Riding the rollercoaster

Riding the rollercoaster

When was it for you? You know, that moment when you thought ‘Wow! This is my team and it always will be!’ Sometimes you feel it as a boy when your old man or older brothers drag you along and you go just to see what the fuss is all about. Then something magical and life changing occurs. Maybe it was a Johnstone dribble a Larsson dink or a Nakamura free kick. Maybe it’s the sight and sound of the support urging the team on or that feeling of comradeship you get among likeminded people. Whatever it was you leave the stadium hooked. You get it, you’re a Celt for life and there really is no cure.

From that day forth you’re riding the green and white roller coaster with all the highs and lows, triumphs and disasters that brings. They can leave you feeling so low after a bad result but by God they can raise you to the heavens when it all clicks. Nothing short of being in love can match the euphoria of Tony Watt scoring against Barcelona, Larsson ending that desperate tension in Boavista or Tom Rogic’s poetic and magnificent last gasp winner in that invincible campaign. This is how it feels to be Celtic, they sing and by God, they’re right. We kick every ball, we feel every emotion as we follow the fortunes of our club. The supporters are Celtic and Celtic is them.

Sure we don’t play in the money bloated English game and as time passes I feel less inclined to see Celtic go join that soulless circus with its mediocre millionaires, money chasing mercenaries and that God awful, condescending arrogance and misplaced sense of superiority. Scotland might be a small and relatively insignificant footballing nation these days but do you know what? I love the game here with its tribalism, its honest endeavour and petty rivalries. The fan culture in Scotland is laced with self-deprecating wit and humour, as well a real knowledge of the game. The fans are passionate, loud and deeply committed to their clubs.

We have learned to ignore the jibes of clueless nonentities on tabloid radio shows who seek to induce clicks for their advertisers by spouting ill-informed nonsense about ‘pub Leagues’ and the standard of play in Scotland. I’ve watched such utter dross in the English Premiership at times, you know - that rich league some Harlem Globtrotters eleven won by 19 points last season?  We Scots put up with the ‘my Nan’ brigade who like to inform us that their granny would be top scorer in the Scottish Premiership. Mark Lawrenson, surely the most depressing football pundit ever, said in the week Celtic were due to play Manchester City at home in the Champions League, ‘City have been scoring a lot of goals, there could be another big score up there.’ Manchester City brought half a billion pounds worth of talent to Celtic Park and couldn’t win. Nor could they win at the Etihad against Celtic, a stadium blessed with a magnificent group of players and an atmosphere like a village library. We saw Burnley, 7^th in the ‘best league in the world’ need extra time to beat Aberdeen in the Europa League. Their Nan must have been injured that night.

All my life I’ve heard their condescending nonsense. ‘Revie’s Leeds will be too good for Celtic’: Result; Leeds defeated home and away by a much better side. Blackburn Rovers: ‘Men against boys.’ Result: Rovers defeated home and away by a better side. Liverpool after drawing at Celtic Park will finish the job. Result; the Reds defeated in front of their own fans. Scholes, Giggs, Rooney and Ronaldo should be too much for Celtic to handle; Result: Nakamura’s sublime free kick sends the homewards to think again.

Celtic’s historical record in competitive European matches against English sides is as follows: Played 20, won 7, drew 6. lost 7. In other words they have held their own over 50 years of playing English sides in Europe. Indeed if we call the Empire exhibition and Coronation Cup competitive, and they surely were, then Celtic’s record would read: Played 24 won 11 drew 6 lost 7.

Those of us following teams in the smaller European leagues will always face the prejudice and ignorance from a minority of those following team’s in leagues like the English Premiership. It’s ironic that one chap I debated with online was an Irishman from Dublin who follows Liverpool. He bad mouthed the Scottish league; blind to the irony that people like him are contributing to the paucity of the Irish league, which struggles to attract fans. He couldn’t comprehend that the Scottish Premiership is the best supported league in Europe per capita. That Scottish Clubs have competed in 10 European finals and compared to other nations of similar size this statistic is astonishing. Consider the number of European finals reached by countries with similar populations to Scotland: Sweden 3, Norway 0, Switzerland 0, Denmark 0. Scottish sides have also outperformed teams from bigger countries such as Russia, Greece, Turkey, Poland and Romania.

