I glanced briefly at my watch on Saturday and
it told me that it was about 4pm local time. I knew that being an hour ahead of
the time in Glasgow that Celtic would be kicking off in their SPFL match
against Kilmarnock about then. I don’t normally like missing games or at least
watching then online but on this particular Saturday the football was far from
my mind. I was standing with a tour guide waiting to be shown inside the darkly
iconic and infamous ‘gate of death’
at the Auschwitz-Birkenau museum on the site of the former Nazi concentration
camp. It sits uneasily in the sleepy Polish countryside some 30 miles from
Krakow and there is a stillness and brooding quality to the place. As the crow
flies, it is about a thousand miles from Paradise but in many ways I was in a
different world when I visited.
Having read countless books on the Holocaust
over the years I had a good idea of what to expect but it isn’t until the
physical reality of the place is there in front of you that you begin to sense
the sheer scale of the wickedness which occurred here in the war years. A railroad
cattle truck stands alone and forlorn on the rail track beside the selection
ramp. It represents the hundreds if not thousands of such cattle trucks brought
to Auschwitz from all over Europe, packed with those the Nazis had marked out
for ‘special handling.’ At one point on the selection ramp there is a big black
and white photograph showing an SS Officer sending a long column of people
further along the ramp while a smaller group are entering the Women’s camp
behind him. The larger group; the old, the young, the infirm, women with
children, are walking towards Crematorium 2 where their fate awaits. The
excellent Tour guide, a young Polish woman, asked visitors standing in front of
this image to look around them. It then becomes clear in an instant that you
are standing on the exact spot that SS man occupied more than 70 years earlier
when he decided who lived for a while longer and who died that day.
Following the path for around 300 more yards,
one comes to the remains of crematorium 2. The long undressing area leads to
the gas chamber and crematoria facilities. The SS blew the structure up in
January 1945 as the sounds of the Red Army’s artillery could be heard
approaching from the east. Auschwitz is a strange place. In this few acres of
Poland around a million people perished. The Nazis in their insanity
transported them from as far afield as Greece, Denmark, Holland and France to
this corner of Poland. Most of them never left.
As I travelled back to Krakow through the
farms, fields and forests of southern Poland there was a fairly sombre mood on
the mini bus. How could it be otherwise? I got into a quiet conversation with a
man from Sweden who said, ‘That place
should be preserved for all time as a warning about where hatred can lead us.’ I
had to agree with him. Most good people know we should never forget these
events and that platitudes and nice words aren’t enough to stop those who
spread hate in our societies.
I’ll let the following photographs speak
about the dark roads we human beings walk when we are seduced by hatred. They
do so far more eloquently than my words ever could.
A thousand miles from Paradise these things
went on. It’s everyone’s business to see that it doesn’t happen again.
Used Zyklon B Canisters found at Auschwitz
20,000 shoes belonging to those transported for 'resettlement'
Polish prisoners with date of arrival & death
Maria and Czeslava Kajewska, Twins aged 15
Barbara Smieszek
Arbeit Macht Frei: 'Work sets you free'
Pots and other cooking utensils brought by prisoners
Shoes of an unknown child
Execution wall in Block 11
Barracks block in women's camp
Sleeping arrangements in women's barrack: 4-6 to each level
Some
years ago I watched the excellent American Documentary series ‘Eyes on the prize’ which told the story
of the struggle of African Americans to exercise their civil rights. One
episode told the story of 14 year old Emmet Till, an African American boy from
Chicago who was visiting relatives in Mississippi. He was said to have whistled
at a white woman in a store, an action which was to cost him his life. It seems
incredible to us today that people were prepared to kill a teenage boy for
nothing more than whistling at a woman but in the America of the 1950s such
things went on. Despite admitting taking Emmet away on the night of his death,
his killers were acquitted by an all-white Jury in under two hours. Emmet’s
death was the third lynching in five months in Mississippi.
It
could be argued that the sort of racism which existed in America then is still
around but what isn’t is the State framework of Laws which allowed it to thrive
and offered it a veneer of legality. The ‘Jim
Crow’ laws fostered segregation and the sort of second class citizenship
which stunted the lives of many African Americans, particularly in the southern
states of the union. Segregated washrooms, bus seats, cinemas and schools made
a mockery of the Constitution which stated that ‘all men are created equal.’
It
was into this society that Gil Heron came to ply his trade as a footballer
although as an all-round athlete he was adept at cricket and boxing too. The
young Jamaican had shown considerable prowess in front of goal as he became the
top scorer in the North American Professional Soccer League while playing for
the Detroit Wolverines. He was no stranger to racism, obvious or subtle and was
earning far less than he was worth in a league where it was taken for granted
that the white stars would earn more. His success in Detroit saw him win a move
to Sparta, a club playing in Chicago who, as their name suggests, had roots in
the Czech community.
