God Bless Albert Kidd

 

God Bless Albert Kidd

A blue haze of cigarette smoke hung in the air as old Tommy O’Neil brought in another New Year with his family. The clan always gathered at his house for the bells and as 1985 turned to 1986 it was no different. He’d seen a lot in his long life, two world wars, the great depression and a life of hard graft for little reward. He had learned though that family was the real treasure to cherish and nothing pleased him more than having them under his roof enjoying a good time together. ‘Granda,’ called his thirteen-year-old grandson, Tony, through the chatter and laughter, ‘will ye sing yer song for us?’ Tony’s mother smiled and rolled her eyes before calling the room to order, ‘Right, a bit of quiet noo, my da’s gonae sing his song.’ The room became still and old man, born in 1900, closed his eyes and began to sing in a surprisingly strong voice…

‘A young lad named John Thomson,
From the west of Fife he came,
To play for Glasgow Celtic,
And to build himself a name.

On the fifth day of September,
'gainst the Rangers club he played,
From defeat he saved the Celtic,
Ah but what a price he paid.’

Young Tony watched the old fella as he sang and notice how still the room was. His grandfather had been a young man when John Thomson had played and was at Ibrox on that fatal day in September 1931. He had read about Thomson, McGrory, Gallagher, Tully and all the rest but here was a man who had seen them play in their prime. As he reached a certain point in the song, the people in the room joined in quietly, almost reverentially…

‘Farewell my darlin Johnny

Prince of players we must part

No more we’ll stand and cheer you

On the slopes of Celtic Park’

 

When the song was over, Tony squeezed onto the sofa beside his grandfather. ‘What was John Thomson like granda? Was he as good as they say he was?’ The old man smiled, ‘He was a marvellous goalkeeper and brave as a lion. Maybe too brave. I recall a game with Airdrie, he dived at a forward’s feet. Cost him a couple of teeth and a fractured jaw.’ Tony nodded, ‘did ye see the accident at Ibrox?’ The old man nodded silently before adding, ‘Aye, son and it was just that; a dreadful accident. Poor Sam English never got over it.’ As the old man regaled his grandson with tales of times long before he was born the mood in the room changed again. Someone started singing and soon the whole room joined in….

‘Piling on the agony, putting on the style

1-2-3-4-5-6-7,  scoring all the while

There’s nothing in this whole wide world

That makes you want to smile

Like watching Glasgow Celtic putting on the style’

As young Tony joined in, he could see his mother by the living room door pointing to her wrist. It was time for bed. At least he was going with his old man and uncle Frank to see Celtic play Rangers the following day. Despite the ongoing racket in the living room, sleep soon came and claimed young Tony O’Neill.

1986 began with one of those wet, grey winter days that so afflict the west of Scotland. Many of the adults in the great river of humanity flowing towards Celtic Park were still half drunk from the night before so the mood was upbeat and the songs were filling the air. Young Tony stuck close to his old man and uncle as they marched along the Gallowgate with thousands of others. He was well drilled about what to do at these games in order to stay safe.

As they lined up at the turnstile on Janefield street the crowd was swaying and singing. ‘Mo Mo Super Mo. Mo Mo Super Mo. Super Maurice Johnston…’  Alas the aforementioned Mo was ill and wouldn’t be playing and that worried many of the fans heading into the match. Celtic had finished 1985 in patchy for and lost at Ibrox, Aberdeen and Tannadice. They’d need a big performance to get their faltering title hopes back on track and missing their star striker was a concern.

Tony managed to get a spot beside the other youngsters right at the front beside the green painted wooden barrier. His old man and uncle were just a couple of yards behind him as the teams ran out to a tumultuous roar. The game exploded to life in the ninth minute when Owen Archdeacon swung in a cross for Paul McGugan to rise unchallenged and head Celtic in front. Two thirds of the stadium erupted in a crescendo of noise and colour. The game became a grim battle of attrition in the mud and it took a Brian McClair header early in the second half to settle the issue. Tony O’Neill, like thousands of others, got home freezing, soaking but absolutely delighted.

Celtic’s form was up and down that winter but they got their act together as spring arrived. Runaway leaders Hearts were already being called champions elect by the press but there was a glimmer of hope as the last few games of the season approached. After an astonishing 4-4 draw at Ibrox, Celtic wracked up 7 consecutive wins to at least put pressure on the Edinburgh side going into the final day of the season.