So what exactly do the ‘my nan’ brigade suggest we do in Scotland? Give up on our national game because we don’t have the population or TV money to compete with their league?  Not a chance of that happening because hard as some of them find it to comprehend, we love our teams as much as any of them love theirs. From Anan to Aberdeen there are fans who get excited on match day and look forward to getting to the game. Most of them will seldom if ever see their team win a trophy or play in Europe but still they love the game. We Scots and our insipid sports media need to start talking our game up. None more so than the exiles in England like Charlie Nicholas or Jim White, who give in to peer pressure down south and slag the game in Scotland mercilessly. Sure, the standard north of the border isn’t what it was in the golden days of the 1960’s, 70’s& 80s but it sure the hell isn’t the ‘pub league’ we’re led to believe it is. The almost pathological nature of the prejudice against Scottish football is quite bizarre. No one goes on about slagging any other European league in the manner some down south speak of the SPFL.

We have teams of honest pros here giving their all every week and producing some cracking games. We have supporters as passionate as any creating some fine spectacles and atmospheres; Consider Easter Road singing ‘Sunshine on Leith’ after beating Hearts, or Aberdeen’s tifo against Burnley or their epic display at the 2017 cup final, then there’s the roar of a full Tynecastle or the sight of 60,000 Celtic fans singing ‘You’ll never walk alone’ at a big European night, and yes, even the noise of Ibrox on a big match night is beyond what most English stadiums can manage. There is much to be proud of in the footballing traditions and culture of this small nation on the western fringes of Europe and despite our clannish ways it’s good to see fans of all clubs defend our game against those who run it down.

Of course we can never compete on a level playing field with a country boasting ten times our population and operating with so much TV money that half the clubs in their top league could continue to function if no fans whatsoever came to their games. We should though, stop undervaluing our game and stop talking it down. It’s on the up at the moment and can produce some exciting matches.

Like most folk of a certain age I had a favourite English club as a boy but in the modern era I’ve sat through a few too many ‘Super Sundays’ and been bored to tears. It simply doesn’t interest me anymore. I’m much happier watching Celtic battle it out with our local rivals. If you want to compare like with like try comparing the English league with the Spanish. La Liga teams have won 13 European trophies in the past ten seasons to the Premiership’s 3. For atmosphere, the Bundesliga wins every time.

For supporters in Scotland, nothing beats watching their team take the field for an important game. We know the limitations of our game but we’re rightly proud of what we’ve contributed to football. I know from so many wonderful games I’ve watched over the years the joy football can bring. I know the excitement of watching the big European games under the lights or those raucous derby matches where you sing yourself hoarse and go home exhausted. I know the highs and lows of being so committed to your team that your mood can be affected by their results. I know the comradeship found in following the team all over through good times and bad. I’ve seen the last minute winners, the painful defeats, the unexpected triumphs and moments of magic from players which make you smile. I’ve seen a stadium reverberate to 60,000 voices booming out in unison their support and love for their team. I’ve seen those supporters full of passion and noise; drive their team to victories they had no right to expect.

All the money in the world can’t buy you that.

A toss of the coin

A toss of the coin

In memory's view I can still see Chris Sutton control the ball under pressure and play it to his ever ready striking partner Henrik Larsson. The Swede controlled the ball and glanced up as Didier Agathe went through the gears and raced towards the Ajax back line. Larsson guided a perfect pass into his path and the Frenchman glided past the last Ajax defender with deceptive ease. The advancing goalkeeper had no chance with Agathe’s well-placed shot which flashed past him and into the net. It was perhaps one of the best illustrations of Agathe’s value to Celtic in that era. His road to Celtic Park though was one full of twists and turns and it is a remarkable saga of chance, luck and determination.

For any young footballer aspiring to play professionally, being told that a hereditary condition would mean that their career was virtually over would be cause enough for depression and it was no different for young Didier Agathe. He had travelled thousands of miles from his home in La Reunion Island, a French possession in the Indian Ocean, to join Montpellier FC. His tribulations began when he suffered a ruptured appendix which almost ended his life and saw him on the operating table for six hours. However it was a recurring knee problem which, upon investigation led to the discovery that he had no cartilage in his right knee, which threatened his footballing future. The condition meant his right knee was functioning bone to bone with no cartilage to cushion it and stop the inevitable grinding pain and problems it would bring. 