It
was while in Chicago he met and married a young woman called Bobbie Scott and
they had a son who was to gain fame in his own field later in life. Gil Scott
Heron heard the stories of his father’s footballing prowess and said in his
biography...
“His skills would offend the
opposition, often leaving them feeling foolish and flailing, victims of Gil’s
fancy footwork. There were scoundrels in places like Skokie, a suburb of
Chicago then inhabited primarily by Europeans, who treated soccer like an ethnic
heirloom. My mother talked about incidents when opposing players had felt
forced to foul him, going for his legs instead of the ball, not trying to
tackle him but to injure; these were red flags to his temper.”
That temper saw Gil Heron sent off more than once as he retaliated for
the rough treatment he was often receiving. It was while Gil was playing in
Chicago that Celtic arrived in America for a tour. Bob Kelly the Celtic
Chairman of the time was always on the lookout for new talent and word reached
him of a powerful forward with an eye for goal was by then playing with Detroit
Corinthians. Gil’s colour was never an issue for Celtic who offered him the
chance to come to Scotland for a trial. Kelly said at the time…
'We never saw him play but the word about him was so good that I invited him over for a test. He satisfied and thus was signed.'
Gil’s decision to head for Scotland
had powerful ramifications in his personal life. Bobbie and Gil Junior stayed in America
and his move virtually ended their relationship. He would be moving to a league
where there were no other black players playing and one American newspaper
thought his move to Celtic was akin to the Brooklyn Dodgers signing of Jackie Robinson
a few years earlier. Robinson was the first black player in the major baseball
leagues of the USA and caused quite a stir. When some of his team mates
grumbled about playing alongside an African American, Dodgers’ Manager, Leo
Durocher, to his eternal credit said …
"I do not care if the guy is yellow or black, or
if he has stripes like a fuckin' zebra. I'm the manager of this team, and I say
he plays. What's more, I say he can make us all rich. And if any of you cannot
use the money, I will see that you are all traded."
As Gil was to find at Celtic Park
there were no colour barriers, no racial slurs, and no contemptuous team mates.
He excelled in the trial game scoring twice and earning a year-long contract.
Of course Celtic signed Heron for footballing reasons, they wanted to see if
the player could score as prolifically in Scotland as he has in the USA, but it
was more than that. Gil was a pioneer who in the monochrome world of 1950s Britain
was blazing a trail that others would follow. There had been a few other
coloured players who had played in senior British football but in an age when
Britain was still a very stuffy, conservative place, Heron’s arrival caused
quite a stir. Even Scottish Newspapers used language which some would find
offensive in the modern age but in less enlightened times passed without
comment. One spoke of Celtic reaping a ‘black
bonanza’ with Heron in the side.
Gil Heron scored on his debut for
Celtic against Morton in the League Cup in front of 40,000 delighted fans who
soon dubbed him the ‘Black Arrow.’ He
followed that up with a tremendous goal against Airdrie which was described in
the press in the following manner…
‘’Heron took a pass from
Baillie about midfield and side-stepping Dingwall on his run through released a
tremendous shot from 25 yards which beat Fraser all ends up. The crowd
applauded an effort which was as fine as has been seen on the ground for many a
day.”
However that early promise faded
as the physical and climatic demands of Scottish football took their toll on
him. He scored a lot of goals in the reserve side while he waited for a recall
to the first team but while doing so reacted to a rash tackle and got involved
in a fist fight with an opponent and that autocratic disciplinarian Bob Kelly
would have none of that. Gil would see out his year’s contract but it wouldn’t
be renewed. That being said Gil loved his time at Celtic Park and found
friendship among the players who enjoyed his company. He wrote of those days…
‘’There’s no doubt in my mind that this is the greatest
football country in the world. For as small a country as it is it produces more
good footballers than any place on earth. My days at Parkhead have been
wonderful and there are no greater a bunch of boys than those at the Paradise.
I as a complete stranger was made at home the moment I arrived and the Manager,
Mr McGrory, has been very understanding. The greatest ambition of my life was
realised when I donned the green and white jersey.’
Gil socialised with players like
Charlie Tully who recalled the Jamaican’s colourful attire, most notably his ‘Zoot suit, trilby hat and a pair of yellow shoes.’
