Six minutes past eight

Six minutes past eight

Sometimes you could see it coming. A game Celtic had in the palm of their hands with a 2-0 lead and just 2 minutes left on the clock was in danger of slipping away. Poor defending had allowed Dundee United’s Gary MacKay Steven lash home to give the men in tangerine hope that they could salvage a point. Jackie Brolly, high in the Jerry Kerr stand was feeling the tension and shouted, ‘Time’s up, ref! Blow the whistle ya fud!’ As the words left his mouth United fired a ball in from the left and the hapless Efie Ambrose rose to clear it. To Jackie’s horror the ball glanced off Effie’s head and flashed past Fraser Forster into the net. The home fans erupted as the big Celtic support collectively shook their heads. It had taken Celtic 70 minutes to break down United and they were in a commanding position with just a few moments left. How quickly a game could change.

The journey back down the motorway to Glasgow was a little more subdued than normal given the late collapse at Tannadice. ‘I’ll tell ye what,’ said Jackie’s brother Eddie, ‘if we defend like that against Barcelona we’ll get absolutely pumped.’  Jackie had to agree, ‘Cannae see Ambrose keeping oot Messi and co. We’ll need a miracle tae get oot that game wi a point.’  Jackie exhaled, ‘Ye going up to see my da tonight?’ Eddie shook his head, ’Baby-sitting sitting bro, I’ll go on Monday. You cover it tonight will ye?’  Jackie nodded, ‘Aye, nae worries. He’ll no be happy wi that result.’ Then almost as an afterthought added, ‘Mind you wi the currant buns going bust we should still win this league wi a country mile.’

As the bus sped down the motorway Jackie thought of his old man and the times they’d shared together. Sure he was a disciplinarian when they were kids but he’d taught them the right values and guided them into decent jobs. He was always there when they needed good advice or had got themselves into trouble. He recalled as a teenager his old man’s look of anger when he had shouted something vulgar at a Rangers player during a heated match. He had said nothing but Jackie knew the old fella had standards and he wanted his boys to adhere to them too.  He had first gone to the football with his dad and Eddie when he was 7 years old way back in 1986. It was a home game against Aberdeen played in a gale and lashing rain. He had begged his old man to take him and had stood at the front of the old Jungle as Celtic battled to a 1-1 draw with a very good Aberdeen side. From the moment Peter Grant scored on that rainy day, Jackie had got the Celtic bug.

Later that night, Jackie walked through the warren of corridors that led from the new section of the Royal Infirmary to the old block on Castle Street. He climbed the stairs to the ward his old man was in. ‘Why was it always the top floor?’ he mused as he sanitised his hands using the dispenser on the wall outside the ward. He entered the busy ward and walked briskly to where his father’s bed was. He stopped short an uneasy feeling coming over him when he saw that the bed was empty. He turned and approached the nurse’s station near the front door. ‘Can you tell me where James Brolly is?’ he asked a stern looking nurse who seemed to be in charge. She looked at him, her face a mask giving away no emotion. ‘And you are?’ Jackie hid his annoyance, ‘I’m his son.’ She nodded, ‘He was moved this morning to the single room.’ She gestured behind him at the small room. ‘Mr Brolly deteriorated overnight. The Doctor doesn’t think it’ll be long now.’ Jackie fought to keep control of his emotions. He knew this day was coming but it was always tomorrow… tomorrow.

He sat by the bed in an uncomfortable, plastic chair and took his old man’s hand. ‘Alright Da?  Celts blew it today, two-nil up with 2 minutes tae go and it ended 2-2.’ The only sound in the room apart from Jackie’s voice was the regular sound of his old man’s breathing and the odd click or beep from the machines around his bed. Jackie looked at him as he lay deep in sleep, his face so familiar yet he seemed older, weary. The guy who used to carry him on his shoulders and was always so strong, so reliable had been reduced by this illness. Jackie stayed for an hour talking quietly to his old man, mulling over what the nurse had told him. It was a matter of days now. He rose to leave and leaned over his sleeping father kissing him lightly on the cheek. They were never an emotional bunch and not given to overt displays of affection. He whispered in his old man’s ear words he didn’t think he’d ever said to him in his life, ‘I love you, Da,’ before leaving the ward to let his family know the situation.

The following Wednesday the two brothers took a break from the strain they were under and headed to Celtic Park to watch Celtic take on possibly the best club side in the world at that point. There was huge excitement in Glasgow which increased the closer they got to the stadium. The fans were singing loudly at the turnstiles as the brothers clicked into the Jock Stein stand and took their seats near the front. The full stadium tifo was a thing of beauty and the songs thundered out into the dark, November sky. ‘I wish my da could see this,’ Jackie muttered to his brother as the teams came out to the most spectacular setting for a game of football. The Champions League anthem began amid a crescendo of noise which cascaded from the stands. The two brothers may have had heavy burdens weighing them down but they’d try to be distracted from them for the next two hours. It seemed a forlorn hope that Celtic could match the array of talents that Barcelona had on the field but then this support often gave the players wings. There was always hope. As the game began to a huge roar, Jackie screamed out, ‘Come on Celtic! Intae them!’

The roars and songs from Celtic Park drifted across the east end as the battle swung this way and that. At 6 minutes past 8 victor Wanyama met a corner from the right and headed firmly into the Barcelona net. The noise which greeted the goal was as loud as any in the 125 year history of the grand old team.

A couple of miles away in the Royal Infirmary old James Brolly opened his eyes. He looked around him as if wondering if the noise he heard was real. He smiled weakly to himself and closed them again. His journey was over, his game played. He was happy to be going home.