tripped himself and the award was rescinded. In the often brutal world of rugby, Colin Charvis of Wales was knocked out by a tackle in a test match against New Zealand. As play raged on, All Black player, Tana Umaga seeing that Charvis was in trouble, left his position and rushed to his aid. He removed his gum shield, made sure he was breathing and rolled Charvis into the recovery position.

Historically one of the bravest acts of sportsmanship came in the 1973 Dutch Grand Prix. Roger Williamson, a young driver competing in only his second race crashed spectacularly and was trapped in his burning car. David Purley, a fellow competitor saw immediately that Williamson was trapped in the upside-down vehicle and abandoned his car to help. As he desperately tried to push Williamson’s burning car upright, the stewards stood unable to help as they had no fire-resistant clothing. Williamson grabbed a fire extinguisher from one and  emptied it into the blaze in a vain attempt to save his fellow driver. His bravery was recognised by many and he was awarded the George medal.

In the 1936 Olympics in Berlin, Lutz Long watched his main competitor for the long jump gold medal foul for the second time. The judge raised his red flag to declare it a no jump. The handsome young German wandered over to the talented American and gave him some advice in front of 110,000 watching fans. ‘You’re jumping too late, try jumping from a few inches further back. You’ll make the qualifying distance no problem so why risk another foul and disqualification?’ It was a very sporting act from Long and he watched the young American take his advice and leap into the final. That young American eventually beat Long to the Gold medal. His name was Jesse Owens and this happened in front of Adolf Hitler. Owens, an African American, was aware of the Nazi’s crackpot racial theories and said afterwards that “It took a lot of courage for Lutz to befriend me in front of Hitler, you can melt down all the medals and cups I have and they wouldn’t be a plating on the 24-carat friendship I felt for Luz Long at that moment.’’ Lutz Long was first to reach Owens when he smashed the World record and won his gold medal. He held Owens arm aloft, recognizing his sporting greatness as the crowd cheered.

Lutz and Owens corresponded after the Olympics and their children remained in touch for years after. Lutz was killed fighting with the Wehrmacht in Sicily in 1943 and lies buried in a war cemetery there with over 5000 other German servicemen. Owen struggled to make a living in the segregated America of the post war years. One of 17 black athletes who competed for the USA at the 1936 Olympics, winning 14 medals, Owens suffered the humiliations and snubs African-Americans dealt with on a regular basis in those days. When he died in 1980 of lung cancer at the age of 66, the US president Jimmy Carter paid him tribute saying, 'Perhaps no athlete better symbolised the human struggle against tyranny, poverty and racial bigotry'.

Leo Durocher was a baseball coach of some repute in the major league of the USA in the years after World War 2. Notoriously bellicose and mouthy ‘Leo the Lip’ was also absolutely ruthless and often ordered his pitchers to hit the batters with the ball deliberately. ‘Nice guys finish last’ was his usual comment when challenged on his approach to baseball. He was loud, brash and a hard drinking coach but when it came to winning he was focussed and determined. He spotted a hugely talented player and was determined to get him into his Dodgers side. The player was Jackie Robinson and his signing caused huge controversy because he was black and the Major Leagues simply didn’t play black players in that era. Durocher was determined to get Robinson into the team and faced down those in his own club who were unhappy with a black player in the dressing room. He told a meeting of his unhappy players with typical bluntness….

 "I do not care if the guy is yellow or black, or if he has stripes like a fuckin' zebra. I'm the manager of this team, and I say he plays.’

 Was ‘Leo the lip’ right? Do nice guys finish last? I hope we see some sportsmanship at the Euros which reminds us and the youngsters watching, that sport is about more than winning at all costs. We all love those moments of triumph, those winning goals and celebrations, but we recall most fondly of all those players and teams who play the game in the right way. I’d rather watch the Lisbon Lions of 1967 than the Atletico Madrid we saw at Celtic Park in 1974. The Spaniards may have won the tie, but they tarnished the game with their behaviour and history remembers them as thugs. Victory is important, but the manner in which it is achieved is too.  As Jock Stein once said…

 ‘It’s important to win a match but I think what is more important is the manner in which you win it.’   I’ll second that.

 


 

Saturday 8 June 2024

The man in the mirror

 


The man in the mirror

I made the mistake of getting into an online ‘football’ discussion with a supporter of Rangers this week. It began as one of those ‘my dad is bigger than yours’ bragging sessions about how the mighty Rangers were the most successful club in the world but quickly deteriorated as I pointed out why they are not. ‘55 league titles and a handful more during the war,’ I was told. I pointed out that Linfield have more titles and that the league was cancelled during World War two and ad hoc regional leagues set up. Celtic have considerably more Scottish cups and the cup winners cup of 1972 hardly trumps Real Madrid’s 15 Champions League titles, let alone Celtic’s European cup win of 1967.