The Jamaican’s legacy at Celtic far outweighs his contribution on the
field. He played just 5 first team games for Celtic but in doing so demonstrated
that barriers were there to be kicked down. Celtic have always had an open door
policy and players of all ethnicities and faiths have been welcome at Paradise however
other clubs were not as enlightened in those times as was society in general.
The times Gil Heron lived in could
be harsh and unforgiving to men of colour but he made a life for himself. He would
admit that he made choices which were hard on his ex-wife Bobbie and his son
Gil Scott-Heron which led to him seeing little of him until him was in his
twenties. He eventually moved back to the USA and married his Scottish
sweetheart once his divorce from Bobbie was settled. Inter-racial marriages
were still illegal in half of the states of American then but not in Michigan where
he settled. He worked in the Ford Motor
plant in Detroit and refereed football matches, was a keen photographer and
even found time to write poetry. One his poems remembered his year at Celtic
and reflected on the fine players in the game then…
The Great Ones I'll remember all the great
ones
Those that I have seen,
Those who I have played with
Who wore the white and green.
There was Tully and Bobby Evans
No greater ones you'd see,
And Celtic Park was our haven
To win was our destiny.
There was Sammy Cox and
Thornton
Woodburn was there too,
Waddell and the great George Young
Who wore the white and blue.
There was Reilly and Turnbull for the Hibs
Billy Steele the great Dundee,
I'll remember all the great ones
Wherever I may be.
So let there be a Hall of Fame
The fans will all be there,
The stars will all be remembered
By loved ones everywhere.
His son became a noted musician
who’s album ‘The revolution will not be televised’
was critically acclaimed. Gil Scott Heron once said of his father’s time at
Celtic that the Scots loved two things, music and football and it pleased him
that the Heron family gave then a musician and a footballer to enjoy. He father
followed Celtic’s fortunes all of his life and remembered fondly his time in
the place he called ‘The Paradise.’
That fine Dundee singer-songwriter
Michael Marra was inspired by Gil Heron’s story and wrote a song for him called
‘Flight of the Heron.’ As luck would have
it Scottish writer, Gerry Hassan, visited an ageing Gil in the USA and took the
single along for him to hear. The old man was moved to tears that far across
the sea in Scotland they still remembered him and still celebrated him. He
promised he would record the song himself but time and age meant that this was
not to be. Gil Heron, footballer, poet, photographer and in some ways pioneer
died in November 2008.
Men like him opened doors for
others to follow and he was living proof that Celtic continued to live up to
their founding philosophy, summed up in Maley’s famous adage; ‘It is not his
creed or nationality which counts but the man himself.’ I’ll leave the last words of this article to
the remarkable Gil Heron himself who said in one of his poems…
The
passing of Derry man Martin McGuinness this week had me thinking of the last
time I visited the north of Ireland. It was two or three years ago and while I
was there I took a trip on the Tour bus which travels around the fine city of Belfast.
Not that I was into what some call ‘conflict
tourism,’ rather it seemed an easy way to see the city. It was interesting
to see for the first time so many of the streets and areas which made the news
reports so often when I was growing up. The peace wall dividing part of the
city is an echo of those times and a reminder that tensions can still be raised
at times. On that sunny morning I had the surreal experience of sitting on the
top deck of the bus as it wound its way around streets where ordinary folk were
living ordinary lives. A man walking his dog glanced up at the tour bus in time
to be photographed by some Chinese tourists. Another chap cutting his grass
barely seemed to notice the bus edging along the road by his house.
From
the ordinary streets of the city the bus then moved on to the Parliament
building at Stormont, surely the grandest ever Parliament constructed for such
a small province? The statue of a Dublin Lawyer, Edward Carson, stands in
defiant pose. This was the man, above all others, who guided the Unionists down
the path of partition and in that sense he remains a figure of distaste to many
Republican Irishmen who saw the division of their country as an unforgivable
crime. He was not without some sensibilities though and warned the new Northern
Ireland province in 1920s not to treat the Catholic minority marooned in the
six counties poorly…
"We used to say that we could
not trust an Irish parliament in Dublin to do justice to the Protestant
minority. Let us take care that that reproach can no longer be made against
your parliament, and from the outset let them see that the Catholic minority
have nothing to fear from a Protestant majority.’’
Any
unbiased history shows clearly that the new Northern Ireland state failed to
listen to him and discrimination, biased policing and denial of basic civil
rights, such as one man one vote, was denied to the minority Catholic
population.