Agathe faced the harsh realisation that his football career might be over before it had really begun. The quiet, deeply religious young man who spoke the Creole language of his home island when he arrived in France took the news badly. The Doctors, who couldn’t believe he had got so far in football with the problem, told him he should have an operation to correct the problem but that it would mean his footballing career would be over. He went into a depression and during one particularly low point for him, sought solace in alcohol. He overdid it and crashed his car. He said of the accident…

‘I fell asleep at the wheel and my car went over a fence and landed on a barrier. The windows were blown out and the airbag went off and I was stuck on a quiet road on a Sunday morning with no one around. By sheer chance an ambulance on its way to another call found me. My car was totally destroyed. It was hanging over the edge of the road over a steep drop. I don’t know why it didn’t drop.’

Agathe decided after surviving this ordeal that once he had recovered he would try again to make a career in football. He knew that it wouldn’t be in France so took the decision to decide where to try and resurrect his career in a most unusual way. He took a map of Europe and flipped a coin onto it. Wherever it landed, he told himself, he would go there and play. It landed on England so he sold most of his possessions and drove to England. Initially he was sleeping in his car and using his fast diminishing savings to live and keep fit at the local gym. In the end a friend gave him a room and he arranged a trial for Stockport County. He excelled but alas failed the medical when they discovered his ongoing knee problem.

In another twist of fate, he met a Frenchman called Ludovic Pollet who was in England having a trial with Wigan. Pollet asked him to come watch him play and Agathe obliged. At this point Agathe had virtually no money little prospect of earning any through football. Pollet introduced him to his agent at the match in Wigan and he in turn introduced him to Willie McKay, a Scottish agent with interests north and south of the border. When Agathe explained he was available, McKay said, ‘Why not come try your luck in Scotland?’ Agathe replied in all seriousness with the words, ‘Where is Scotland?’ McKay had Agathe literally follow him up the motorway from Wigan to Fir Park Motherwell in his battered old Honda. He arrived in Motherwell at 11.30 at night to meet the Manager, Billy Davies. Agathe must have been wondering what if his luck was out when he was informed that Davies had been taken to hospital with, of all things, appendicitis!  So it was that Motherwell missed out on a chance to sign Agathe.

McKay was soon on his phone again and told Agathe to follow him across Scotland to Kirkaldy. The young Frenchman arrived in the Fife town at 2am and had soon convinced a struggling Raith Rovers that he was worth a trial. Manager John McVeigh needed a striker badly as the team was struggling for goals and asked Agathe if he could play there. Agathe lied and said yes so he was played up front in a bounce game against the first team and impressed with his pace and finishing, scoring two goals. He was then played as a trialist against Airdrie and hit a hat trick. He signed for the rest of that season and his play was soon attracting the attention of other clubs. Hibs boss, Alex McLeish, liked what he saw but foolishly only signed Agathe on a two month contract just to run the rule over him. Agathe impressed and during a game against Dundee scored a tremendous goal after slicing through the defence with that blistering pace. Watching from the stand that day, ostensibly there to look at Dundee goalkeeper Rab Douglas, sat a certain Martin O’Neil.

Agathe recalls the phone going in the week after that game and an Irish voice saying, ‘Hello, it’s Martin O’Neil here.’ He thought it was a wind up and hung up. Fortunately O’Neil persisted and due to Hibs negligently signing Agathe on such a short contract, secured his services for Celtic for a ridiculously low price of £50,000. It could be argued that this piece of business was the best value Celtic ever had in the transfer market. His pace was ideally suited to O’Neil’s favoured 3-5-2 formation and he had all the attributes a good wing back needed. O’Neil understood his knee problems enough to allow him to miss out on training if he was in pain and was rewarded with some fine performances. The Road to Seville saw Agathe perform well against top opposition and the big European nights under the lights brought out the best in him. His pace was electric and he used it in defensive as well as attacking roles. O’Neil asked him to mark the great Ronaldinho when Celtic Played Barcelona in 2004 and he did so to great effect as Celtic defied the odds to knock Barcelona out of Europe.