Tony O’Neill popped into his granda’s house for a chat before heading to Paisley on the supporters’ bus for Celtic’s date with destiny. ‘It’s a long shot.’ Tony said, ‘we need Hearts tae lose and Celtic to win by a right few goals.’ The old man who had seen it all smiled, ‘this is Celtic son, we don’t do things the easy way.’  Tony looked at him, ‘ye think we can dae it Granda?’ The old man nodded, ‘of course we can, we just need a wee bit of luck up in Dundee.’  Tony could hear his old man shout up at the window, ‘Time I headed granda, see ye after the game,’ he said with an excited smile. The old man grinned as the boy hurried out the door, adjusting his Celtic scarf as he went. Watching young Tony fall in love with Celtic was like watching his dad falling in love with the Lions as a boy. In fact, when he saw the boy’s enthusiasm it reminded him of how he was a long time ago, when he watched McGrory, Crumb and Divers maul the defences of Scotland. ‘Good luck son,’ he said quietly, ‘bring home that title.’

Love Street was packed with Celtic fans there in hope rather than expectation. Hearts had been on good form all season but now it came down to the last match of the season. Would they crack under the pressure at Dens Park? Could Celtic win by enough goals at Love Street if they did? Tony O’Neill watched Celtic rip into the Paisley side from the start. They looked dangerous at every attack and had soon raced into a 2-0 lead. Then on 36 minutes came a moment which sealed his love affair with Celtic forever. As he watched from the front of the covered enclosure, Danny McGrain flicked the ball over his head to Murdo McLeod who caressed it to Paul McStay. McStay turned inside his man and fed Roy Aitken who instantly cushioned it back to the overlapping McGrain. The wily old veteran fed Brian McClair who nutmegged a defender and raced towards the St Mirren penalty box. He cut a perfect pass across the face of goal where the onrushing Maurice Johnston slammed it home. It was a goal of exquisite beauty. A goal none of those who witnessed it would ever forget.

Young Tony O’Neill roared his head off like the thousands of other fans around him. Celtic had the 3 goals they required now all they needed was a minor miracle at Dens Park.

90 miles away in Dundee, a Celtic fan sitting among the subs on the Dundee bench glanced around at a nearby fan with a radio pressed to his ear. The fan held up three fingers and mouthed, ‘three nil to Celtic.’ He refocussed on the game which was a tense, scrappy 0-0 draw at that point. He exhaled, hoping the manager would give him a chance before the 90 minutes was up. His name was Albert Kidd.

In Glasgow, old Tommy O’Neill sat closer to his radio. Celtic were now 4-0 up at Love Street. The presenter, breathless with the tension of it all, said, ‘Dundee are making a change. Albert Kidd is on and Tosh McKinley is coming off. A positive change for Dundee.’ The old man knew time was running out, Celtic needed Dundee to score. As he turned the volume up on his radio, Dundee had a corner with just 7 minutes remaining. The corner was headed on into a ruck of players and Albert Kidd reacted fastest and lashed the ball high into the net. Old Tommy clenched his fist and smiled, ‘Go on Celtic!’ he said, a tear rolling down his cheek.

In Paisley Celtic were in cruise control at 5-0 as thousands of ears strained to hear the radio commentary from Dundee. Suddenly there was a roar louder than any which had greeted Celtic’s goals that day. Tony’s father pushed through the cheering crowd to his son who looked around him wondering what was going on. ‘Dundee have scored! God bless Albert Kidd!’ Father and son embraced as the Celtic supporters started their victory songs around them.

Ninety miles away in Dundee, Albert Kidd scored again, just to be on the safe side. The party could now truly begin.

A Burning Indignation

 

A Burning Indignation

Peter Kerins pulled the old-style overcoat over his shoulders, feeling its weight press down on him. The clothes were modelled on authentic period dress and although he felt like an actor, he knew he had look genuine. The only modern device he would carry would be his location beacon; no bigger than a fingernail, it was sewn into the lining of his heavy overcoat. Without it there would be no return journey.

Professor Choi looked him up and down like the mother of a bride looking for flaws in the wedding dress. ‘You have the period money?’ he asked as if checking off a mental list.  ‘yes,’ said Peter a little impatiently, ‘the medical inoculations, the period speech coaching, the map of the city, the location of the portal for the return and of course the list of prohibitions. It’s all in my head Choi, COLIN taught me well.’ COLIN was the colloquial term for the Computerised Learning Interface. An invention which it was hoped would change the world.