In fairness the guy kept things reasonable until I raised the spectre of liquidation in 2012. It was then the depressingly predictable mud slinging began. It seems to be the default position of some in the blue corner; if you can’t win the football debate revert to insults about paedophilia and terrorist songs. You know it’s time to end the conversation when that trash starts, especially as it’s tinted with myopic hypocrisy. He also raised the abuse Mark Walters received at Celtic Park on a bleak winter’s day 36 years ago.

There have only been a few occasions in my long Celtic supporting career when I returned home from a game seriously disillusioned. One came in January 1988, when a marvellous victory over Rangers was marred by the despicable behaviour of a minority of our own fans. There is little point in hiding from what went on that day at a rain sodden Celtic Park, nor should the event be obfuscated by a welter of whataboutery. The treatment of Rangers player Mark Walters that day was as disgraceful as it was unacceptable. Racism has no place in any decent society and perhaps it was all the more depressing that it occurred at the home of Celtic, a club which has faced many barriers and much discrimination in its history.

The one saving grace was the response of the vast majority of Celtic supporters who flooded the club newspaper with letters condemning the moronic minority who so badly let themselves and the club they purported to love down. The fledgling Fanzines of the era were not slow to round on those one called ‘racist arseholes.’ The leading Celtic fanzine of the time, ‘Not the View,’ stated with characteristic clarity…

While Old Firm games are never the sort of occasion where you would happily take your granny for a relaxing day out, the sort of fascist, racism directed at Mark Walters was completely unwanted and unacceptable. We hope that Celtic FC, with the help of the police and majority of decent supporters will do everything they can to ensure this kind of moronic behaviour, which spoiled what would have been a great day for many fans, will not be seen again at Celtic Park. Bigotry and racism have no place in football.’

Such comments were common and keenly felt by the vast majority of Celtic fans who were appalled by the behaviour of some in their midst. As the predictable welter of recriminations came from followers of Rangers, ‘Not the View’ reminded them too of a hard truth…

‘We trust that the irony of Rangers complaining about prejudice and ignorance is not lost on our readers.’

The rivalry between Celtic and Rangers is deeper and more nuanced than any other in football. The fact that it is played out in a country where they have dominated for over a hundred years intensifies it. Next season marks 40 years since any other Scottish club won the championship and it is no exaggeration to say that it could be forty more before one does. The big two stand like heavyweight boxers allowed to fight in the lightweight division. It all makes for a situation where second is nowhere and all that matters is winning.

It can be an unhealthy and at times poisonous relationship. For the less cerebral among the Rangers support, it manifests itself seeking opposition to everything they perceive Celtic supporters stand for. Thus, if they like St Pauli, we’ll like Hamburg, if they support Palestine, we’ll support Israel, etc. It seems a childlike attitude to life and sometimes the club panders to it with nonsense about eggs Benedict, green salami and orange away kits. At times, they seem to simultaneously want to distance themselves from, yet still milk the cash-cow of intolerance for as much as they can get from it.

That is not to say Celtic fans are angels. What occurred with Mark Walters all those years ago can’t be dismissed; it has to be owned. That behaviour has to be challenged on every level to ensure it never happens again. We all want to be worthy of Celtic’s best ideals of inclusion, fairness and anti-discrimination. It’s up to all of us to be worthy of that and accept that even in the heat of the action against our biggest rivals, there are some things which are not acceptable.

Nothing like that day in 1988 has occurred at Celtic Park before or since. It was perhaps partly the intensity of the rivalry which spurred some to behave in such a despicable manner, but there really is no excuse. It was a wake up call to all who follow Celtic and indeed to the wider Scottish society that we weren't immune to the sort of racism that was so prevalent in England at the time.

A week after that Celtic and Rangers match of January 1988, Michael Jackson released the single, ‘the man in the mirror.’ It contained the following lyric…

I'm starting with the man in the mirror
I'm asking him to change his ways
No message could've been any clearer
If you wanna make the world a better place
Take a look at yourself and then make the change.’

I hope that minority who let themselves and the club down all those years ago have reflected on their behaviour and have matured into better people. Society has moved on, attitudes have mellowed and changed. That is for the best but we do need to be vigilant. Celtic is too important to too many people to let it be tarnished by the misguided and foolish.

