The ghosts of the past

 

The ghosts of the past

As I watched the scenes unfold at Celtic Park yesterday in the aftermath of the final league game of the season, I couldn’t help but feel a familiar wave of nostalgia and history flowing around me. Five generations of my family have followed Celtic through good times and bad and that emerald rectangle on which the players cavorted and celebrated has been their theatre, their happy place and even their second home. The rough and ready terraces of the past may have been replaced by the towering cathedral of football we see today, but the ghosts of the past are strong here.

That spot where Palma slotted home the winning goal, was once occupied by Larsson, Dalglish, Lennox, Tully, McGrory, Gallacher and McCallum. Where I sit in the north stand was once the spot where the old wooden pavilion stood. It was here that Maley, Kelly and Patsy Gallacher got ready for games. It was once the spot where that neck of terracing connecting the Celtic end to the Jungle stood. A space where I’d stand with my old man, brothers and uncle in days long gone. Perhaps we get more nostalgic as we get older, but I can’t help thinking of those folk long gone, on days like yesterday. How they’d marvel at the sights and sounds of the modern Celtic Park; how they’d be overjoyed at Celtic’s on field success in the modern era. How happy they’d be that we still follow the club that meant so much to them.

We’ve come a long way since the days I’d stand outside a pub with the other boys, waiting for our fathers to emerge and take us to see our team. That excitement we felt when we saw the floodlights, heard the songs drifting on the breeze and joined the queues at the turnstiles, has never left many of us. I can recall vividly, half running up the concrete stairs as the game was about to kick off and seeing that emerald rectangle laid out before us, those hooped shirts immaculate and filled with our heroes. We’d live those games, kick every ball, roar at every foul and be totally engrossed in backing our team.

As the match ended yesterday and the workmen built the podium for the players to lift the trophy, I spoke to a dad bringing his boy to his first trophy day. ‘My first was in 1998,’ he told me, ‘never been so nervous in my life.’ I remembered that day well and told him that I still have a piece of Celtic Park turf from that day growing in my garden. His son, who looked about six or seven, listened to us gabbing, before his old man patted him on the head, ‘I wonder how many days like this he’ll see?’  I smiled, thinking, that was me once upon a time. Just a lad setting out on his Celtic supporting journey.

As the trophy was lifted and the ticker tape and confetti filled the air, I roared along with the other sixty thousand fans who had come to cheer their team. Every one of them had a story to tell, a family history where Celtic was handed down to them like a precious heirloom. For others, their journey to Celtic started when they arrived in Scotland from a score of lands and saw Walfrid’s club as their natural destination. That feeling of comradeship, family even, is strong among Celts and it shows no sign of dissipating.

We are, of course, delighted at every Celtic success. Yes, we want a stronger, more competitive game here in Scotland, but that will never detract from the happiness of days like yesterday. When you see guys like Joe Hart, a keeper with 75 caps for England, take Celtic to his heart to the degree where the thought of leaving reduces him to tears, you have to smile. He gets it.

So, the season is almost over with just the Scottish cup final to come. Despite Brendan Rodgers’ remarkable derby record of just 1 defeat in 18 games, he’ll know that every game has its own narrative and that nothing can be taken for granted. One silly red card, one penalty decision can change the whole flow of a match. We remain confident but should avoid arrogance or any feeling of entitlement. Every success has to be earned, to be fought for on the field.

Celtic reached 54 titles this season, just one behind  the combined totals of both avatars of Rangers. Celtic could well overtake their total in the next few years but most understand that most of these records are set in smaller leagues where two or three clubs dominate. So, I doubt any ‘going for 55’ tifos will be arranged, although there will be much humour around. Celtic hasn’t led Rangers in number of titles won for almost a century. In 1997 when Rangers won the last of their nine consecutive titles, Celtic were 12 behind them. It is a measure of Celtic’s dominance since then that they are now just one behind. Those who ‘welcome the chase’ must realise that it is almost over.

As I walked in bright sunshine from Celtic Park yesterday, the happiness of the fans was palpable. There’s a younger generation growing up who have yet to taste anything other than success. You could say the dark days of the 90s were character building for older Celtic fans but in truth they were the fruits of mismanagement by the board in the pre-McCann era. Hopefully that biscuit tin mentality is gone forever and those youngsters will never endure a decade of failure.