It was over 20 years now since the Institute had pioneered the brain research which allowed for the virtual downloading of information from a computerised motherboard into the memory centres of the brain. Their initial experiments planted just a few snippets of obscure information but within five years they could implant an entire foreign language in an afternoon. A Nobel Prize followed and it was assumed that COLIN would be rolled out into universities and schools but the big corporations smelled money and the process was patented to be sold to the rich for exorbitant amounts.

COLIN though was nothing compared to the invention of the time displacement portal. Initial experiments sent sensor packed mini drones back a few days and their measurements were checked against the known data to confirm that it had indeed gone back to the prescribed time. The first living thing sent back was a cat named Milo. It was sent to a sealed cave containing food, water and a battery of sensors. It survived and seemed unchanged in any way when they recovered it. The data showed its journey was complete in the blink of an eye. The technology developed further and Milo was sent back and then recovered via the portal the master computer had designed. The algorithms suggested there was no way to send people or things forward in time but the past was reachable and it was now possible in theory to get there and back again in safety. The risks remained high though and initially the Presidium of the Institute forbade any human being to be sent back. They were rightly concerned that the actions of a visitor in a given timeframe could have unforeseen consequences or even change history. The master computer had worked on this and other paradoxes for several months before discerning that the stream of time could not be altered once set. The past was fixed; you could visit it but you could not alter it in any meaningful way.

The first visitors returned safely and had no discernible impact on history. It was noted that several had sustained minor injuries during their trips which healed in moments. One had even caught a bullet to the shoulder visiting the battle of Gettysburg but that too had healed almost instantly. It was almost as if time was not allowing them to be hurt or to affect history in any way- past or future.  Within a few years scientists and historians were visiting various key points in history and gaining a greater understanding of the past. They had to undergo acclimatisation courses which covered everything from language usage to dress code before their journey. The computers had used miniaturised implanted beacons to locate and return them safely to their own time. Yet again though, big business had seen the potential of ‘flipping’ as it became known and the first fee paying time tourists lined up to visit various points in history.

Peter Kerins had first learned of his distant ancestor while researching his genealogy and had little trouble persuading the Institute to let him make his first flip back to the late 19^th century. He wrote his proposal paper in one sitting and titled it ‘Infant mortality in an industrial city in the late 19^th century.’ That was only part of the reason he wanted to go. He also wanted to meet his remarkable forebear. He had waited three months for a reply but eventually they agreed. He undertook the prescribed acclimatisation courses and neural downloads and he was ready to go.

Professor Choi looked at him, his dark Korean eyes taking in every detail. ‘Don’t lose your coat as it contains the location beacon to bring you home. Remember you have 48 hours to complete your research then you must return.’  Peter nodded, ‘Understood Professor.’ The smaller man spoke to the master computer, ‘activate the portal. March 11^th 1888.’ The rectangular frame on the wall to their left glowed green then red as it filled with plasma energy. ‘Portal activated. Subject may pass through,’ the rather feminine AI voice said. Choi looked at Peter as he stepped forward towards the portal, ‘See you soon Dr Kerins.’ Peter Kerins smiled at him and stepped into shimmering field of light.

The sensation of passing through the portal was just as Kerins had been led to expect. It was like blinking your eyes and opening them a split second later and finding yourself somewhere else. The warmth of the lab at the Institute was replaced by a chill March wind and he was glad of his heavy overcoat. He was exactly where the computer decided he should be; in a quiet park early on a Sunday morning. When flipping to a city targeting an open area at a quiet time was the best way to arrive unobserved. The place seemed quite deserted and he started walking towards the exit a few hundred yards in front of him.

He glanced around the London Road and started walking east. A few horse-drawn carts were already on the roads but in the main, as was the case on Sundays in the era, the shops were closed and the streets quiet. The sabbath day was a day of rest for most. As he reached a crossroad at Dalmarnock Street he turned north. The cottages and tenements crowded on either side of the road seemed jumbled together and there was a smell of human and animal waste. A man lay snoring against the wall of a shuttered tavern, sleeping as if in a comfortable bed. Peter passed him and stopped at the place he wanted to see first. A wooden palisade fence enclosed an area of perhaps 150 metres by 80. He craned his neck to see over the high fence.