 


Sunday 19 May 2024

The ghosts of the past

 


The ghosts of the past

As I watched the scenes unfold at Celtic Park yesterday in the aftermath of the final league game of the season, I couldn’t help but feel a familiar wave of nostalgia and history flowing around me. Five generations of my family have followed Celtic through good times and bad and that emerald rectangle on which the players cavorted and celebrated has been their theatre, their happy place and even their second home. The rough and ready terraces of the past may have been replaced by the towering cathedral of football we see today, but the ghosts of the past are strong here.

That spot where Palma slotted home the winning goal, was once occupied by Larsson, Dalglish, Lennox, Tully, McGrory, Gallacher and McCallum. Where I sit in the north stand was once the spot where the old wooden pavilion stood. It was here that Maley, Kelly and Patsy Gallacher got ready for games. It was once the spot where that neck of terracing connecting the Celtic end to the Jungle stood. A space where I’d stand with my old man, brothers and uncle in days long gone. Perhaps we get more nostalgic as we get older, but I can’t help thinking of those folk long gone, on days like yesterday. How they’d marvel at the sights and sounds of the modern Celtic Park; how they’d be overjoyed at Celtic’s on field success in the modern era. How happy they’d be that we still follow the club that meant so much to them.

We’ve come a long way since the days I’d stand outside a pub with the other boys, waiting for our fathers to emerge and take us to see our team. That excitement we felt when we saw the floodlights, heard the songs drifting on the breeze and joined the queues at the turnstiles, has never left many of us. I can recall vividly, half running up the concrete stairs as the game was about to kick off and seeing that emerald rectangle laid out before us, those hooped shirts immaculate and filled with our heroes. We’d live those games, kick every ball, roar at every foul and be totally engrossed in backing our team.

As the match ended yesterday and the workmen built the podium for the players to lift the trophy, I spoke to a dad bringing his boy to his first trophy day. ‘My first was in 1998,’ he told me, ‘never been so nervous in my life.’ I remembered that day well and told him that I still have a piece of Celtic Park turf from that day growing in my garden. His son, who looked about six or seven, listened to us gabbing, before his old man patted him on the head, ‘I wonder how many days like this he’ll see?’  I smiled, thinking, that was me once upon a time. Just a lad setting out on his Celtic supporting journey.

As the trophy was lifted and the ticker tape and confetti filled the air, I roared along with the other sixty thousand fans who had come to cheer their team. Every one of them had a story to tell, a family history where Celtic was handed down to them like a precious heirloom. For others, their journey to Celtic started when they arrived in Scotland from a score of lands and saw Walfrid’s club as their natural destination. That feeling of comradeship, family even, is strong among Celts and it shows no sign of dissipating.

We are, of course, delighted at every Celtic success. Yes, we want a stronger, more competitive game here in Scotland, but that will never detract from the happiness of days like yesterday. When you see guys like Joe Hart, a keeper with 75 caps for England, take Celtic to his heart to the degree where the thought of leaving reduces him to tears, you have to smile. He gets it.

So, the season is almost over with just the Scottish cup final to come. Despite Brendan Rodgers’ remarkable derby record of just 1 defeat in 18 games, he’ll know that every game has its own narrative and that nothing can be taken for granted. One silly red card, one penalty decision can change the whole flow of a match. We remain confident but should avoid arrogance or any feeling of entitlement. Every success has to be earned, to be fought for on the field.

Celtic reached 54 titles this season, just one behind  the combined totals of both avatars of Rangers. Celtic could well overtake their total in the next few years but most understand that most of these records are set in smaller leagues where two or three clubs dominate. So, I doubt any ‘going for 55’ tifos will be arranged, although there will be much humour around. Celtic hasn’t led Rangers in number of titles won for almost a century. In 1997 when Rangers won the last of their nine consecutive titles, Celtic were 12 behind them. It is a measure of Celtic’s dominance since then that they are now just one behind. Those who ‘welcome the chase’ must realise that it is almost over.

As I walked in bright sunshine from Celtic Park yesterday, the happiness of the fans was palpable. There’s a younger generation growing up who have yet to taste anything other than success. You could say the dark days of the 90s were character building for older Celtic fans but in truth they were the fruits of mismanagement by the board in the pre-McCann era. Hopefully that biscuit tin mentality is gone forever and those youngsters will never endure a decade of failure.

As that river of green clad humanity flowed along the Gallowgate, I could picture the old tenements that once stood there in my mind, Terry the Tattoo Artists shop, the old pubs like the General Wolfe and the Four Ways. I could also see my old man’s face; happy that the Celts had done it again. So much has changed as the years drifted past, but as I took in the sights and sounds of happy Celtic supporters, I knew that love they had for their club would endure as it had done since Walfrid’s boys defeated Rangers 136 years before.

A grand old team right enough.