The Good Lie

 

The Good Lie

Glasgow April 2003

Fintan glanced at the clock on the scoreboard high above the packed stand. It told him that 74 minutes had elapsed and that Celtic and Boavista were tied at one goal apiece, as Henrik Larsson placed the ball on the penalty spot. His brother Gerry mumbled in his ear, ‘we need a lead to take to Portugal, he better score this.’ The shaven headed Swede ran up to strike the ball as 60,000 fans in the stadium held their breath. He hit the ball solidly to the keeper’s right but the Portuguese custodian guessed correctly and palmed the ball away for a corner. A hugely frustrating night had taken another twist, as the streetwise, time wasting Boavista side punched the air in delight. Celtic were held to a draw and their hopes of making the 2003 UEFA cup final, hung by a thread.

The following day Fintan skipped up the stairs of the Victoria Infirmary to see his old man and fill him in on how the game with Boavista had gone. Old Joe was a veteran of Lisbon in 67 and Milan in 1970, and hoped to see his beloved Celtic in another European final before the final whistle went on his time. He sat up in the bed, looking pale and thin as his son approached. ‘Alright, da. How’s tricks wi you?’ His old man tried to smile and croaked a response in a tired, hoarse voice, ‘I’d be better if Henrik scored that bloody penalty.’  

Fintan smiled, sat beside the bed and looked at his father. The man who had always been so vigorous and strong, always there to solve every problem, was now much reduced by his cancer. They had discovered it late in the day and it was beyond treatment. ‘We’re still in with a chance. Gerry and his boys are going to Portugal. Thousands of Celtic fans are heading over. He’s stopping off at Lisbon first to visit the stadium Celtic won the big cup in.’ His old man nodded weakly, ‘I wish I was fit for it. Celtic getting to another European final is a dream, son. I saw them in Lisbon and my God, they were brilliant.’ Fintan nodded, ‘Celtic are in with a shout still, da. That mob are no great shakes.’ His old man closed his eyes, as if picturing the scene in Lisbon when time was long and all things seemed possible. ‘Big Billy looked awesome as he held that cup aloft. Best day of my life son. I’ll never forget it. Never, as long as I live…’

Fintan was quiet for a moment as he realised his father was drifting off to sleep. ‘Sweet dreams, da. Sweet dreams.’ He hoped Celtic would make the final and cheer his da one last time. His team had been such a huge part of his life and everything was planned around games. He recalled as a boy sitting outside smoky pubs waiting for his old man to emerge and take him and Gerry to see the Celts. Family parties were usually replete with Celtic songs and as boys, they learned the history of the club and its greatest players off by heart. It was an indelible part of who they were. His old man used to say if he could have a tattoo on his heart, it would read simply: ‘Celtic.’

They were so close to this final, they could almost touch it. He hoped and prayed that they could somehow reach the final and give his dad one last victory in the closing days of his life. It was there to be grasped, but could Martin O’Neill’s side do it?

Boavista Oporto and Celtic fought out a turgid and tense second leg game in order to decide who would progress to the UEFA cup final. The Portuguese side seemed content to sit back as the 1-1 draw in Glasgow was enough to put them in the final. Fintan stood at the back wall of the crowded Tollbooth Bar, the strain palpable in the air. As each second ticked past, the tension grew and grew, until it was almost unbearable.  Boavista wasted time and broke up the play at every opportunity. It was hugely frustrating. There was barely twelve minutes left when Celtic pushed forward again. Mjallby fed Chris Sutton who played it to Larsson. The sharp Swede passed instantly to John Hartson, as a defender lunged in to block the pass. The interception only succeeded in feeding the ball back into the path of the ever-alert Larsson, who made an imperfect connection with it. Nonetheless, the ball, a white blur under the lights, spun through the air past the despairing grasp of the horrified Boavista goalkeeper.

