Seven days in May

 

Seven days in May

10^th May 2026

‘Nawww!’ roared Barry as Chermiti’s blocked shot spun into the path of the onrushing Mikey Moore who had the easy job of clipping it into the net. ‘Whit did I say? Don’t lose and early goal and we’ll pump this mob!’ Sniper, normally the most confident of the three pals, shook his head. ‘That defence couldnae keep weans oot a close. Trusty is getting rag-dolled by that big, lanky plank of wid. Ye better hope the attack are on it or were winning fuck all title this season.’ Mick, who sat on Sniper’s left in the huge north stand was more positive. ‘I’d rather lose a goal in the first ten minutes than in the last ten. They’ve no choice noo but tae go after this mob. We’ll still do them.’ Sniper shrugged as the game restarted. ‘Every game has been torture, since that shit show at Tannadice. We don’t have the firepower to kill teams off.’ Mick remained adamant though. ‘Listen, Easter Road was torture right enough but we got there in the end. Same wi Dens Park but sometimes ye need tae win ugly.’  Sniper grinned, ‘a bit like yer Mrs when she won you in a raffle.’ Mick shook his head, ‘That’s rich coming fae you, the Quasimodo of Pollok. You calling somebody ugly is like a homeless guy slagging yer curtains.’ Sniper laughed out loud. ‘Shut it, Squint Eastwood.’ As Celtic pushed forward the three friends refocussed on the game. Their team was a goal down and they all knew that defeat today would spell the end of their chances in the league. Their banter could wait.

As fate would have it, Celtic restarted the game in determined mood and flew at a nervous looking Rangers defence. Maeda curled an effort narrowly past the post before Luke McCowan’s perfectly weighted pass found Engels racing into the Rangers box. His cut back found the onrushing Yang ten yards out and the Korean wide man slammed the ball into the net. Celtic Park erupted. ‘Yaaasssss!’ roared Sniper, ‘here we fuckin go!’ The rest of the first saw Rangers pinned back and relying on counters as Celtic dominated the ball. They clung on till half time, but after the break, the onslaught continued. In 54 minutes, Tierney drove past Tavernier and sent a wicked low ball into the box. Maeda lost Fernandez and guided the ball into the corner of the net. The three friends, and 59,000 others, literally jumped for joy as their team took the lead. ‘One more, just to finish this mob,’ Mick said, his heart pounding in his chest. They did not have to wait long before the goal which sealed a famous win arrived.

There are moments in football when the game escapes the confines of tactics, industry and calculation. Moments when it reminds us why generations have surrendered themselves so willingly to its charms. This was one of them. Only minutes had passed since Daizen Maeda's astonishing intervention had tilted the game in Celtic's favour when Sebastian Tounetki embarked upon another raid down the left flank. When he drove the ball into the penalty area it seemed, at first glance, that Rangers had sufficient numbers to extinguish the danger.

Yet football has always possessed an affection for the improbable. A Rangers defender, anxious to clear his lines, only succeeded in redirecting the ball towards the one opponent in the stadium who appeared to possess a private arrangement with destiny. Maeda once more, alert amid the confusion, was merely attempting to bring the ball under the dominion of his left foot, and there was every indication that the moment, like so many others, would pass without consequence. Instead, the ball sprang awkwardly into the air and, in the instant that followed, imagination defeated probability. To the astonishment of all who witnessed it, Maeda twisted his body and launched himself into an overhead kick of outrageous ambition. Mick, Sniper and Barry could do little more than stare in slack-jawed disbelief as the ball climbed high above the penalty area, hanging for what seemed an age before beginning its descent. The Rangers goalkeeper, abandoned by fortune as much as by his defenders, could only watch as it floated beyond his reach and settled in the net.

For an instant, disbelief held the stadium in its grip. Even in a game so susceptible to the improbable, there are events that the eye records but the mind refuses to acknowledge. Then, in a split second, understanding came, and with it the explosion. Celtic Park surrendered itself to bedlam. A great roar rose from the terraces and climbed into the clear blue sky, carrying with it relief, triumph and that fierce exultation that only this old rivalry can inspire. They had done it. There would be no resurrection from this for Rangers, no spirited retrieval, no late act of defiance. The contest had received its decisive blow. The victory for which Celtic had laboured so anxiously had at last been secured and delivered into the keeping of their supporters, who greeted it not as a mere result, but as an affirmation of faith. In that tumult of noise and colour, reason gave way to joy, and the afternoon belonged entirely to them. In the midst of it all three friends hugged each other and remembered why they had come to love this club so much.

