The Rebels

 

The Rebels

Glasgow, October 1993

 An unrelenting rain descended from a slate-grey sky as Tony McCandlish emerged from Queen Street Station, collar turned up against the weather and hands buried deep in his pockets. Glasgow wore its usual autumn melancholy, the rainwater coursing along the gutters like the city itself was trying to wash something away. He glanced at his mate, Andy McGee, and nodded towards the low, brooding sky. ‘I read that by the year 2000, Glasgow’s gonna be a city of skyscrapers. If ever a sky needed scraping, it’s that feckin’ one.’ Andy laughed, a brief burst of amusement against the dreich afternoon, though there was little else to laugh about where their beloved Celtic were concerned.

‘So that’s Brady away,” he said. “Haven’t won a league match at home aw season, and it’s October. He had tae go.’ Tony gave a weary nod. ‘The team’s shapeless. Nae character, nae direction. But who’s coming in next?’ Andy shrugged, his expression settling into familiar resignation. ‘Does it matter? The board are rooked. We’ll be shopping in the bargain basement again.’ ‘Aye, and that lot need tae go anaw. They couldnae run a minodge, never mind a fitbaw club.’ Tony shook his head. ‘The papers are saying Lou Macari, but he’s a long-ball merchant. That’s no how I want tae see Celtic playing.’

Their conversation drifted into the usual litany of grievances: the board, the manager, the players, the general sense that a club with Celtic’s history and following was being run by men who had somehow lost sight of what it meant. For the two of them, football was never merely football. It was inheritance, identity, and a kind of faith that survived repeated disappointments, even when the faithful were beginning to wonder how much longer they could endure them.

They crossed the street and made their way through George Square, where something unusual was stirring despite the weather. A temporary stage had been erected, and a sizeable crowd had gathered in front of it, an assortment of umbrellas, raised collars and damp woollen coats beneath the vast, colourless sky. ‘Some day for a concert,’ Tony remarked, slowing his pace. ‘Who’s playing?’ Andy turned to him with an expression of disbelief. ‘Do ye ever watch the news? Nelson Mandela’s here. He’s come tae thank Glasgow for sticking by him when he was locked up aw those years. You must remember they renamed St George’s Place after him? Nelson Mandela Place?’

Before Tony could reply, a sudden cheer rose from the crowd. Both men turned towards the stage, where a distinguished African man in a dark suit had stepped forward to address the gathering. His hair was silver-grey, his bearing composed, and there was something quietly commanding about him that seemed to transcend the modest stage and the miserable afternoon.

The two friends stood among the crowd and listened as he spoke of the long struggle against apartheid, of the suffering endured by his people, and of the solidarity shown by a city thousands of miles from his homeland. The words carried across the square, at once measured and deeply felt. Around them, the crowd listened in near silence, the rain continuing to fall upon the upturned faces. Tony had known the broad outlines of Mandela’s story, of course. Everyone had. But there was a difference between hearing about a man’s imprisonment and standing before him, watching him speak with such dignity after twenty-six years behind bars. Suddenly, the troubles of Celtic seemed rather smaller: the dismal results, the penny-pinching board, the uncertainty over who might take charge next. They had not disappeared, but they had been reduced to their proper dimensions.

Mandela paused before delivering his final words. ‘While we were physically denied our freedom in the country of our birth, a city six thousand miles away, and as renowned as Glasgow, refused to accept the legitimacy of the apartheid system, and declared us to be free. We respect, admire, and above all, love you all.’  The applause came, swelling into a roar that rolled between the surrounding buildings. Tony and Andy found themselves clapping with the thousands who had braved the rain, their hands stinging in the cold, their faces lifted towards the stage.