The
excellent tour guide on the bus was clearly well schooled in the art of
sounding totally neutral as he narrated this journey around the city’s main
historical features. From the impressive City Hall to the much bombed Europa
Hotel; from the new Titanic Quarter and the old Harland and Wolff shipyard, he
gave us some fascinating, if carefully scripted, information. He smiled as he
told the tourists on the bus that the ‘H
& W’ signs painted onto the huge cranes in Harland and Wolff’s meant, ‘Hello and Welcome.’ Having read Andrew
Boyd’s book ‘Holy War in Belfast’ it
seems clear that the shipyard was not always a welcoming place for members of
the minority community in the province.
It’s
hard to travel around Belfast and not notice the murals or memorials to the
various incidents which signpost the conflict. One such place is the area
around St Matthew’s church in Short Strand. It was here in that hot summer of
1970 that local people acted to protect their area against what they saw as a
loyalist incursion. They knew well what had occurred the previous summer when
Catholic streets were burned to the ground as the Police did nothing. The
ensuing gun battle around St Matthew’s lasted all night and left 3 dead and 28
wounded but the pogrom was avoided. Loyalists, of course, have their own version
of events but what cannot be denied is that such occurrences marked the
continuing spiral of violence which was to tear that society apart for the best
part of 30 years. God alone knows how
ordinary folk managed to bring up their children and do their best for their
families in the midst of the chaos around them.
I don’t make judgements about the hard choices people had to make then.
When the state fails in its duty to protect citizens, who can blame people for
protecting their families and homes themselves?
The
tabloids here in the UK have not been kind to Martin McGuinness and as usual
portray Britain’s role in Ireland as some sort of peace mission keeping the two
tribes of waring Paddies apart. The truth is more prosaic as anyone who studies
the conflict will soon discover. None of the armed factions came out of it with
their honour intact. Not the paramilitaries, not the politicians and certainly
not the security apparatus of the British state which demonstrated that old
ruthlessness which Indians, Boers, Kenyans and many others have long known about.
The
unity of any people is first conceived in their minds. There is a case for
arguing that the violence of the troubles made Irish unity a more distant
prospect. The peace process was in many ways remarkable, seemingly implacable enemies
worked together and McGuinness and Ian Paisley seemed to strike up a genuine
friendship. Paisley seemed to mellow greatly after his near death experience in
the early 1990s and talked of wanting to be remembered as a peacemaker.
McGuinness never gave up his aim of reunifying his country but accepted that the
armed struggle was over. The vast majority in the province will surely be happy
that it is?
At
the demographics show that Northern Ireland will have a Catholic majority in a
generation, there needs to be a coming together of people. There is a need to
escape the ‘winners and losers’
mentality of the past and try to forge a future where everyone has a respected
place. None of this is easy but even on some of the darkest of the troubles
there were shafts of light cutting through the darkness. I recall in the
aftermath of the Remembrance Day explosion in Enniskillen the astonishing
courage of Gordon Wilson who lost his daughter that day. He said of her as they
lay in the rubble…
‘She held my
hand tightly, gripped me as hard as she could. She said ‘Daddy, I love you very
much.’ Those were her exact words to me and those were the last words I ever
heard her say. But I bear no ill will. I bear no grudge. Dirty sort of talk is
not going to bring her back to life. She was a great wee lassie, she loved her
profession. She was a pet. She’s dead. She’s in heaven and we shall meet again.
I will pray for these men tonight and every night.’
The hope for all conflicts is that good
people can forgive and look forward instead of back all of the time. Most
people know well the faults and failings of the past but there needs to be more
focus on the sort of society we can create in the future. Bill Clinton said of
Martin McGuinness today…
‘’After growing up at a time of rage and resentment, he
decided to fight discrimination by whatever means available to the
passionate young, including violence. He realised that you could have an
Ireland that was free, independent and self-governing and still inclusive. That
the dreams of little children were no more or no less legitimate just because
of their faith background or their family's history or the sins of their
parents."
Clinton
spoke of the need to honour McGuinness by finishing his work and quoted Seamus
Heaney who received the Nobel Prize for literature. Clinton said…
‘Heaney said that the secret of his success was
deciding to walk on air against his better judgement. Believe me when the
people who made this peace did it every single one of them decided to take a
flying leap into the unknown against their better judgement.’’
As
projections show that Catholics will be in a majority in Northern Ireland
within 20 years, there will be challenges ahead should that translate into
majority support for reunification. That is by no means certain but at the end
of the day people need to live together for true unity is surely far more than
the absence of borders just as peace is more than the absence of war.
I’m
hopeful that the land of my forebears will reach an accommodation in future in
which all are equally respected and valued. Whatever they decide, I hope it is
without the rancour and violence of the past.
It
has been a long and painful road for Ireland but there is always hope and there
are always good people working away for a better future.