13^th May 2026

Fir Park, Motherwell was jammed to the rafters and for once it was not just the excited away fans creating the noise. Jens Berthel Askou’s free flowing young Motherwell side had already schooled Celtic this season and their fans would love nothing more than ending the Glasgow side’s title challenge. Celtic knew what was at stake; nothing less than a win would do if they had any hope of retaining their title. Sniper had called in favours and managed to get three tickets for the stand behind the goal occupied by 4500 Celtic fans. ‘This’ll be a big test. This mob battered us back in December,’ Barry said. Sniper had to agree. ‘Yer no wrong there, short arse, it could have been four or five that night.’ As the teams came out to a huge roar, Mick added, ‘this is it. Win here and it all goes to the wire on Saturday. Screw it up and they’ll be partying doon Gorgie way.’ Sniper, who had no love of Hearts gazed at him, ’we’d better win then. I’m no wanting that shower celebrating.’ They focused on the lush, emerald rectangle of grass that would be the stage for their triumph or their disaster. As the Celtic players entered their pre-match huddle, the fans behind the goal roared out their support. This was it. It was all or nothing-again.

In a season of high drama in Scottish football, the events at Fir Park that night would be long remembered. Celtic, full of energy and tension, chased every ball but their skilled opponents knocked the passes about with precision as they had all season. It was an even game when after seventeen minutes Motherwell swung the ball into the Celtic box. It was headed clear but fell to an onrushing Motherwell player who fired a shot through a ruck of players. The ball took a cruel deflection off Austin Trusty and spun into the net. Celtic’s title dream hung by a thread. Celtic huffed and puffed before Daizen Maeda, a player finding his form at just the right time, arrowed a low shot off the far post and into the net. Celtic were back in it but needed to get in front. As the players trooped of for half time after a pulsating first half, the Celtic fans knew that Hearts were ahead in their match with Falkirk. Celtic simply had to win.

In the stand behind the goal Sniper was in optimistic mood. ‘This is as tight gnat’s chuff, but aw we need is wan goal tae set up some finale on Saturday.’ ‘Easier said than done,’ Mick replied. ‘They look just as likely as us tae score. My nerves are shredded with this by the way. If we didnae waste a month wi yon daft French guy we’d be clear by now.’ Barry had to agree. ‘Eight games in charge and we lost six. The guy was a nightmare. Every team in the league knew his tactics were killing us. Thank God we got Martin back in time tae give it a go.’ With Celtic shooting towards their legion of fans in the second half, they’d soon see at close quarters whether the team would rise to the occasion and keep their title hopes alive.

The second half, much like the first, saw a full-blooded battle with neither team giving an inch. In the fifty-eighth minute Celtic’s Nygren picked up the ball twenty yards from goal and unexpectedly curled a magnificent shot high to the keeper’s left and into the net. The Celtic fans behind the goal were in raptures. They had the lead now all they had to do was see the game out and it’d set up a winner takes all match with Hearts at the weekend. Celtic, being Celtic though, lost an eminently preventable goal in the eighty-fourth minute. ‘Jesus Christ,’ Barry said. ‘Five more minutes to go and they slip back to schoolboy defending!’ He was not the only exasperated fan behind the goal but this had been a season of dramatic twists and while there was time, there was hope. ‘Five minutes plus added time,’ Barry said as he watched the jubilant Motherwell fans goading the Celtic support. ‘Still time for one last chance.’ As the minutes ticked past, Celtic laid siege to the Motherwell goal. When four and a half of the added five minutes had elapsed, Celtic had a throw in on their right wing. Every Celtic player was up for this last throw of the dice. The ball was thrown towards Trusty who was being tightly marked. The big American went down holding his face and the play was stopped. Sniper looked at Mick, ‘he’s caught an elbow there but I doubt VAR will do anything about that.’ Barry though thought otherwise. ‘I thought the defender’s arm was high. If that baw touched his hand they should review it.’ There was a minute of confusion as Trusty was treated by the physio before the screen at Fir Park announced that VAR were reviewing a potential penalty. Barry looked at his friends. ‘Fuck me, he’s no giving this is he? I’m gonnae have a heart attack this season.’ As the referee trotted back onto the field and pointed at the penalty spot, the fans behind the goal exploded with joy. There were just 30 seconds left to play and Celtic had a penalty!