A voice behind him startled him a little, ‘if you’ve come to join the labourers, they won’t be here for another hour.’ Peter turned to see a small, stooped man regarding him. He had a wheelbarrow full of shovels and picks and sucked on a thin white, clay pipe. ‘No, I hoped just to look at the ground itself. Do you think I could?’ The man regarded him, ’sure your clothes should have told me you’re not here to sweat with the navvies.’ He nodded towards a padlocked door further along the fence, ‘come have a look at our endeavour so far.’ He unlocked the door and Peter followed him inside. A green rectangle of grass was laid out before him. To his left a small grandstand was in construction and banks of earth were formed on the three other sides of the modest little stadium to serve as rudimentary terraces. Piles of timber lay to one side and the whole place had the feel of a construction site. ‘All built by local men on their day of rest. We should be ready for our first sport in 6 or 8 weeks.’ Peter took it all in, his eyes missing nothing. ‘Tell me,’ he said to the man, ‘where might I meet Brother Walfrid on this fine day?’ The man rubbed his grizzled chin, ‘the good brother will be hearing mass at St Mary’s this morning, I hear tell. What business have you with him?’ he added, a tad more suspiciously. Peter smiled, ‘I have heard of his endeavours and wish to make a donation to his good works.’ With that he thanked the man and slipped a shilling into his hand. The older man nodded, his expression not changing, ‘thank you sir and good luck to you now.’

The church was the only attractive building in a street of dark, dank looking tenements.  People milled about the doorway, talking and smoking. Some in their Sunday best clothes, others in what were probably the only clothes they had. There were children seemingly everywhere, some in their bare feet. Peter made his way through the crowd and into the church. He copied the woman in front of him and dipped his finger in the small water font at the door and made the sign of the cross. The church was already busy and he sat near the back taking it all in. Religion in his own time was a personal affair relegated to the back channels on the cyber-world beside other obscure pass times. Physical churches no longer existed save those saved as museums.

Peter scanned the pews looking for the man he had come to see and hopefully converse with. Within a few seconds he had spotted several men in the robes of the Marists kneeling at the front on the church. His distant relative had to be one of them. The service was in Latin, a dead language Peter had studied briefly at the institute. It flowed melodically, interspersed with songs and ritualised responses, Peter found it relaxing, beautiful even. He stayed in his seat when the people went to receive the bread. When the service was over, he waited behind until the church was almost empty. The four Marists prayed a while longer before taking their cue from the eldest and rising to leave. Peter waited until they passed his pew before standing and following them outside. He touched the elbow of the last of the four Marists and said quietly, ‘Brother Walfrid, I wonder if you could spare a moment?’

The man’s pale eyes regarded him and he replied in a soft Irish accent, ‘I have some business to attend too but if you are brief.’ They stepped to the side the church entrance so as to be out of the flow of people. ‘My name is Peter Kerins, I believe we are distant relatives. I wanted to talk to you about your endeavour to feed the children in this part of town and about the football club you will soon launch into the world.’  Walfrid regarded him, ‘You are well informed Mr Kerins. I can’t place your accent. Are you American perhaps?’ Peter nodded, ‘Yes, I’ve spent some years there.’ The Marist smiled slightly. ‘The Sligo Kerins’ never spoke with such an accent.’ A voice called to him and Walfrid turned briefly to see a bearded man wave him over. ‘Come to the school tomorrow around ten. We can talk then. You know the Sacred Heart School?’ Peter nodded his thanks as Walfrid shook his hand and left.

Peter Kerins pondered his first meeting with his distant ancestor as he strolled towards the centre of the city. Walfrid looked older than his 47 years. Grey flecks in his hair and lines around his eyes spoke of years of hard work. It seemed alien to him that such people would sacrifice their whole lives in the service of others with no reward but an early grave. The words of the sermon in the church came back to him, the only words of the service spoken in English. ‘Jesus wants us to be men and women for others.’ Was that what Walfrid was? A man for others, labouring so hard and long to help others? It was an alien concept in his own time.

Peter wandered the streets of the city taking in the sights and sounds. He strolled past the site of the great exhibition which would open that spring in a grand park in the west end of the city. He saw grand houses and appalling slums, well fed children and waifs in need of food and warm clothing. As the shades of night approached, he booked into a hotel in the centre of the city and after eating, slept for the first time in this strange new reality.