As that river of green clad humanity flowed along the Gallowgate, I could picture the old tenements that once stood there in my mind, Terry the Tattoo Artists shop, the old pubs like the General Wolfe and the Four Ways. I could also see my old man’s face; happy that the Celts had done it again. So much has changed as the years drifted past, but as I took in the sights and sounds of happy Celtic supporters, I knew that love they had for their club would endure as it had done since Walfrid’s boys defeated Rangers 136 years before.

A grand old team right enough.

The Grave of Ants Heenan

 

The Grave of Ants Heenan

Big Mags looked at her son and shook her head, ‘naw, son. I know yer da loved the Celtic but I’m not having a flag oan his coffin and I’m not having any fitbaw songs in the church. Ye know my side of the family kick wi the other foot. I’m no having a repeat of Charlene’s wedding at a bloody funeral.’  Tony Heenan cringed at the thought of what occurred at the wedding of his cousin Charlene. It took place on the same day as a Celtic-Rangers match and the hall was pretty much split between the two families who shared opposing views on who was the best team in Glasgow. Folk held their peace until the drink kicked in and Tony had started singing, ‘Jota on the wing.’ The ensuing brawl saw the bride in tears, the groom arrested and the cake flattened by two obese men who seemed to think they were sumo wrestlers. It was not a pleasant memory.

Tony Heenan looked at his mother imploringly, ‘but ma, ye heard him in the hospital. He wants you’ll never walk along played in the church.’ The family matriarch shook her head, ‘son, he wis aff his head on morphine and havering. Nae fitbaw stuff and that’s that!’  Tony shook his head, ‘can I not just stick a wee mention on the front of his gravestone saying he was a big Celtic man?’ She gave him a stern look, ‘son, yer uncle Hector is a high heed yin in the ludge, I don’t want any feathers ruffled at this funeral. Yer da left a few quid and you’ve got a good whack coming if ye behave. Ye understand me?’ Tony sighed, ‘aye, okay ma.’ She looked into his eyes, ‘Tony! Promise me you won’t put anything about Celtic oan the front of ye da’s gravestone. If ye dae ye won’t get a penny.’ Tony exhaled, ‘right ye are, maw.’

Two days later, Tony Heenan shook hands with various relatives as they entered St Margaret’s for the funeral. His uncle Hector, wearing a dark suit that made him look like an unemployed undertaker, offered him a limp, cold handshake. ‘Me and my boys will wait outside. You know our beliefs about the Catholic church.’ Tony shook his hand, ‘aye, nae bother, Hector.’ As he climbed the steps into the church, he muttered to himself, ‘Ye knew my da for fifty years and you won’t come intae his funeral service? Prick!’ He sat beside his mother who whispered to him, ‘nae problems wi Hector?’ Tony shook his head, ‘naw, he’ll see us outside when it’s over.’ As the service began, Tony looked at the picture of his smiling father which had been placed on his coffin. He was suntanned, smiling and younger. ‘Seville,’ he smiled to himself. ‘We had some party there.’

The service had all the elements his old man would have wanted. The old hymns were belted out; Hail Queen of Heaven, on eagle’s wings and his old fella’s favourite, do not be afraid.’ Tony was holding it together until the end of the service when the cantor started to sing the final psalm.

‘May Christ who called you take you to himself,

May angels lead you to Abraham’s side.’

It seemed so final, like the last farewell. It really hit him then that his old man was gone and he’d never see him again. Never go to Celtic Park with him again and hear him shouting encouragement to his team. Tears cascaded down his face as he sang the response…

Receive his soul, receive his soul

and present him to God the most high.

Receive his soul, receive his soul

and present him to God the most high.

The cemetery was surprisingly bright and springlike as they laid Anthony Heenan to rest. A good crowd of mourners gathered around the graveside to support the family. The priest spoke of ‘Ants’ Heenan as a well-known character in the community who loved his family and his football. There would be time to share stories of him when they got back to the church hall for the funeral lunch. For now, it was formal and Tony thought, quite fitting. A good send off for a good guy.