He spoke of his time at Celtic in an interview in a French Magazine and said he had an affinity with the club. He also spoke of the darker side of football in Scotland and was taken aback as a devout Catholic by the vitriol about the Pope he heard at derby matches and the off field pressures such as having his car vandalised or being threatened in the street. It was noted that on a trip to St Peter’s cemetery just along the London Road from Celtic Park, he invested time and money restoring religious statues which had fallen into disrepair or had been vandalised.

It’s a testament to his character that he made a good career for himself at Celtic and was part of O’Neil’s fine side of the early part of the twenty first century. He won three titles, three Scottish cups, one league cup and played in some of those dramatic European ties Celtic had in that era. He said of his time at Celtic…

‘I can’t explain the feeling I had playing for Celtic. I was like a child. I felt I was dreaming, especially when we played in the Champions League. I always knew how lucky I was to be there.’

For the supporters he could be something of an enigma. On his day he was simply brilliant but on occasion his speed and wing play wasn’t matched by the final ball into the box and he did sometimes appear to lack confidence. When some fans were getting on his back during a European game, he commented later; ‘they don’t do it because they don’t care, they do it because they care too much.’ His time with Celtic was successful and he did enough to be remembered as a good player in a fine side. The arrival of Gordon Strachan and a bad injury picked up after a savage tackle in a match against a typically bellicose Hearts side ended his time at Celtic Park.

I for one will remember him for his blistering pace and the balance he brought to Celtic in the O’Neil era. He was a good player and by all accounts a very decent human being. The road he took to reach Celtic and play in some of the club’s biggest games in recent times demonstrates his courage and determination. Plenty would have given up on football when faced with the obstacles he had to deal with but he battled on and made a decent career for himself and that is a lesson in life for us all.

Rocket Man

Rocket Man

Joe McLaughlin stomped moodily down the Celtic Way with his brother Peter in the chill of a November afternoon, ‘Fifty years he supported Celtic, Peter. Fifty years!’  His older and certainly less fiery brother nodded, ‘I know Joe but things have changed, they won’t let you do the things they used to.’ Joe shook his head, ‘Och, I know Peter but you’d think they’d let ye do it on the track or behind the goal, I mean I promised my Da when he was in the hospital and a promise is a promise!’ Before his brother could reply a voice to his right called over, ‘Aw right Joe? How’s tricks ma man?’ It was Joe’s erstwhile workmate Derek Duffy, a ginger haired ox of a man who had a long standing body odour problem leading to him being nicknamed ‘Bo Derek.’ Joe shook his hand, ‘How ye doing Bo, whit brings you up here?’ The bigger man, who seemed neither to know nor care why folk had called him Bo for years, held up a bag from the Celtic shop, ‘Getting the wee man a Celtic tap. Some price these days! What about you?’ Joe shook his head, ‘Up seeing yon PR wumin about getting my Da’s ashes spread oan the grass behind the goal. No chance, she chased us.’ Bo shook his head doubtfully, ‘I know how much Joe Snr loved the Celts but if they allowed that then hundreds of folk would do it. Why not get him wan ay yon bricks wi his name on it?’ ‘I thought of that,’ said Joe rubbing the stubble on his chin, 'but it was the old fella’s last wish that his ashes were spread on the pitch at Celtic Park.’ His brother Peter cut in, ‘We’ll think of something. Maybe spread them on the Celtic way or Barrowfield?’  Joe exhaled, ‘Aye, we’ll think of something.’

Later that night as a slow drizzle drifted lazily out of the dark Glasgow sky, Joe was gazing out of his window deep in thought. A mile away the sky over Glasgow Green was awash with colour as the annual fireworks display boomed and fizzed. He could feel the vibrations of the fireworks even from his Gorbals home and a quiet whining behind him reminded him that Jinky, his Border Collie, was feeling it too and didn’t like it one bit. A huge boom echoed towards him as the show reached its crescendo then all was quiet save a distant sound of cheering from the thousands who always attended the display. An idea was formulating in his mind and he turned to look for his laptop and googled ‘Fireworks.’