The calmest man in a fevered Fir Park was Kelechi Iheanacho. The Nigerian striker waited for the usual gamesmanship from the Motherwell players to stop before calmly placing the ball on the penalty spot. Sniper slipped his arms across the shoulders of his two friends as they watched this astonishing drama unfold. The stadium held its breath as the referee blew his whistle and Iheanacho stepped forward. As the ball nestled in the corner of the net, a visceral roar emitted from thousands of Celtic fans behind the goal. As Iheanacho and other Celtic players raced towards the fans they were met by a tsunami of joy. Sniper, Mick and Barry were over the wall with scores of other Celtic fans, embracing the players and totally lost in the joy of the moment. They had done it! Now all that remained was to defeat Hearts and the title would be theirs again.

 

16^th May 2026

‘We have to decide this now,’ said Barry as his two anxious looking mates looked at him expectantly. ‘Never in a million years did I think I would win this competition. I just fired off my entry to see what would happen. Now I’ve got a shirt signed by Liam Scales and two tickets for the main stand.’ Sniper regarded him, ‘you’re wan lucky wee bar-steward. I mind ye won the sweep on the bus three weeks running. I thought ye were cheating but turns oot ye were just born lucky.’ ‘So how do we do it?’ Mick cut in. Bary exhaled, ‘we cut the cards. Two highest cards go intae the main stand. The other takes the three season tickets and heads to our normal seats. Stopping along the way to make two ticketless fans very happy.’ They agreed and Barry carefully shuffled the new looking deck of cards. He cut them first and flashed a number eight at his friends. Mick cut second and showed the other two a Jack. He handed the cards to Sniper. ‘Good luck big man.’ Sniper cut the cards and was rewarded with a number two. ‘So, I head tae our usual seats and pick oot two fans wi nae tickets tae join me, and you two go sit wi the prawn sandwich brigade? Fair enough.’ Mick looked at him. ‘You’re taking this well, Sniper.’ The big man smiled. ‘As long as we win, I’m no given a monkey’s where I sit. Besides we’ll met up after the game for a few pints.’ It was agreed. All they needed now was for Celtic to win the game and they’d pull of one of their most unlikely title wins.

They said their farewells by the statue of Brother Walfrid. It was strangely emotional, almost as if they were going off to war. ‘We’ll get you here after the game, Sniper,’ Mick said. ‘Remember, give two decent folk our seats and get the season tickets back.’ Sniper nodded before roaring out, ‘Ok Boys, let’s go do these muppets!’ As he walked away towards the north stand, he could see people here and there, holding bank notes in the air, hoping to tempt someone into selling their ticket for this game of games. As he approached the corner of the north stand at Janefield Street, a gentle Irish accent spoke to him. ‘Would you have a spare ticket on you, son?’  Sniper turned to see a man of about forty standing with a girl of about twelve, who surely had to be his daughter. The man continued, ‘I promised Niamh I’d at least try and get her in. She’s never seen Celtic in the flesh. I could go up to £200 for a ticket.’ Sniper looked at the man, then the hopeful, freckled face of the girl. ‘Put yer money away, pal and follow me. It’s your lucky day.’ The man looked at him disbelievingly and then smiled at the wide-eyed girl.

Mick and Barry entered the front door of Celtic Park where the smartly attired doorman guided them up a stairway towards their section of the stand. They pushed through a set of double doors only to see Rod Stewart and his exceedingly tall son walking towards them. ‘All right, Rod? Are we doing this today?’ Mick blurted out. The old rocker smiled, ‘we sure are boys. Enjoy the game.’ As they passed, Barry smiled at Mick. ‘All right mate? Are you an old pal of Rod’s or something?’ Mick laughed, ‘it was nerves. My mouth was ahead of my brain.’ They soon found their seats and could sense the electricity in the air around the stadium. This could be one of the great Celtic days or it could be the biggest damp squib of all time. Mick gazed over at the huge north stand. ‘I wonder who Sniper gave our seats tae?’ Barry shrugged, ‘he’ll do the right thing. He won’t be ripping anyone off.’ Mick nodded, ‘aye, he’s not a bad lad.’