Sacred Heart school was adjacent to the little church bearing the same name. Peter entered and told the severe looking secretary he had an appointment to see the head master. She led him to a small office where the good Brother sat behind a desk, spectacles balanced on the end of his nose. ‘Ah, Mr Peter Kerins, tis yourself. Be seated, please. Peter sat and looked at the man whose life he had researched in as much detail as he could. ‘Thank you, Brother,’ he said, sitting in a comfortable chair facing the head teacher. The two men looked at each other for a second as the secretary left. ‘Now, tell me,’ Walfrid began in his soft accent, ‘what can I do for you this fine morning?’

Peter explained he wanted to make a contribution to the poor children’s dinner tables but also wanted to hear Walfrid explain why there was such need for them. ‘These past 30 years or more I’ve been in Glasgow,’ Walfrid began, ‘I’ve seen poverty and hunger go unaided. I’ve seen children, legs bowed for want of sustenance. I’ve seen infants sicken and die before they learned to walk because their housing is damp, overcrowded and disease ridden. What is a follower of Christ to do in such circumstances but try to help?’ Peter listened to Walfrid speak of his experiences in Ireland during the great hunger and the horrors he witnessed as a child. He could not help but see the man was possessed of a burning indignation at the injustice wrought on his land and his people.

‘When I came to Scotland, I saw my people still in great need but at least some could work here. Some of the people here despised us as drunken and lazy. I knew that education was the key to lifting our people from their lowly position. How to get the children to school though when most worked at menial tasks to bring in a coin or two for their families? The answer was food. A hot meal each day brought so many through the doors that we were serving over a thousand meals in a day.’

Peter Kerins listened to the middle-aged Irishman speak for almost an hour. All his work, all his endeavours were all aimed at helping the poor. It was hard for him to believe, coming as he did from a time when no one went hungry or lacked medical care, that 5000 children in this city alone would not live to see their fifth birthday this year. Walfrid looked at Peter, ‘Why do these things interest you? Are you a writer with one of the journals?’ Peter looked at him, tempted to tell him the truth but knowing the protocols stuck to his story. ‘No, I’m an academic. I want to learn the cause of this misery.’ Walfrid inhaled a long breath, ‘the cause is the same as ever; human greed and a people who do not live out the meaning of their creed.’

Peter gave him an envelope containing twenty perfect facsimile £5 notes. It was a year’s salary for some in that era. ‘I hope you can make use of this and rest assured your football club will be a great success.’  Walfrid left the envelope on the table and nodded his thanks before saying quietly, ‘will you pray with me, Peter?’ The request caught Peter off guard but he mumbled that he would. There in a small school set among the dusty chimneys of a grim industrial city, two men born 400 years apart bowed their heads in prayer. As they parted Walfrid gifted Peter a small medallion. ‘A small token of my appreciation.’ Peter thanked him and slipped it into his pocket.

The following day Peter headed back to the Park for his journey home. It had been a most informative trip. His beacon vibrated slightly to remind him that the portal would open soon. He looked around at the many chimneys belching acrid smoke into the sky. This was a hard time to be alive, especially if you were poor. He waited until there was no one near and stepped behind the tree. The portal opened, its rectangle of light looking odd amidst the greenery of the park. He closed his eyes and stepped though.

Choi smiled at him, ‘welcome back. I hope you learned something from your trip?’ Peter smiled, ‘it was truly fascinating, Choi. The people there lived with hunger and death as their companion but they were more alive than we are in this sterile age.’ Choi watched him, ‘did you meet the man you wanted to meet?’ Peter paced across the room and made to take of the heavy overcoat. ‘Yes, I did and he was as remarkable as I’d envisaged.’ He searched the pocket of the heavy coat and felt cold metal of the medal given to him by Walfrid touch his hand. He took it out and looked at it. ‘A souvenir?’  asked Choi. Peter smiled, ‘Yes, a worthless piece of metal to most people but it was worth everything to him.’ Choi nodded, ‘superstitious people in the past often imbued certain artefacts with a power they don’t have.’ Peter nodded, ‘Perhaps, but that man’s beliefs motivated him to great acts of altruism. Maybe the artefact doesn’t give him that power, maybe his actions give the power to the artefact?’

Peter placed the small medallion on the table and headed for the decontamination room.