A week later Joe sat in his kitchen telling his brother Peter about his recent purchase. Peter looked at him as if he was completely insane. ‘A rocket? You’ve actually sent for a giant fuckin rocket? I’m beginning tae think you’re a fuckin rocket, Joe!’ Joe grinned and left the room. He returned moments later carrying a metre long cardboard box which he plonked down heavily on the kitchen table. ‘It came this morning.’ Peter opened the flaps on the box like a bomb disposal expert viewing a device for the first time. ‘Jesus Christ!’ he exclaimed, ‘It’s fuckin massive! Whit did this cost ye?’ Joe looked at him with a serious face, ‘Eighty five quid.’ Peter looked at the bizarrely shaped firework. It was shaped like a huge microphone with a bulbous head no doubt full of highly explosive gunpowder. The thick, wooden rod attached to it was at least 3 feet long. ‘This is one serious item, Joe. You need tae be very careful with this.’ Joe nodded, ‘I’ve read the instructions. It’s fine under ma bed.’  Peter looked aghast, ‘Under yer bed? If ye farted and this thing went aff ye’d blow the close tae Kingdom come! Get it oot tae the shed!’ Joe shook his head, ‘Shed’s too damp. It might not work.’ Peter exhaled, ‘Joe, this thing is like an unexploded bomb. Ye cannae keep it in the hoose! Whit did ye buy it for anyway? Bonfire night was last week.’  If Peter thought his younger brother’s purchase of an £85 rocket sounded bizarre, what he heard next was simply astounding.

‘Celtic’s playing Spartak Moscow in a couple of weeks. We’re taking the firework tae that grassy area near the stadium at Barrowfield. When it’s quiet we fire it over the stadium and kaboom!’ Peter looked at him opened mouthed, ‘Kaboom? Whit the fuck are you oan aboot? What’s the point in firing a huge fuckin rocket at Celtic Park? Are ye mad? Ye could hurt somebody.’ Joe regarded him with a look of quiet determination, ‘It’s the only way to get my Da’s ashes onto the pitch.’ With this he turned the rocket around carefully in the box. On one side there was a piece of heavy duty duct tape stuck to the side of the sphere. ‘I bored a hole and poured some of the powder oot and got my da’s ashes in using a wee funnel.’ Peter was horrified, ‘Ye did whit? Ya fuckin madman, there’s no way you’re doing this, Joe. You’ve altered the rocket, it could go anywhere! Some granny in Helenvale flats might be sitting in her bubble bath when your fucking doodlebug crashes through the windae! Naw Joe, Naw!’  Joe looked at his brother, ‘It’ll be fine.’ He said unconvincingly, ‘It goes up 300 metres before exploding. I’ve read up on it.’ Peter was having none of it, ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Joe there will be 60,000 people milling about the area that night. You cannae dae this, Joe! Promise me you’ll no be so fuckin stupid!’ Joe glared at him, ‘Nothing will go wrong. It’ll be fine. It’s what my da wanted.’ Peter raised his voice, ‘He wanted his ashes scattered on the pitch, no fuckin exploded over the whole east end!’ Joe said nothing and simply closed the big box hiding the firework from view. Peter looked at him intensely, ‘Joe, promise me! Promise me you’ll never light the fuse on this monstrosity.’ Joe sighed, ‘Aye, aw right, Peter.’

Wednesday 5^th December found Peter McLaughlin in the huge north stand of a packed Celtic Park. The crowd were making an incredible din as Celtic and Spartak Moscow walked out of the tunnel. The noise increased even more as the Champions League them music pulsed through the cold night air. ‘Come on Celtic!’ Peter roared as he watched Celtic enter their pre-match huddle. The noise was deafening as the game got underway. This was it, a Celtic win coupled with Benfica not winning in Barcelona would see the Hoops through to the last 16 of Europe’s premier tournament.

The game thundered from one end of the field to the other as both sides sought to establish dominance. The breakthrough came on 21 minutes as Gary Hooper pounced on a mistake in the Russian’s defence to thrash the ball beyond keeper Pesiakov. Celtic Park exploded as the fans roared Celtic on. In the top tier of the north stand, Peter glanced at the empty seat beside him. Joe hadn’t turned up for the game. In fact he had barely spoken to him since their row about his insane plan with the rocket. Maybe he was still in a mood, thought Peter as he refocussed on the game. On 39 minutes the Russians equalised. It was going to be a grim struggle right to the end of the game.