‘Powerful stuff,’ Andy said at last, lowering his hands. Tony nodded, still watching Mandela as the applause continued. ‘Aye. If he’d just added ‘Sack the Board’, it would’ve been perfect.’ Andy barked out a laugh. The tension of the moment broke, though not entirely. They had been reminded of something larger than themselves, but they were still Glasgow men, and Celtic remained Celtic. On the stage, a colourfully dressed African woman stepped forward and began to sing. Her voice rose above the murmuring crowd, warm and clear against the cold afternoon, carrying something of the hope and defiance that had brought Mandela to this place. ‘Come on. Let’s go grab a beer before the match.’

The Wee Man’s was one of those quintessentially Celtic pubs that seemed to belong as much to the club as Celtic Park itself. Situated on the Gallowgate, less than a mile from the ground, it had served as a watering hole for generations of supporters, a place where match-day rituals were observed with the solemnity of religious ceremonies and where the arguments were as old as the club, if not considerably older. On a Saturday afternoon, the place was rarely quiet. Today, with the rain showing no sign of relenting, it was packed to the rafters. Supporters crowded around the tables, their damp jackets steaming gently in the warmth, while the air hung thick with cigarette smoke, spilled beer and the familiar mixture of anticipation and apprehension that accompanied a Celtic match.

Tony and Andy squeezed their way towards the bar. The television in the corner murmured beneath the din of conversation, and every available space seemed occupied by a man nursing a pint and an opinion. Andy caught sight of the barman as he approached. The man was broad-shouldered, middle-aged and possessed of the permanently sour expression of someone who had spent too many years listening to customers explain why their own particular order ought to take precedence over everyone else’s. Across his chest, in bold lettering, his T-shirt proclaimed: ‘Free Nelson Mandela.’ Andy studied the slogan for a moment, then looked up with a grin. ‘Right then. I’ll have two pints of Nelson Mandela.’ The barman stared at him. Not a muscle moved. His expression remained as flat and joyless as a wet Sunday in February. ‘Very fuckin’ funny,” he barked. “Noo, whit dae ye actually want?’

On those miserable, wet days when the rain ran down the back of your neck, you could at least lose yourself in watching your team. Andy and Tony took their usual place in the Jungle. The ugly bucket-seats bolted onto that famous old terrace were considered sacrilegious by most fans and seemed symptomatic of the malaise around the club. It was clear that the crowd, which looked under 20,000, would be as intent on abusing the board as they were backing their team. They wanted change. They wanted a team and a stadium to be proud of but it seemed that the board were incapable of delivering any of that. Chants of ‘sack the board’ punctuated a hard fought but essentially dreary first half which ended 0-0. When Dundee took the lead early in the second half, the chants towards the board increased. Thankfully Celtic stirred from their slumber and quick-fire goals from Creaney and McGinley gave them their first home win in the league since they beat the same side 5 months earlier.

As the game petered out, Andy turned to Tony. ‘Mate, we’re winning sweet FA this season, are we?’ Tony shrugged, ‘based on that display we’ll be lucky tae make Europe.’ Andy shook his head, ‘what the fuck happened us? Five years we won the double in our centenary year. Why do we never build on a position of strength?’ Tony pointed towards the main stand where the beleaguered board members sat amid growing anger and vitriol. ‘They happened tae us. They’ve taken us for granted for years. They need tae do the right thing and step aside.’

As they left the stadium, they heard chanting from the area in front of the main stand and wandered round to see what was going on. A few thousand fans stood in the rain chanting, ‘sack the board.’ They held banners saying things like ‘Kelly and co- Time to go.’ Tony and Andy joined them. This was their club, their fathers and grandfathers before them had backed it in good times and bad. There was no way this could go on. There were people waiting in the wings who had vision, money and the business acumen to raise Celtic of its knees. All that stood in their way were half a dozen board members who clung to power, like Louis XVI when the French revolutionaries were at his door.

As the Glasgow rain continued to fall, thousands of miles away a small man in a flat cap watched events at Celtic Park with interest. He also knew that this situation couldn’t go on and was dreaming of better days ahead for Celtic and their long-suffering fans.

He knew in the end that the rebels would win.