It was a month after the funeral, when the ground had settled, that the gravestone was finally put in place. Tony had spoken to the sculptor, who had known his dad from the local Celtic supporters’ bus. He gave him all the details required for the face of the gravestone and joked, ‘my ma has banned any mention of fitbaw on the front of the gravestone. A pity but I guess we need to honour her wishes.’ The grey-haired sculptor had nodded, ‘aye, yer old man loved the Celtic alright but I guess we need to do what yer mother wants.’ Tony met his gaze, ‘aye, we’ll do what she wants.’ The older man looked at him, the puzzled look on his face.

Tony had told his mother that the gravestone was in place and her wishes had been respected. She looked at him through narrowed eyes, ‘he never left a will but he told me what he wanted you tae get. Anything daft on that gravestone and you can whistle for it till I pop ma clogs!’ Tony nodded, ‘I telt ye ma, nothing fitbaw related will be oan the face of the gravestone. Just the basic details of my da, like ye asked.’ She looked at him suspiciously, ‘I’m coming wi ye tae the graveyard. I want tae see for myself.’

Tony and Mags Heenan stood by the grave of Ants Heenan as a slow drizzle dripped from a leaden sky. She nodded as she read the gold embossed letters on the front of the gravestone. ‘Anthony John Heenan 1957-2024. Beloved Husband, Father and Grandfather.’  ‘Aye, that’s good, son. Ye were as good as your word.’ A robin landed on top of the gravestone as they watched. Tony smiled slightly, remembering stories from his childhood linking robins to angels. His mother broke into his thoughts, ‘I’ll head back tae the car son, if you want to say a wee prayer. I’ll see you there.’

Tony stood by his father’s grave and spoke quietly to him. ‘I thought it best not to annoy her, da. So, I put the words on your stone she wanted. I’m going tae miss going tae Celtic Park wi you, but wee Aidan is showing an interest now so I’ll bring him up the right way.’ He walked a few steps behind his father’s gravestone and looked at the reverse side of it. On it were carved four words which seemed very fitting. ‘I told her, nothing on the front, but I never promised there’d be nothing on the back. Hopefully she won’t notice.’ 

He smiled a bitter-sweet smile, a tear forming in his eye, ‘see ye in better place da. Hail Hail.’ 

Come Alive

 

Watching Celtic sweep Hearts aside yesterday was very encouraging for the fans. The Gorgie side have given Celtic some problems this season and it was a measure of how Celtic’s form has improved that they defeated them so comprehensively. The team is hitting some semblance of form at just the right time and key players are returning to match sharpness. Matt O’Riley reminded us why he is a player the likes of Atletico Madrid would be interested in; his pass for Kyogo’s second goal was sublime. The Japanese striker looked more like the player he was last season and demonstrated that with the right service he can find the net regularly.

May is always the time when all the big issues are sorted out in the football leagues around Europe and through all the ups and downs of a season, it’s when the players and fans know exactly what needs to be done. Here in Scotland, the title race is close, more down to Celtic spilling silly points against the likes of Motherwell, St Johnstone and Kilmarnock than any brilliance on the part of Rangers. Celtic has taken 7 points in the three derby games and that has made up for dropping points in other games but in truth, neither side has been particularly brilliant this season. Most Hoops fans know there will need to be a major reboot at Celtic in the summer. That being said, there is a job to do in these remaining three league matches and it could have major implications for the next few years.

The format for the Champions league will change from the current group set up to an expanded 36 team league. UEFA explain it like this…

‘From the 2024/25 season, 36 clubs will participate in the Champions League ‘league phase’ (former group stage), giving four more sides the opportunity to compete against the best clubs in Europe. Those 36 clubs will participate in a single league competition in which all 36 competing clubs are ranked together. Under the new format, teams will play eight matches in the new league phase (former group stage). They will no longer play three opponents twice – home and away – but will instead face fixtures against eight different teams, playing half of those matches at home and half of them away. To determine the eight different opponents, the teams will initially be ranked in four seeding pots. Each team will then be drawn to play two opponents from each of these pots, playing one match against a team from each pot at home, and one away.’

Thus, the Scottish Champions this season will gain direct entry to the new set up and the chance to play 8 matches against 8 of the best sides in Europe. A club like Celtic can make in excess of £3m in ticket sales and marketing from one UCL home match. Add four such home games to over £30m from UEFA for competing in the new ‘Champions League Phase’ and you can see that the financial rewards for winning this season’s title are considerable.