A
player knows when he’s hurt and Henrik Larsson knew something was very wrong as
he lay on the emerald turf of the Parc Olympique Lyonaise that misty October
night in 1999. Dutch referee Rene Temmink was on the spot very quickly and
Larsson, who played in Holland with Feyenoord, said to him in Dutch, ‘I think I’ve
broken my leg.’ As he lay on the grass, the sickening realisation that his
season may well be over didn’t stop the Swede calculating how many months it
would be to the following summer’s European Championships and whether he would
be able to recover in time to play in them. His positivity and professionalism
were never in doubt but as Celtic supporters in the stadium and at home watched
Larsson being stretchered off, the big question of how John Barnes’ side would
manage without him troubled many. The team had gone 17 games without loss
before that tie in Lyon. After it they lost 4 of the next 6 matches.
Barnes
tenure struggled on and the Scottish weather had a say in his final demise as
Celtic Manager. A storm had loosened a piece of guttering on one of the Celtic
Park stands leading to a cup tie against Inverness Caledonian Thistle being
postponed until early February 2000. The midweek tie produced perhaps one of
the poorest results in Celtic’s history. The team looked lost as the lower
league visitors deservedly won 3-1. Eric Black, Barnes assistant, tried to
rouse them at half time but his tongue lashing led to a violent altercation
with Mark Viduka who then refused to play in the second half. It was a shambles
and symptomatic that Barnes early promise as Celtic Manager was melting away.
Larsson
was months from returning to fitness as the side stuttered along. A League cup
win against an Aberdeen side which Celtic had hammered 5-0, 7-0, 5-1 and 6-0 in
their four SPL encounters that season, couldn’t disguise the fact that Celtic
were a good way behind Rangers Indeed they finished the season 21 points behind
the Ibrox side who had spent big and in retrospect spent recklessly to build
their side. Change was coming though and in came in the form of a confident,
well-spoken Irishman called Martin O’Neil. That warm summer of 2000 was one of
huge hope and expectation for Celtic supporters. Rangers had won 11 league
titles in the previous 12 seasons and Celtic’s 1998 title win had stopped the ‘Ten’
but wasn’t the springboard to further success the fans had hoped for.
A
fit again Larsson lined up with debut boys Chris Sutton and Joos Valgaeren at
Tannadice in July 2000 as the Celtic support watched with keen anticipation.
Both strikers scored and it was obvious that the Larsson-Sutton partnership
would be a potent one. Dick Advocaat’s Rangers was again spending big to try to continue their domination of Scottish football and Torre Andre Flo would arrive
for the astonishing sum of £12m. Celtic were spending in a more measured way
and O’Neil made sure the players he brought in were up to the rigours of
Scottish football. His side was fast, skillful and potent up front but there was
now a physicality too. The first real test would come on a hot August day when
they met Advocaat’s side at Celtic Park. Sutton had spoken of the need to ‘put
Rangers in their place’ and it took him around 60 seconds to begin that
process. In 12 incredible minutes Celtic ripped Rangers apart and were 3-0
ahead. It could have been more but for the heroics of Klos in goal.
The
moment most Celtic fans remember about that game came in the second half.
Sutton fed Larsson with the ball and the Swede nutmegged the hapless Bert Konterman
and raced towards Klos as the Celtic support held its breath. What followed was
one of those beautiful moments which football produces now and then. Larsson
saw the keeper advance towards him an in an instant clipped the ball exquisitely
over his head. It arced over the German goalkeeper in the bright August
sunshine and nestled in the net. It was
a goal of poetic beauty as well as a signal to those watching of the resurgent
confidence and audacity of Larsson and O’Neil’s Celtic. The King was back and
so was Celtic. There were exciting times ahead. Larsson said of that goal…
‘That
was special for me because of the nutmeg on Bert Konterman first. Then Stefan
Klos was coming out of his goal, but the ball was going in as soon as it left
my right boot. People still talk about that goal a lot!’
Larsson
went on to score 53 goals that season and win the Golden Boot as Europe’s top
striker. His achievement is all the more remarkable because the goals scored in
the so called ‘big leagues’ of Europe were awarded 1.5 points compared to just
1 point per goal scored in Scotland. It is not being disrespectful to that fine
penalty box striker, Ally McCoist to point out that his two golden shoes were
awarded when every league in Europe was judged the same with one point for one
goal awarded. Goals though were only part of what Larsson brought to Celtic.
His all-round team play was excellent and he became something of a talisman.
When he played the fans knew they had a chance against any opposition.