In pubs, clubs and homes all over the world, hundreds of thousands of Celtic fans watched as the ball looped over the goalkeeper, Ricardo, and nestled in the net. There was an explosion of joy, a profound release of pent-up tension, as countless thousands of throats roared in acclaim of a scrappy, scruffy but simply beautiful goal. Celtic were in the lead. Seville, a distant dream a few months earlier, was now a distinct possibility. As Fintan roared his head of with the others in the Tollbooth Bar, his shouts were lost amid the din and mayhem, ‘that one was for you da! That one was for you!’

As April turned to May and the UEFA cup final with FC Porto approached, Fintan tried to see his father every day. He knew time was short but just hoped that he’d hang on long enough to see Celtic lift the trophy in far off Seville. The night before the final, he had sat holding his father’s hand, talking quietly to him. ‘Tens of thousands are in Seville to watch the game. You’ve never seen a support like it. I saw Gerry on the news. He’s got a ticket for the game but his boys are stuck in school.’ His old man was smiling as he lay, eyes closed on the bed, machines whirling and beeping around him.

Fintan talked for a long time that night to his father. He spoke about the old days. About Jimmy Johnstone, mesmerising and tormenting defenders, of Auld and Lennox, McNeill and Murdoch. Of the magnificent fans roaring Celtic on to so many glories. As his he listened to his old man’s shallow breathing, he hoped they could add just one more victory to their illustrious history. Just one more…

The 21st day of May, 2003 saw the streets of Glasgow deserted. Everyone was crowded around TV sets watching Celtic take on Jose Mourinho’s hugely talented FC Porto side. Up to 80,000 Celtic fans were in Spain for the game despite less than half of them having tickets. Fintan Cullen watched events unfold at home with his family. He had arranged with the hospital to go see his father at 9am the following morning as he wanted to tell him all about the final. As FC Porto started the match, he said a little prayer. The fans were there in numbers, the atmosphere crackled, novenas had been said; it was up to the players now.

It was just after 3am when the hospital called him. A kind voice spoke to him in the darkness, ‘Mr Cullen, we think you better come. Your father is nearing the end, and you may want to say your goodbyes.’ He had dressed in a bit of a daze and slipped out of the house for the drive to the hospital. The streets were deserted as he parked near the Victoria. He moved quickly though the silent corridors, fighting back the tears he felt building up inside him.

The nurse smiled kindly at him and showed him into the ante-room. ‘He’s had pain relief but I’m afraid he doesn’t have much longer to go.’ Old Joe, lay on the bed, still and silent. Fintan sat beside him and took his hand, noticing the bruises on it from the needles which had recently been removed. ‘Hi da,’ he began, fighting to keep his emotions in check. ‘Gerry is still in Spain. He’ll be home tomorrow and will come straight up to see you.’ To his surprise, his old man’s eyes flickered open and he whispered almost inaudibly, ‘did Celtic win?’ Fintan took a deep breath, ‘it was a close game, da. Larsson scored two beautiful headed goals and it went into extra time.’ His old man squeezed his hand weakly, as if urging him to go on. 

Fintan thought for a long moment before continuing.  ‘It looked like penalties were on the cards but Celtic fought like lions. The fans sang their hearts out and drove them on, when the heat would have melted you. Sutton headed in the winner in the very last minute. You should have seen them parade the cup, da. Thousands upon thousands of fans singing, you'll never walk alone. It was beautiful, just beautiful. Like Lisbon all over again.’ His old man exhaled and smiled weakly, ‘good old Celtic…’ Fintan knew it was a lie, but it was a good lie. Where was the harm in gifting his old man one last happy thought?

He sat with his old man until dawn’s red fingers painted patterns on the wall above the bed. Old Joe had taken his last breath on that bright May morning in 2003. He had departed this life with no regrets. Fintan smiled through his tears at his father, who lay on the bed, his face serene and at peace. ‘I’ll see you in a better place, da. The family and going to love it when I tell them your last words were, ‘good old Celtic.’ 

He leaned down and kissed his old man on the forehead. ‘Thanks, da. They broke the mould when they made you.’