In the Scottish context, competing in the Champions League is a massive boost to turnover. The money it is projected to earn would greatly enhance the spending power of Celtic and help fund the refreshing of the playing squad for next season. Celtic therefore know what is at stake in the remaining three league matches of the season. Not only can they greatly boost their own financial muscle for the coming season; they can also deal a body-blow to their main rivals if they push on and seal the title.

Brendan Rodgers is no fool, he will have seen the shortcomings in the squad this year and will know where things need to improve. He prides himself on being an elite manager and will want to build a positive legacy at the club. The Board would be well advised to back his ambition as the fans will not be happy that they are sitting on a pile of cash as the quality of the first team stagnates or even deteriorates.  

Whatever happens this season, there can be no standing still. We all want the best for Celtic and we are honest enough to know this has not been a vintage season. Injuries, loss of form and some good players moving on has meant the free-flowing football of the Postecoglou era hasn’t been replicated this season. Rodgers will do it his way and it’s up to the board to give him the tools to get the job done.

A year ago, Celtic won the cup final with players like Jota, Starfelt, Hart and O’Riley in the side. Jota and Starfelt are gone, and it is possible that Matt O’Riley will move on to pastures new in the summer. He will go with our thanks, but he must be replaced with a player of equal stature. Joe Hart too is coming to the end of a tremendous career and we can hopefully send him off with another medal or two. It is an old cliché that a good goalkeeper is worth a dozen points a season, so Celtic need to identify a player who inspires confidence for that key position soon.

Brendan Rodgers said recently that Celtic ‘come alive’ in this part of the season and the signs have been there in recent weeks that he is right. It won’t always be free-flowing football but they’ve been over the course before and know what it takes to get the job done. The winning post is in sight and Celtic have got their noses in front. We now face our biggest rivals in a match that could well decide the issue. With 60,000 Celtic fans roaring the team on, I remain confident that they’ll get the job done.

 

 

Behind Enemy Lines

 

Behind Enemy Lines

The Thornton Suite was busy as kick off time approached. Danny Swan finished his food, feeling a little bit awkward as his boss had vanished to the toilet, leaving him on his own at a table of strangers. He hadn’t expected the invite to the game, especially as there were no Celtic fans officially allowed into Ibrox on this bright April day. His boss had warned him to remain incognito and to tell no one he was a Celtic fan. ‘Don’t be fooled by the suits,’ he had said, ‘some of these guys are crackpots.’  As the taxi had pulled up at the stadium two hours earlier, he was having his doubts about the wisdom of agreeing to come to the match at all.

As he waited for his boss to return, an older man leaned closer to him, ‘how do ye see this game going today son?’  Danny shrugged, ‘you can never predict these matches. I suppose it’s about who shows up on the day.’ The older chap nodded, ‘aye, but if we beat these fuckers today, I think the league is in the bag.’ Danny was about to reply when his boss returned, ‘alright, son? Let’s head down to our seats.’ Danny excused himself and followed him out to the stand. He passed a bearded man of similar age who looked searchingly into his face. Danny passed him, trying hard to maintain his composure. Had he been spotted by someone who knew he was a Tim?  He sat in his padded seat feeling like a secret agent in a foreign land.

The DJ cranked up the music as the teams came out to a tremendous roar. Things settled slightly as the game kicked off. After just a few seconds, Joe Hart smashed a long clearance up-field and the energetic Maeda chased after it like a greyhound after a rabbit.  As Tavernier tried to clear it for a throw, it cannoned off the Japanese winger and zinged into the net past a startled goalkeeper. Danny sat perfectly still but felt a thrill flash through him which reminded him of a feeling he once had on a fast-descending lift when he was a boy. He said nothing but in his head the words, ‘fuckin’ yaaas!’ roared out. His boss looked at him as if to check he was maintaining his composure. ‘That tadger Tavernier!’ a voice behind him roared, ‘he might have scored a hundred goals but he fuckin’ cost a hundred at the other end.’

