The Warriors

The Warriors

Tony Doherty slipped the VHS tape into the machine with the air of a high priest performing some ancient rite. ‘Can you believe we can watch this movie anytime we want? It’s like magic!’ His friend, Geezer, was less than impressed, ‘Aye alright, yer brother robbed the Radio Rentals van. Don’t go thinking yer Hugh Heffner.’  Tony refused to be put off his mystical moment, ‘first family in Camelon wi a video recorder, that’s the Dohertys!’  Geezer shook his head, ‘First guy called Tony Doherty tae get his haw-maws kicked the day if he disnae get the film oan!’ Tony laughed, ‘any mer ae yer threats and you’ll no be watching the Warriors!’ Geezer opened a can of beer and grinned, ‘Aw right, fuxake gonnae just start the movie ay?’ Tony fast forwarded the tape to the start of the film and the minor cult classic in the making that was ‘The Warriors; began.

For the next 92 minutes the two friends were spellbound by the journey of New York gang, the Warriors, who had to make their way home across the various gang areas of the city. Having been framed for killing a gang leader, every gang they met was hostile and it led to a protracted and violent journey home. Tony and Geezer barely said a word until the movie ended and the credits were rolling. It was Tony who spoke first. ‘That was fuckin brilliant!’ Geezer had to agree and nodded saying just, ‘mag-fucken-nificent!’ The spell was broken by Tony’s sister Karen who knocked on his room door. ‘Tony, can we use yer video when yer at the fitbaw the morra? Moira’s Da got her Rocky 2 oot the video van.’ Geezer looked at his beer disguising poorly the crush he’d had on Karen for a long time. Tony answered her, ‘Aye but ye need tae put a blank tape in and tape the match the morra. Deal?’

The following day was one of those hot Scottish days you sometimes got in the early summer. All roads would lead to Hampden as Celtic and Rangers squared off in the final of the Scottish cup. From Falkirk and the surrounding towns and villages cars and buses streamed west towards Glasgow. Some were festooned in the green and white of Celtic while others had a more blue tinge. Friends and neighbours had boarded the bus of their choosing and joined their tribe for the day. As rival buses passed on the motorways there was the usual cat calling and banter but things were still relatively good humoured and had that excitement and edge that only cup final days could bring. Adding to this was the realisation that whoever lost the 1980 cup final would finish the season with nothing. Aberdeen had won the league and Dundee United the League cup so it was win or bust at Hampden.

The great bowl of Hampden was a sea of faces as they topped the stairs at the Celtic end and looked around. Sunshine bathed the stadium and there was a growing sense of anticipation. From the far end of the stadium a rumbling song was heard, ‘and its colours they are fine…’ This was greeted by boos and jeers from the Celtic end and they in turn began to sing, ‘Hail Hail the Celts are here….’ The two Falkirk boys made their way down towards the front just as a roar went up to announce that the teams had come out. ‘Here we go Geezer boy!’ said Tony, an excited smile creasing his face, ‘the old butterflies are going! This will be tough withoot McAdam and big Roddy.’ Geezer was more confident, ‘We’ll do this mob today. They’re absolute keech.’ The players lined up to start the game; this was it, the defining game of the season for both clubs.

As the game kicked off the 70,000 crowd roared and seethed, they would kick every ball, cheer every tackle and hope to God their team would emerge victorious. The game was tense with players too wound up and too aware of the importance of the match to play much flowing football. There were chances at both ends but as the relentless sun beat down on the uncovered terrace it was obvious it was going to take a piece of brilliance or an error to win the game. As extra time commenced it was Celtic who looked more likely but where would a goal come from? Then after 117 minutes of football, it happened. A corner was headed out of the Rangers box where Danny McGrain, Celtic’s experienced full back was there to collect it. No noted for his shooting prowess, McGrain lashed the ball towards goal. At the other end of the field Tony watched as the ball zipped back into the box where George McCluskey was sharp enough to flick his left leg as the ball as it sped towards him. This deflected the ball beyond the despairing reach of Rangers keeper Peter McCloy and into the yawing net.

