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.