As the first half raged on, it was clear that Celtic were having the best of it. Maeda and O’Riley came close before a handball gave Celtic a penalty kick. As Matt O’Riley waited to take it, Danny saw the bearded man who had peered at him earlier, glancing at him from a few rows in front. As O’Riley scored, Danny didn’t flinch. Once more his heart was pounding; once more he contained his emotion. The first half ended in a crescendo of boos as the players walked from the field. Danny followed his boss back to the Thornton Suite, where the mood was far from happy. They grabbed a quick drink and discussed the first half. ‘Rangers were bloody awful there,’ his boss began. ‘They’re letting Celtic boss the game.’ Danny shrugged, ‘I’m sure the second half will be more even.’ As he finished his drink, he laid his glass on the table and headed for the toilet. Two men were discussing the game as Danny entered. ‘Always the fuckin same,’ one of them was saying, ‘standing off those tarrier bastards and making them look like Real Madrid.’ His friend agreed, ‘we better get the finger oot in the second half or we’re throwing this league away.’

As Danny washed his hand at the sink, he glanced in the mirror and saw the bearded man looking at him. His mind was racing and he readied himself for the inevitable dig up. As he dried his hands the man waited for the toilet to empty and approached him. Danny turned, his jaw set, ready for any eventuality. ‘All right mate,’ the man said, ‘ye no remember me from St Leonards?’ Danny was taken aback, ‘you were a Lenny guy?’ The man smiled, ‘aye the year below you. I recall you going on the Easterhoose bus tae Parkhead, so I’m guessing you’re behind enemy lines today as well?’ Danny grinned, ‘damned right, I am. Stress city but going well for the Celts so far.’ The man smiled, ‘I’d take a draw before the game started but we might manage more today.’

Before Danny could reply, the toilet door opened and three men entered. The bearded man shook Danny’s hand and said quietly, ‘Eddie McGrory. Enjoy the second half mate and remember tae keep schtum if Celtic score.’ Danny winked at him. ‘You too,’ before heading out to the stand to watch the rest of the game. It was a dramatic second half in which a soft looking penalty got Rangers back in it before a deflected shot made it 2-2. Danny stood as the fans around him were going crazy, a fake smile on his face. He had barely resumed his seat when Celtic made it 3-2. Once more he had to subdue the urge to cheer. The game thundered on and a well taken goal from Rangers in injury time made it 3-3. It had been quite a day and quite a match.

As Danny followed his boss down the stairway, to the exit, an hour after the game, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned and saw Eddie McGrory smiling at him. ‘That was some game, eh?’ Danny nodded, ‘a fair result I thought?’ Eddie nodded, ‘I think it’ll all come down to the match at Celtic Park after the split.’ Danny grinned, ‘you going tae that one?’ Eddie, aware that others on the stairway were tuning in to their conversation, replied, ‘aye, need tae go behind enemy lines though.’ Danny smiled knowingly, ‘I’m sure you can manage that.’ Eddie shrugged, ‘ye cannae stoap a Lenny boy.’  They parted with a handshake at the exit onto Edmiston drive. ‘Catch ye later, mate,’ Eddie said. Danny patted his shoulder, ‘aye, might see ye oan the bus at the next home game.’ Eddie laughed, ‘aye, either there or the back row at the Benny on Sunday.’ Danny smiled, knowing the code they used would mean nothing to the milling crowd of Rangers fans leaving the game. The ‘Benny’ being common parlance for St Benedict’s church, in Easterhouse.

As he shared the taxi home with his boss, the older man said, ‘I take it your friend was a Celtic fan too?’ Danny shrugged, ‘aye, an old schoolmate.’ His boss smiled, ‘we should get back to the days when away fans had a decent allocation. But I have to admire his determination to get into the game.’ Danny looked at him, ‘will you get into see the match at Celtic Park?’ His boss smiled, ‘money opens doors, Danny. I’ll be there.’ Danny nodded, ‘fair enough. Your team is your team.’

 

Welcome to the future

 

Welcome to the future

The winter of 1964-65 was tough one in Scotland as snow and frost brought the usual chaos to the roads and sporting fixture lists. For Celtic fans it was a frustrating time as their talented crop of young players seemed to lack the consistency required to make a challenge for the honours. Manager McGrory had been at the helm for 20 years and had delivered just one league title. For a club of Celtic’s stature, that was unacceptable. In his defence, he had a domineering chairman in Bob Kelly who often interfered in team selection and would sell stars like Pat Crerand and Bobby Collins instead of building a team around them.