The
years which followed saw Celtic dominate Scottish football and Larsson cement
his reputation as one of the best strikers in Europe. He moved on eventually to
Barcelona where he turned the Champions League Final on its head to earn the
Catalans a famous victory against Arsenal in Paris. Thierry Henry said after
that game…
"People always talk about Ronaldinho, and
everything but I didn't see him today - I saw Henrik Larsson. Two times he came
on - he changed the game, that is what killed the game - sometimes you talk
about Ronaldinho and Eto'o and people like that, you need to talk about the
proper footballer who made the difference and that was Henrik Larsson tonight. "
His
team mate at Barcelona, the brilliant Ronaldinho, came to call him ‘Idolo’ (my idol) recognising Larsson’s
contribution and professionalism on and off the pitch. For Celtic fans, watching him raise the
European Cup above his head gave immense satisfaction. Here was a fitting
reward and recognition for a fine player who had graced the Hoops for seven
wonderful years. It is perhaps tinged with regret that the loss against Porto
in Seville stopped him sharing such a moment with them. His 242 goals in 315
games for Celtic marks him as one of the most prolific scorers in the club’s
history with only the legendary Jimmy McGrory and Bobby Lennox ahead of him.
I’ve
seen many fine players play for Celtic in my many years following the club.
Very few match Henrik Larsson in terms of attitude, ability and
professionalism. We fans came to love him and I like to think he came to love
Celtic as we do. For many he was their ‘Idolo’
and few players deserved that accolade as much as Henrik Larsson.
Thanks
for all you did for Celtic. We who saw you play will always remember the times
we shared.
A crowd of several hundred had gathered at the end of
Cumberland Street on a grey Scottish morning to watch the coaches pull away. It
was one of those spontaneous street gatherings which occurred now and then in
the Gorbals. Such gatherings happened at weddings when the ‘scramble’ brought scores of local kids out to see if they could
get a few coins when the groom threw the traditional handful of money from the
wedding car. They happened when funerals were taking place of well-known
characters from the area. They happened on a grand scale when Celtic won a
major honour. Indeed thousands were on the streets just two years earlier when
they beat Dunfermline to win the Scottish Cup. Today they had gathered to see
off a couple of coach loads of locals who were travelling over 1700 miles to
Lisbon in Portugal to watch Celtic in the European Cup final. All over Glasgow
and indeed Scotland, such farewells were taking place as thousands left for
Portugal to see if a dream could become reality.
As the coaches pulled away from the kerb a cheer went up and
those on the pavement waved at their brothers, fathers, uncles, friends. From
the windows of the tenements which overlooked the scene, flags and green
scarves hung and scores of bleary eyed faces watch the buses leave. Those
inside the buses banged the windows and sang. Most were drinking despite the
earliness of the hour. The song being sung on one of the coaches was picked up
by many on the kerb who joined in and the street soon echoed to and old song
about days long gone…
‘I’ll leave aside my
pick and spade; I’ll aside behind my plough
And I’ll leave aside my
old grey mare, no more I’ll need them now
And I’ll leave behind
my Mary; she’s the girl I do adore
And I wonder if she’ll
think of me when she hears the cannon roar’
As the buses turned the corner and were lost to sight the
crowd drifted for home. ‘Wish I was goin’
wi them,’ said Phil McAllister to his good friend Tam Murray. ‘I know whit ye mean, Phil but I think Angie
needs ye here this week.’ Phil nodded, his wife was due their first child
any day and it would have been selfish to travel to Portugal and leave her to
it. Besides, money was tight and having a wee one cost. He couldn’t afford the
time off work and had to accept that Celtic’s date with destiny would take
place with him watching it on TV. The two friends chatted until Phil reached
his close at Crown Street, ‘Mind it’s an
early kick aff on Thursday so get yer arse tae my hoose early for a swally,’
Tam smiled, ‘I’m sure she can keep that
wean inside for a couple of hours on Thursday.’ Phil grinned, ‘Listen mate, knowing my luck she’ll go
intae labour as the teams come oot.’ They parted with an easy smile, the
sort good friends share and Phil climbed the stairs to his top floor flat.
Phil sat on the bed beside Angie and stroked her tousled
hair, ‘Is that yer Da away?’ she
asked quietly. ‘Aye, hen, two days on a
bus won’t be much fun but he wouldn’t miss it for the world.’ As the radio
quietly played ‘Silence is golden’ in the background, she propped herself up on
one elbow, ‘I know you wanted tae go Phil
but I need you here. This whole birth thing scares me a bit.’ He held her
close, ‘You’ll be fine darling and I’d
rather be wi you and that’s the truth.’ He lay on the bed beside her, ‘Some things are more important than fitbaw.’
