Where there’s a will
Glasgow 1972
‘Face it, John,’ his younger brother said in a frustrated voice, ‘we’ve nae
chance of getting a ticket for this match. We should have lined up with
everybody else when they were on sale.’ The taller of the two straightened his
tie in the mirror and replied, ‘Frankie boy, ye give up too easily. Where there’s
a will there’s a way.’ He turned to face his brother, ‘I’ve got a plan but
first we get tae Fife and see the Celts wrap up this title.’ Frankie shrugged, ‘aye, at least we can see that cos I doubt we’ll be
getting intae the Inter game.’ John Sweeney smiled at his brother, ‘oh ye of
little faith,’ and headed for the door.
His long-suffering wife Bernadette, known to all as Bernie, watched him
getting ready to leave and said, ‘mind it’s the wean’s birthday the morra. Don’t
come in here drunk tonight and start wi that Kevin Barry stuff!’ John smiled at
her and grabbed her around the waist. ‘Nothing wrang wi the auld songs, Bernie
doll.’ He waltzed her around the living room until she managed to escape his
grasp. ‘The drink has softened your brain ya big walloper,’ she said, half
smiling as he headed towards the front door. ‘Don’t kid on ye don’t still fancy
me Bernie, if Celtic win this title, it could be your lucky night.’ She shook
her head, ‘aye, it’ll only be lucky if you’re spending it in a cell at Orkney
Street.’
John skipped down the stairs of the close and out into a cloudy, Scottish
spring day. ‘What time’s the bus leaving? He asked his younger brother. ‘Another
hour, fancy a pint before we head?’ John Sweeney needed no second invitation when
it came to beer. He pushed open the door of the Fairfield and looked around the
crowded bar. A cloud of blue, grey smoke seemed to hang in the air above heads
of the noisy patrons. He pushed through the crowd besieging the bar, guiding
Frankie with one hand, ‘mon boys, oot the road. Got a special needs boy here.’ As
the men at the bar made way, Frankie shook his head, ‘whit?’ Within a moment
two pints of heavy had been procured and the brothers looked around for
familiar faces.
The brothers managed four pints in an hour before those travelling to Methil
in Fife for the league deciding match started heading for the door. John looked
at his brother, ‘get oot there an haud that bus. I’m nipping in for a quick
Lillian Gish.’ With that he drained his
pint and walked to the toilet. Frankie Sweeney headed out to the rapidly
filling supporters’ bus and looked at the austere looking convenor who always
sat at the front. ‘John is in the toilet, says he’ll be oot in a minute.’ He sat down as the bus engine revved, getting
set for the journey across Scotland to Methil. John took longer than expected
and when he finally climbed the stair onto the bus, there was a loud cheer. A
voice from the back shouted, ‘whit kept ye Sweeney? Tadger caught in yer zip?’
There was some laughter as John responded with a grin, ‘only wan tadger aboot
here, Reilly and that’s you.’ Before his verbal sparring partner could respond,
the songs started and the bus pulled out onto the Govan Road…
‘We don’t need your Colin Stein, Eusebio or Alan Gilzean,
We’ve got someone twice as good! We’ve got Harry Hood!
Oh Harry, Harry, Lou Macari, Harry, Harry, Harry Hood!’
As they climbed onto the motorway and headed east, someone passed around a
huge flagon of cider, which John Sweeney took a long drink from. Frankie would
never cease to be amazed at his brother’s capacity for drinking. Any drink at
all would do, he’d never refuse it and could find alcohol in the most
outlandish places. He remembered the bus stopping by the roadside on the way
back from Aberdeen. As twenty or so fans stood in the darkness, relieving
themselves into a ditch, John had wandered off to a farmer’s house and returned
with a bottle of whisky. Frankie had carried him home that night.
As they crossed the Forth Bridge into Fife, John had stood up and called
for quiet on the coach. ‘Right lads, a bit of order. I was doon at the doctor’s
this week and he told me I’m no a well man. I asked him how long and he said, ‘Put
it this way, I widnae be buying any long books.’ Anyhow, my wan wish before I
pop ma clogs is tae see Celtic play Inter Milan next week. So, if ye see any
tickets floating aboot, get wan for yer auld mucker, Sweeney.’ Frankie had to
admire the brazenness of his lies but of course their friends on the bus knew
him well.’ One replied, ‘never mind the fitbaw, we’ll start a fund and send ye
tae Lourdes, John. Might cure yer never-ending stream of lies.’ There was laughter as a rolled-up ball of
paper bounced off John’s head, ‘sit oan yer arse, ya Bengal Lancer!’ Frankie laughed, recognising the Glasgow
rhyming slang. His older brother was indeed a total chancer. John sat with a
grin, ‘they’re no bad lads, they’ll keep their eyes peeled for us.’