The Celtic support in the huge crowd exploded! Geezer grabbed Tony, ‘Yaaaasssss! We’ve done it!’ 

A great cloud of dust arose from the cinder terrace steps as it often did on dry days at the decrepit old stadium. The release of tension and joy in the Celtic end was in contrast to the sullen silence in the Rangers end. The Celtic supporters roared and rumbled for the remaining minutes of the game just wanting it to be over. As it neared its end, Rangers were throwing everyone forward and Celtic broke with four attackers bearing down on one Rangers defender. Davie Provan slid the ball to Tommy Burns who raced towards the keeper and waited for him to commit himself before deftly chipping the ball over him towards the empty net. The ball spun agonisingly just wide of the target. Thousands of whistles reminded the Referee that time was almost up but Rangers had one last assault on the Celtic goal. The ball was clipped high into the Celtic penalty box but Peter Latchford rose highest and clutched the ball safely. As he did so the final whistle sounded and Celtic had won the cup.

Geezer and Tony joined other excited young fans and clambered over the metal fencing onto the pitch to celebrate with their team. The mood was joyous and they hugged each other on the lush green glass of Hampden Park. As they danced and cavorted on the pitch with hundreds of others a more malevolent group entered the field from the opposite end. Tony nodded towards them, ‘Look at these bastards, worst fuckin losers in the world.’ The Celtic supporters retreated towards their own end of the stadium but a more hard core element on the terraces arrived to take up the challenge. Soon there was a full scale battle taking place on the pitch. A bottle whizzed over Geezer’s head and that was all he needed to encourage him to join in the fray.

The charging and counter charging went on and the air was full of flying beer cans and bottles. The Police finally appeared on their horse and rode among the fighting fans lashing out at them with their long sabre like batons. The battle was over, at least in the stadium, as both sets of supporters headed back to the terrace leaving just the injured and the litter of battle behind them. Tony and Geezer headed back towards the bus Park a mixture of elation and adrenalin coursing through them. However their time on the pitch meant that the bus to Falkirk had already left without them. ‘Fuxake!’ grumbled Tony, ‘We’ll need tae hike it tae Queen Street and get the train!’ As they headed along Aitkenhead Road towards the city centre they could see that there were still battles going on in the streets. The sound of sirens, shouts and breaking glass was filling the summer air.

They managed to avoid the worst of the trouble until they reached the Gorbals where another battle was already in progress. ‘This is like the fuckin Warriors trying tae get hame,’ said Geezer. A group of Celtic fans pushed past them to join the frey. One of them, a wine bottle in his hand, looked at the two Falkirk lads in their hooped shirts, ‘Better stick wi the Cumbie, boys, these liberty takin bastards are oot for a body!’  Geezer and Tony did as they were bid and joined the larger group. There was always more safety in numbers on such days. The skirmish in the Gorbals was more posturing and throwing things but as they reached the city centre things took a turn for the worse.

At George Square there was a real melee going on with fists and boots flying. The two friends stayed on the periphery and let the harder elements get up close and personal in the fight. At long last they reached the train station and climbed the stairs to the platforms. Noise echoed inside the station as Police tried to form Celtic and Rangers fans into two orderly if noisy lines. Songs filled the air as Tony and his friend squeezed into the line for the Edinburgh train which stopped at their town. At last it arrived and they poured on with hundreds of others. The journey back was at least a calmer one than the walk from Hampden. It seemed to be mostly Celtic fans on their carriage and the songs were soon flowing as was the beer. Tony exhaled and looked at Geezer, ‘Whit a fuckin day, man!’

They got off the train at Falkirk High and saw both Celtic and Rangers fans heading out of the station. Half a dozen cops watched them, ensuring there would be no repeat of what had gone on in Glasgow. Things had calmed though and the two pals relaxed as they walked back to Camelon. ‘Fancy a pint?’ asked Geezer. Tony smiled, ‘I’m exhausted mate. You’d think I played in that game. I fancy getting a curry oot the Wok and heading hame tae watch the game.’ Geezer agreed, ‘No a bad idea, mate. Might even watch the Warriors again.’ Tony smiled, ‘Seen enough warriors’ today tae last a lifetime.’