1965 had begun with a 1-0 defeat at Ibrox in which Jimmy Johnstone had been sent off and Bobby Murdoch blazed a late penalty over the bar. As January unfolded, Celtic lost to Dundee United and Hearts as well as drawing with Clyde and Morton. As January drew to a close, they demonstrated their ability to the full by thrashing Aberdeen 8-0 but inconsistency had killed off any hope they had of being in the hunt for the title. They would finish a distant 8^th that season. The cup kept the fans going and St Mirren and Queen’s Park had been dispatched before they faced a formidable Kilmarnock side, who would win the title that year, in the quarter finals.

So it was that on March 6^th 1965, Celtic fans in the 47,000 supporters at the match with Kilmarnock wondered which Celtic would show up. On the day, Celtic, in their ‘shamrock’ strip,  outplayed and outfought a very good Kilmarnock side by more than the 3-2 scoreline suggested. As the fans went home happy, they’d have heard that Jock Stein’s Hibs had ousted Rangers from the cup in front of 47,363 fans at Easter Road. Some worried they’d have to face Stein’s emerging side in the semi-final but could not have guessed that change was in the air at Celtic Park. Jock Stein would indeed get his hands on the Scottish cup that year, but not with Hibs.

Even as Jimmy McGrory’s side defeated Kilmarnock to reach the cup semi-final, negotiations were already underway to replace him with Jock Stein. The Hibs boss had rejuvenated Dunfermline before working his magic in Leith with the Hibees. He held out until he was absolutely sure that he’d have full control of team matters. Jimmy McGrory was a wonderful scorer of goals in his day but the warrior on the field was placid off it and as manager, allowed Chairman Bob Kelly to tell him who should be playing on a Saturday. Stein would never accept that. Nor did he accept the notion of being joint manager with Sean Fallon. Celtic knew what it would take to land the best young coach in the land, yet still Kelly prevaricated.

Back at Hibs, the team’s doctor was clear what Stein ought to do. Doctor Batters urged Jock Stein to go to Celtic with the words… ’ John you’re a Celtic man, you should go or you’ll regret it.’  Stein decided to let it be known that he was being courted by Wolverhampton Wanderers in order to force Kelly into making a decision. The Celtic chairman may have been an interfering autocrat, but there is no doubting his love for Celtic. He knew there would be outrage amongst the support if the best young coach out there, a man who had captained Celtic, was allowed to slip away. In the end he did the right thing. Jock Stein took the reins of Celtic on Tuesday 9 March  1965.

One of the first things Stein did was to call the players together and tell them what he expected of them. He also told them that Jimmy McGrory, appointed public relations officer, would receive due respect and still be called ‘boss’ by himself and the players. The following day, Celtic travelled to Broomfield, the tight little stadium of Airdrie FC, and defeated the locals 6-0 with Bertie Auld scoring 5 goals. Stein saw the nucleus of the team was good but there were setbacks as he tried to implement his way of playing and give the players more belief in themselves. He said in the match programme, ‘I have been handed the reins of management and I alone have to do the driving. For the playing side, team selection, tactics, coaching and scouting, I have full responsibility.

As he watched his inconsistent young side lose 1-0, he had an idea of the task ahead of him. He growled at the post-match press conference, ‘I can see now why I was brought here.’ The defeat to St Johnstone was followed by a 3-3 draw at Dens Park before his former club, Hibernian arrived in Glasgow and demonstrated that the Stein effect was still with them. They were 3-0 up within 23 minutes and went on to whip Celtic 4-2. The fans, their eyes on the upcoming cup semi-final with Motherwell, were hopeful rather than confident of their chances.

52,000 fans headed for Hampden Park for the cup semi-final between Celtic and Motherwell. A fairly even match was in the balance at 1-1 when Joe McBride put Motherwell 2-1 up. Would Celtic crumble? Could Stein get his players to force a result? As Celtic threw themselves at the Motherwell defence in the second half, Bertie Auld was brought down for a penalty in 60 minutes and converted to level the tie. Celtic had missed some chances in the game but had not performed well overall.  Stein, thinking of the future, was already casting a covetous eye over the Well striker, Joe McBride.