In the second half, Celtic old boy, Aidan McGeady appeared in the red of Spartak but it was Celtic pushing and probing, looking for the winner they so desperately needed. Then late in the game a clumsy tackle on Samaras in the box saw thousands of heads swivel towards the Referee who immediately pointed to the penalty spot. Celtic Park was at fever pitch as Kris Commons placed the ball on the penalty spot. This was it, the moment of truth. He strode forward confidently and hammered the ball high towards goal. The goalkeeper spread himself well but was helpless as the ball smashed of the underside of the bar and into the net!

A tsunami of noise thundered from the stands onto the field. Peter McLaughlin was swept up in a bear hug by a fan to his right as they joined 60,000 others in roaring their heads off. He looked up at the dark Glasgow sky with a grin as wide as the Clyde on his face and punched the air triumphantly. As he did, he heard the boom of an exploding firework and saw a split second later a thousand green and golden flashes which sizzled and sparkled, momentarily lighting up the night sky. Peter’s smile faded as he thought immediately of Joe, ‘That screwball has gone and done it!’ he mumbled to himself!

As the final whistle sounded and the Celtic players and supporters noisily celebrated making it through to the last 16 of the Champions League, the last earthly atoms of Joe McLaughlin Senior drifted on the chill wind high above the streets he knew so well as a boy and man. 

At least a few of them drifted down onto that brightly lit emerald rectangle where he had watched his team play so often. He would have been happy at that. Joe had kept his promise.

One of the best

One of the best

Flag Day is upon us once more and it’s always a time to reflect on the achievements of last season and focus on the challenges ahead in the new campaign. I’ve been lucky enough to watch a good few such days and always enjoy them. In days past Celtic’s old board would splash out on a hired limousine and it would drive to the corner of the Jungle where some invited guest would pull a rope to release the championship flag which would flutter above the Jungle for the rest of the season. Usually a board member or someone with connections would do the honours and I recall Jock Stein’s wife being the star guest one sunny August day. In modern times people who have made a significant contribution to the club have been asked to unfurl the flag. In recent years the great Sean Fallon has been guest of honour as was Fergus McCann and few could grumble about their credentials for carrying out the task.

Today the honour goes to a man who was in his prime one of the best full backs in the world and a Celtic great. Danny McGrain is well deserving of this honour having given over 50 years of service to Celtic. He overcame setbacks and injuries in his playing career which would have broken weaker men and demonstrated a physical and mental strength which all great sportsmen need. Yet, Danny might not have been around to do the honours today had it not been for a quick thinking Policeman….

The Police car slowed to a crawl as the young officer scanned the nearby cars for the one they were looking for. ‘Nothing’ he said to his colleague as they turned and headed for the Linthouse area which borders the huge Southern General hospital complex. Again the same pattern was repeated; check the parked cars in the area for a colour and model match, then move on to the licence plate. Just as they were thinking of moving on they spotted a likely car. ‘Colour matches…checking the plate.’ The driver slowed to a halt. There was soon no doubt that this was the car they were looking for. As they stepped from the vehicle they could plainly see a familiar figure slumped over the steering wheel. ‘That’s him, quick get the door opened.’ The door was thankfully unlocked but even if it had been locked they would not have hesitated to break in. This was an emergency. One of the officers quickly assessed the situation and used the sort of common sense long experience had endowed him with, ‘He’s hypoglycaemic, but still with us.’ He produced a soft, sugary sweet from his pocket and eased it into the man’s mouth. As life-saving procedures go it was undramatic and inexpensive but to a diabetic whose brain has been drained of sugar it was manna from heaven. It saved his life.

The man in the car was of course Celtic legend Danny McGrain. He had failed to show up at home after attending a meeting and his wife had the wisdom to quickly call the Police when her calls to his mobile went unanswered. Skipping a meal had meant Danny’s body was seriously low on sugar and in such circumstances the brain’s reaction is to close the non-vital bodily systems down and conserve what little sugar there was in his system. He had lost consciousness shortly after having the presence of mind to park by the side of the road and it then became a race against the clock to find him. Thankfully the Police did find Danny’s car and knew what to do to revive him.