As the game kicked of at a raucous Celtic Park, there was a sense of hope, but also a nervousness. The Hearts manager had said that everyone was against his team, but the truth was the whole country outside of Celtic and perhaps Hibs fans wanted the Hearts fairy tale to come true. They had done well and in truth, if they could get the point they needed in the cauldron of Celtic Park, then they’d deserve the crown. But they were coming for the King and they’d best not miss.

In a tight and niggly first half in which a defensive Hearts side wasted time and slowed down play at every opportunity, Celtic never quite clicked into gear. When Shankland headed Hearts into the lead a couple of minutes before half time, it looked as if Celtic might be toiling. Then, crucially on the stroke of half time, Tierney’s cross was handled in the box and a clear-cut penalty was awarded. Arne Engels slammed home the equaliser. The noise around Celtic Park was equal to anything heard at the old place for years. Celtic now had to find a way to score again and the title would be theirs.

The second half produced more of the same, as an increasingly desperate Celtic side pinned Hearts back. They needed a goal from anywhere and threw caution to the wind with Iheanacho and Osmand joining Maeda in attack. Saracchi was brought on to add drive and legs to the side as they went three at the back in the dying minutes of the game. Iheanacho hit the post, Nygren missed sitter and the goalkeeper made a fine stop from another shot from the Swede. The clock ticked towards 87 minutes when Saracchi raced forward. He spotted Osmand making a run into the box and slipped a deft pass to him. The youngster fired the ball across goal where Maeda met it a fraction of a second before the goalkeeper and the ball spun into the net. Celtic Park erupted but the outpouring of joy was halted by the lone figure of the linesman at the north stand who stood with his flag raised. ‘This is going to be a tight one,’ Barry mumbled to Mick as every eye in the stadium was fixed on the referee. After a few agonising moments he made the shape of a tv screen in the air and pointed towards the centre circle. It was a goal! Celtic Park exploded with joy!

The last minutes of the game limped past like old soldiers as thousands of whistles pierced the air, trying to hasten full time. McGregor was booked for fouling a Hearts player in midfield and every Hearts player including the goalkeeper headed up for one final assault on the Celtic goal. The stadium held its breath as Blair Spittal lined up the free kick. This was the moment of decision. Did this astonishing season have one more twist to offer? Spittal committed the cardinal sin of free kick takers by hitting the first defender. The ball spun to Devlin who tried to unleash a shot but found it blocked by Iheanacho. Callum McGregor saw the situation in an instant a slid the loose ball forward towards the galloping Callum Osmand.

Time appeared to hesitate as one of the most extraordinary scenes ever witnessed in the old stadium unfolded before them. Three Celtic players surged towards the unguarded Hearts goal while 59,000 voices rose as one, not merely anticipating a goal but sensing the arrival of something greater: the championship itself. They had endured the uncertainty, the poor spells of form, the moments when the season seemed to be slipping beyond their grasp. And now, when the odds had once again gathered against them, they were standing on the threshold of history.

Here, in their famous old home, where so many great teams had come and been made to suffer, Celtic were about to write another chapter in its mythology. Osmand caressed the ball into the net. For a moment the sheer magnitude of it seemed almost too much to absorb. Then Celtic Park erupted. The joy was unconfined, spilling from the stands and pouring onto the pitch as supporters rushed towards the players, desperate to share in a moment they had waited and suffered for in what had been a torturous season at times. Barry seized Mick and hugged him with everything he had. 'I love this fuckin’ team, mate. I truly do!' Mick's eyes were moist with tears. He pointed towards the pitch. 'Looks like Sniper is enjoying this as much as we are.' Barry followed his gaze and saw Sniper in the penalty area, dancing a wild little jig of happiness, utterly oblivious to everything except the wonder of the moment. For a while, there was nothing left to say. They had known this feeling before: when Celtic had beaten Barcelona, when they had won the title in memory of Tommy Burns, when Nakamura had buried Manchester United with that glorious, impossible free-kick. Each occasion had left them struggling for words because some experiences refuse to be properly contained by language. This was another of them.

It was magical.

It was wonderful.

It was Celtic.