The replay saw Celtic in dominant form and in front of 59,000 fans they swept into the final with a 3-0 win. In the other semi-final, Stein’s two previous clubs, Dunfermline and Hibs met at Tynecastle in front of 33,305 fans. The teams were near the top of the table and both in good form. It was the Fifers who emerged victorious and reached the final with a 2-0 win. Celtic had lost their previous two games with the Pars and would approach the cup final with none of the superiority complex of the modern era. This would be an almighty struggle for Stein’s young team.

In the run up to the final, Celtic lost two of their three competitive games. The most worrying being a 6-2 humiliation at Falkirk. The side which had hammered Hibs 4-0 at Easter Road and looked far more convincing, had stuttered again. A 2-1 home defeat to Partick Thistle the week before the cup final had the fans concerned. There were flashes of what Stein was trying to achieve from his side but Celtic remained an enigma. Brilliant one week and awful the next. Which Celtic would show up at Hampden?

A crowd of 108,808 packed into Hampden for the 1965 Scottish Cup Final. Most of them were Celtic supporters who knew that they had the nucleus of a good side but as yet, they hadn’t tasted the glory that comes with winning a trophy. Perhaps, some reasoned, winning the cup would be a springboard to better days. Stein played Bobby Murdoch in midfield, a master-stoke as he was wasted as a forward. Murdoch and Auld matched the Dunfermline midfield and their range of passing and running gave Celtic a more potent attack. As a titanic tussle was played out on the Hampden turf, Celtic twice found themselves behind and twice had fought back to level the score. As the game entered the final ten minutes, it was clear that the next team to score would most likely claim the trophy.

In the 81^st minute Gorbals boy, Charlie Gallagher, lined up another Celtic corner. In memory’s view, the ball arced into a crowded penalty area as the huge crowd held its collective breath. Was this the moment of decision? Dunfermline Keeper, Jim Herriot raced from his line to intercept the ball. It was a fatal error. Celtic centre half, Billy McNeill got to it a split second before him to bullet a towering header into the net. For the first time in the game Celtic was in the lead. The roar which greeted the goal was deafening. Pat Woods and Tom Campbell, those great Celtic historians described it beautifully…

“For two seconds Hampden’s vast bowl was still, stunned with the sudden shock of decision, and then it erupted into bedlam; the roar continued, minute after minute, and it’s prevailing note changed; it was not merely the burst of joy that a goal produces, rather it was a tumultuous welcome to the future and the instinctive realisation by all Celtic’s support that the young men had grown up and that nothing, now, nor in the years to come would withstand their collective spirit.”

For Stein and Celtic, the cup final victory of 1965 signalled the arrival of a new force in Scottish and European football. In the seasons ahead, Stein forged Celtic into a tremendous football machine which approached any opponent without fear. Gone was the stuttering, inconsistent Celtic of the early 1960s. In its place was a team which took the success starved fans from famine to feast and served them up the greatest dish of all two years later beneath the azure skies of Lisbon.

 

 

A Beautiful Distraction

 

A beautiful distraction

The dream was always the same; he’d be walking with his father by the river on a warm summer’s day, when out of the vaulted blue sky the jets would scream towards them. The noise was deafening as they roared overhead just above the top of the trees which lined the banks of the Bug River. He knew the distinctive triangular shape of the SU57s and that they were Russian. He pressed his face to the black earth as they passed and the noise diminished. When he sat up to look for his father, he was gone.

Lexi awoke with a start and sat up in bed, reaching for his water bottle. He opened the curtains to a beautiful sunny morning. He had learned quickly that the weather in Scotland was unpredictable although this, the last day of July  looked set fair. He swung his legs out of the bed, glancing at the yellow and blue Ukrainian flag adorning his bedroom wall. Beneath it, on the dresser was picture of his father. Where was he today? Lexi wondered. The last he had heard from home his old man had joined the rest of the 79^th Brigade in the Donbas. They got the odd letter from his grandmother, but she had heard nothing from Lexi’s dad in three months. He thought about his father every single day and hoped that they’d all be reunited in happier times.