East Fife’s cramped little Bayview stadium had managed to shoehorn 12,000
supporters inside, about 10,000 of them backing Celtic. The arithmetic was
simple; a Celtic win secured their seventh successive league title. John and
Frankie Sweeney stood behind the goal, totally engrossed in the action
unfolding in this little theatre of football. It wasn’t the Bernabeu or the San
Siro, but for those backing Celtic, it was the centre of the football universe.
The Glasgow club dominated the play although it took till 5 minutes before half
time before the breakthrough came. Dixie Deans smashed home the first goal and
a few minutes later, Harry Hood all but ended the match as a contest by guiding
in the second. There would be another goal from Hood before the end but the
celebrating fans around three sides of the little stadium were already in
seventh heaven.
By the time the bus returned to the Fairfield Bar, most of those on board
were already eight sheets to the wind. They entered the bar to the cheers of
those who hadn’t managed to go to the game and punched the air as if they had
played. A band were already into their set and it all looked set fair for a
grand night. John grinned at his brother, ‘hauf n’ hauf pint, wee man, don’t
staun there like a guy wi short arms and deep pockets.’
John Sweeney drank as if it was going out of fashion that night, and had
no real memory of how he got home. Celtic had won the league and he was never
happier when that happened. He awoke on the Sunday morning with a banging
headache and mouth as dry as the Gobi-desert. He wandered into the living room
and saw him brother crumpled on the couch, an overcoat covering him. ‘Some night
last night, eh?’ he mumbled to Frankie, before drinking from a bottle of Irn
Bru which sat on the coffee table. Frankie mumbled, ‘oh, my mouth feels like
the bottom of a bird’s cage.’ John grinned, ‘I’m no surprised, it had a cockatoo
in it last night.’ As he laughed at his own joke, Frankie threw a shoe at him, ‘beat
it ya bampot.’
Later that afternoon, his house was full of children enjoying his son John
Junior’s birthday party. Bernie had warned him, ‘leave the grub for the weans,
nae fitbaw songs and nae bad language.’ John had shrugged as she continued, ‘I’ll
be watching you. Don’t you embarrass me in front of the neighbours!’ John kept
a low profile as the noisy children played and danced in the living room. As
Bernie placed a big bowl of ice cream onto a table in the corner, it was too
much for the still dehydrated John to resist. He waited till she had left the
room and headed over to the bowl. His eight-year-old son was watching him as he
picked up a spoon and tasted it. It was sweet and cool and slid down his throat
like nectar. He glanced at a bowl of peanuts beside the ice-cream and on a whim
dipped a peanut into the ice cream and popped it into his mouth.
His son had seen enough, he raced into the kitchen and shouted, ‘ma, my da
is dipping his peanuts intae the ice cream!’ Bernadette Sweeney, got the wrong
end of the stick and roared, ‘he’s what?’ She rolled up a newspaper and raced
into the living room to see her husband bending over the ice cream bowl. ‘Ya
clatty bastard!’ she shouted whacking the back of his head with the rolled-up
Sunday Post! John dropped his spoon in shock, ‘wit the fu…’ Once the altercation
had ceased and Bernie saw that she had misinterpreted what the birthday boy had
said, she laughed so much that tears fell from her eyes. John looked at his
wife, then at his son, who shrugged as if to say, ‘no idea.’ John shook his
head, ‘yer ma’s aff her heed, son.’
The following Wednesday, John and Frankie lined up at the turnstiles with
tens of thousands of others for the European Cup semi-final between Celtic and
Inter Milan. The boys on the bus had come through with the tickets and they
joined a seething mass of humanity in the Celtic end. As the teams came out to
a tremendous roar, John smiled at his brother, ‘I fancy Dixie to dae the damage
tonight.’ Frankie smiled, ‘I hope so, John. I hope so.’