She smiled, ‘Who are you kidding? You’d
be in Lisbon like a shot if I said it was OK!’ He laughed and lay beside
her, his nose touching hers, ‘For once
yer wrong, I know my place is here wi you so no more of yer nonsense.'
Thursday May 25th 1967 dawned bright and sunny in
Glasgow and there was an air of expectancy hanging over the city. It was as if
the whole town was holding its breath. Some schools were closing early to allow
children to get home in time to see the big game and many workers had pestered
bosses for weeks to let then be in the pub or home in time to see the Celts
face their fate in Lisbon. At 2 o’clock that afternoon Phil was preparing to
head to Tam’s house to watch the game. ’If
ye go intae labour get Mrs McIntyre tae phone Tam’s next door neighbours, they’ll
let me know and I’ll sprint back here in 5 minutes.’ Such complicated arrangements
were common as most Gorbals folk had yet to have a phone installed. ‘I’ll be fine,’ she smiled, ‘not a twinge
yet, besides my Ma’s coming around at three. Just enjoy the game and stay
sober!’ Phil left her with a hug, which was challenging given the huge baby
bump she now had. He was feeling exhilarated by the thought of becoming a dad
but equally this match in Lisbon filled his mind. Celtic had a chance in a
lifetime to become legends. He skipped down the stair singing quietly to
himself, ‘For we only know that there’s
gonnae be a show and the Glasgow Celtic will be there!’ He exited the close
and was no more than 10 paces into his journey when he heard his wife’s
unmistakable voice from the top floor window, ‘Phil!’ He looked up and the expression on her face told him all he
needed to know. It was time.
Phil McAllister had no idea of how Celtic were getting on
beneath the Lisbon sun as he waited in an ante-room at Rottenrow Maternity
hospital on that May afternoon. Long hours hobbled past like old soldiers as he
waited on news of his wife. At last as the clock neared 6.15 he was called into
the small room where his wife lay looking in equal parts exhausted and delighted.
She cradled in her arms a small bundle of life and managed a weak smile towards
Phil. ‘Come and meet you son,’ she
said quietly. Phil sat on the bed beside her feeling his emotions welling up.
He held the tiny child in his arms for the first time and looked at his
sleeping face. ‘He’s beautiful, Angie, just beautiful.’
As Phil held his son for the first time that spring evening,
1700 miles away Billy McNeil was holding the European Cup above his head. It
glinted and shone in the bright Portuguese sunshine and heralded the birth of a
legend.
Phil would hear all the stories of that glorious day in the
weeks and months ahead but for now he was content to watch his wife quietly drift
into much needed sleep as he held his son. He would in time honour the scorers
of those goals in Lisbon by christening his son ‘Thomas Stephen’ but that was
all in the future. For now he was content to bask in the little miracle he held
in his arms.
As I stopped by the Statue of Brother Walfrid
on a chilly Friday evening to look at the tributes left in memory of Tommy
Gemmell, a grizzled old chap beside me mumbled, ‘Another one of the old brigade
away eh?’ He introduced himself as John and told me he was the Janitor at one
of Glasgow’s more famous colleges. We got talking about Tommy Gemmell and our
memories of him. I told him my childhood memories of the galloping full back
with the ferocious shot who carried real threat into the opposition’s half in every
game he played. He in turn told me the following story which he delivered in a
gravelly Glaswegian voice as warm as it was genuine.
John told me that he attended London Road
Primary School more than 50 years ago. The school as you know was demolished as
the Celtic Way was created a couple of years back. He lived in the tenements
which once stood on the London Road opposite Celtic Park. As a lad he and his
pals often saw Celtic players returning from training. In those days Celtic
changed in the stadium and walked half a mile to Barrowfield training pitch
which stood behind the current Celtic Social club building. It seems
astonishing to modern ears that some of the best players in Europe got to
training in such a manner but that was the way it was then. One day John and
his buddies decided to hurl abuse through the school railings at the Celtic
players like Gemmell, Johnstone and Chalmers who were walking back to Celtic
Park muddy but laughing and joking. John recalled the sectarian nature of the
abuse he joined in that day long ago as a boy and wasn’t proud of it.
Later that day as he and his fellow pupils
sat in class, the door opened and the head teacher walked in closely followed
by the unmistakable figure of Jock Stein and Celtic full back Tommy Gemmell. Jock addressed the class and told them about
the abuse the players had heard that morning. He told them that some of the
Celtic players had reported it to him and he had phoned the school to arrange
the visit. John still recalls clearly what Stein said to the class all those
years ago. ‘To shout things like ‘Fenian
B’ or ‘Pape’ at the players is just plain stupid. Celtic are a mixed side and
players like Gemmell, Simpson, Wallace and Auld were not Catholics. Indeed I
myself am not a Catholic.’ John
recalls Gemmell too telling them how silly their behaviour had been and admits
to being a little ashamed when confronted in the manner he and his pals had
been by Jock Stein.