Danny McGrain had to battle to overcome setbacks in his professional life which would have made a lesser man give up. He joined Celtic as a skinny teenager in the pivotal month of May 1967. He would have watched the Lisbon side rip the opposition apart at home and abroad and wonder if he had what it took to break into such a side. It says much for Celtic that the boyhood Rangers fan was welcomed by the club which was building a formidable reserve side to replace the Lions when time and injury deemed it necessary. Jock Stein, in his wisdom, allowed Danny and other up and coming youngsters like Davidson, Macari, Dalglish and Hay to train with the first team. They could hardly fail to learn the tricks of the trade watching the Lions in action every day. McGrain, it could be argued was the best servant Celtic gained from the ‘Quality Street’ group of youngsters. He served Celtic with distinction for 20 years and in that time dealt with a fractured skull, a serious ankle injury and a broken leg. On top of this he was managing his diabetes and still managing to be consistently excellent for Celtic season after season. His tally of 661 first team games has him fourth in Celtic’s all time appearances list with only McNeil, (790)  McStay, (678) and Aitken (669) ahead of him. That tally of games doesn’t begin to hint at just how excellent Danny was in his prime. He was blessed with great pace before injury and age took their toll and had the skill of a winger when it came to getting past opposing defenders. It would be interesting to see how many assists he had in Celtic goals in that era as he was constantly overlapping and supporting the attack. Younger fans at least have video footage to judge Danny but those of us who saw him will testify that this was indeed the real deal. Danny was a world class player at his peak and a man who grew to be a 100% Celt despite being raised as a Rangers fan. Indeed Celtic Historian David Potter recalls an incident with one of our less intelligent fellow Scots….

‘He was attending a reserve football match and was spotted and recognised by a Rangers fan. The bluenose was about to launch into a tirade about the Pope, Fenians etc. before he remembered that this was not appropriate for the Protestant Danny. Danny then says, "He searched what there was of a brain before shouting 'McGrain, you diabetic bastard!"

Danny became a quintessential Celtic player, combining tremendous skill with what Billy McNeil called ‘a cruel tackle.’ Among the plethora of cup and league wins, my memories of Danny return to that amazing night in 1979 when Celtic faced Rangers in a win or bust league match at Celtic Park. He and Roy Aitken drove Celtic on that incredible night despite setbacks in the game and won the Championship for their beloved Hoops. Danny won 62 caps, appeared in the World Cup Finals and had a career of great distinction. Despite this he remained the ordinary lad from Drumchapel who was welcomed into Celtic Park in 1967 by the best team in Europe. Few would have predicted then that the nervous 17 year old would in due course be voted into Celtic’s greatest ever side by the supporters who came to regard him as an all-time great.

I only met Danny McGrain on one occasion. He was signing autographs in the car park of the old Celtic Park. He signed my programme and I thanked him for all he did for Celtic. He smiled at me and said, ‘It’s been an honour playing here.’ I got the impression he meant it. He may have felt it was an honour to play for Celtic but we who saw Danny play with such flair and distinction know that it was we who were honoured to watch a footballing great wear those famous hoops. That brilliant sports writer, Hugh McIlvanney, said of Danny…

‘Anybody who saw him at his best had the unmistakable impression of watching a great player, probably one who had no superior anywhere in the world.’’

So today give Danny the sort of ovation he deserves. He gave all he had for Celtic and continues to pass on the skills and good habits he learned from the Lisbon Lions to a new generation of young players. The modest man from Drumchapel will no doubt take his seat after the fuss has calmed and will Celtic on to a wining start to a new campaign. It was always about the team, the club and the fans for Danny. Men like him are not just a link to the past for supporters; they are a reminder of the standards players can achieve with hard work, dedication and the honing natural ability until it is exceptional.

Take a bow Danny, you were one of the finest players ever to wear the Hoops and just as importantly a decent human being who demonstrated what can be achieved in life when you refuse to be beaten by setbacks and injuries. Those of us who saw you play can still see in our mind’s eye that wonderful overlapping full back driving up the line and whipping in a telling cross. The old Jungle would roar for more and the old ground would echo to the sound of your name being chanted by thousands of voices….. Danny, Danny, Danny, McGrain, Danny, Danny McGrain…..’