Of course they were all just silly school
kids having a lark but if such things are checked early enough it can help
youngsters avoid developing more deep rooted prejudices later in life. John
told me that he came from a Rangers supporting family but drifted towards
Celtic as he grew and he put much of it down to that chat from Stein and
Gemmell. As a teenager he became a committed Celt and has now backed the team
for over 45 years. He was genuinely sad at the loss of a man like Tommy Gemmell.
‘Those guys played it like it should be
played. I loved Celtic because of the football they played, it was a joy to
watch.’ John said to me before saying his farewells and trudging down the
Celtic way with just the hint of a glance at the spot where his old school had
stood.
A year after that classroom intervention by
Jock Stein and Tommy Gemmell Celtic were champions of Europe; helped in no
small way by Gemmell’s attacking prowess and howitzer like shot. It was recognised
in the Guardian Newspaper the day after Celtic defeated Inter that Tommy
Gemmell had played a vital role…
"Stein
had correctly said the day before the final; Inter will play it defensively.
That's their way and it's their business. But we feel we have a duty to play
the game our way, and our way is to attack. Win or lose, we want to make the
game worth remembering. Just to be involved in an occasion like this is a
tremendous honour and we think it puts an obligation on us. We can be as hard
and professional as anybody, but I mean it when I say that we don't just want
to win this cup. We want to win it playing good football, to make neutrals glad
we've done it, glad to remember how we did it."
The effects of
such thinking, and of Stein's genius for giving it practical expression, were
there for all the football world to see on Thursday. Of course, he has
wonderful players, a team without a serious weakness and with tremendous
strengths in vital positions. But when one had eulogised the exhilarating speed
and the bewildering variety of skills that destroyed Inter – the unshakable
assurance of Clark, the murderously swift overlapping of the full-backs, the
creative energy of Auld in midfield, the endlessly astonishing virtuosity of
Johnstone, the intelligent and ceaseless running of Chalmers – even with all
this, ultimately the element that impressed most profoundly was the massive
heart of this Celtic side.
Nothing
symbolised it more vividly than the incredible display of Gemmell. He was
almost on his knees with fatigue before scoring that minute but somehow his
courage forced him to go on dredging up the strength to continue with the
exhausting runs along the left wing that did more than any other single factor
to demoralise Inter. Gemmell has the same aggressive pride, the same contempt
for any thought of defeat, that emanates from Auld.
Before the
game Auld cut short a discussion about the possible ill-effects of the heat and
the firm ground with a blunt declaration that they would lick the Italians in
any conditions.’ When he had been rescued from the delirious crowd and was
walking back to the dressing rooms after Celtic had overcome all the bad breaks
to vindicate his confidence Auld – naked to the waist except for an Inter shirt
knotted round his neck like a scarf – suddenly stopped in his tracks and
shouted to Ronnie Simpson, who was walking ahead: "Hey, Ronnie Simpson,
what are we? What are we, son?" He stood there sweating, showing his white
teeth between parched lips flecked with saliva. Then he answered his own
question with a belligerent roar. "We're the greatest. That's what we are.
The greatest." Simpson came running back and they embraced for a full
minute.’’
It is tempting to say that the splendid
football of the Lisbon Lions was eloquently matched by some of the splendid
reporting of the game. Through the mists of time or via the wonderful medium of
modern technology we can see and hear again the sights and sounds of that day
long ago when Celtic proved they were the finest side in Europe. Tommy Gemmell, the
man French Magazine, L’Equipe called the ‘Executioner
of Inter, the man who smashed their defensive screen’ looms large in that
game. His ceaseless hounding of the Inter defence, his strong, probing runs and
of course his thunderous shot, all helped change Celtic’s history forever.
In the old footage from Lisbon you can hear
the clipped BBC English of Commentator Kenneth Wolstenholme. As Celtic pounded
away at the Inter defence some may have worried that the equalising goal might
never come. Then in that glorious moment Wolstenholme spoke the words all
Celtic fans longed to hear….
‘Now Clark
to Murdoch…. In comes Craig… Gemmell… He’s scored! A great goal! He’s done it!’
They knew then they would win and God bless
every one of them.
We won’t forget you Tommy or your team mates
from those golden days. What times we had; what memories you helped create.
What pride we have in your achievements.