His phone buzzed on the bedside cabinet and he smiled as he answered it, knowing exactly who it was. ‘Aw right Kraft Cheese?’ said the familiar voice of Ross McAlinden, ‘remember the train is at two today. I’ll be banging on yer door at half wan.’ Ross was the first friend Lexi had made at school when he arrived from Mykolaiv that spring. He had introduced himself as Rosco and when Lexi shook his hand and said his name was Olexsiy Kravchenko, Rosco had instantly christened Lexi Kraft Cheese and it had stuck. ‘I’ll be ready, Rosco. Remember to bring the tickets.’ Rosco replied in that heavy Scottish accent of his, ‘Nae fear there, mucker. They’re in ma sky rocket the noo!’ Lexi smiled, ‘I have no idea what you are saying. Could you try that again in English?’

‘You be careful in that Glasgow,’ his mother had warned him in the halting English she insisted they speak at home, ‘I hear from neighbour it is rough place.’ Lexi smiled, ‘no rougher that Ukraine at the moment, mama.’ She shrugged, ‘yes, but you know what football people do. Just be safe.’ Lexi looked at his mother, she had aged in the six months they’d been in Scotland. Some nights he could hear her crying. It must have been so hard on her leaving her family, her man and her country before heading to a foreign land on the wet and windy periphery of Europe. But once Mykolaiv had been targeted by missiles and artillery, it was clearly better that they leave.

The station was already full of boisterous football fans by the time Lexi and Rosco arrived. They were joined by a few other teenagers from the school, all excited to get to the big match. Most wear sporting something green and a good few wore Celtic shirts. ‘Alright, Lexi boy,’ a gangling youth called Dominic smiled, ‘first match for you?’ Lexi nodded, ‘I’ve been to football games back home but this is my first in Scotland.’ ‘You’ll enjoy it. Full stadium tifo and Celtic get the trophy for winning the league last year.’ Lexi nodded but before he could respond, the Glasgow bound train pulled into the station and a cheer went up. ‘Rosco put his arm around his shoulder, ‘here we go Kraft Cheese!’

They entered an already busy carriage and had to settle for a standing space just inside the door. Lexi could hear singing from further along the carriage and some of the supporters were drinking beer despite the signs on the train doors saying it was illegal. He could see the rough comradeship supporting a common cause brought the fans, that was the same in any country. As he gazed out the window at the peaceful summer fields flashing past, he wondered what his first trip to Glasgow would bring.

To his right, two older women were sitting deep in discussion. He recognised immediately that were speaking Ukrainian. The noise of the train and the singing of the Celtic fans made it hard for him to hear much beyond a few snatches of what they were saying. Their conversation merged into the noise around them…’my Lucasz is in Mariupol, may God protect him… Jota on the wing, Jota, Jota on the wing…. You must be so worried… when he scores, he makes the Celtic sing… Bohdana is in Germany, she has a job now… our superstar from Portugal… will we ever get to go home?’ Lexi wondered that himself sometimes. The worries of these two women were invisible to those around him who were more concerned about a football match.

As hundreds of fans spilled out of the station and into the bright sunshine, there was a happy mood abroad. Lexi crossed George Square with his friends, gazing at the huge war memorial, guarded by two white lions. It seems nowhere was untouched by war. Rosco saw him glancing at the memorial, ‘thinking of yer old man?’ Lexi nodded, ‘yes; every single day.’ Rosco put his arm around his shoulder, ‘one thing I like about watching Celtic is that it makes me forget my worries for a while. I stoap thinking aboot my plooks, about Tania in fifth year and aboot my maths exam.’ Lexi smiled and nodded, ‘Tania is a good-looking girl.’ Rosco smiled, ‘good looking? She’s a babe, she’s the Queen of Babe-alonia!’ Lexi laughed, ‘you’re a funny guy, Rosco. Now tell me, what are these ‘plooks’ you speak of?’

Olexsiy Kravchenko gazed around the great bowl of Celtic Park as he held his square of plastic up like almost 60,000 others. They created a spellbinding mosaic which he had to admit was like nothing he had ever seen in his life. He glanced at Rosco and the others, they were lost in the moment. Perhaps that was what he meant when he said it made him forget his worries for a while. As the game started, the throbbing drums of the ultras away to his left boomed out as they led the singing. It took Celtic just four minutes to score when blonde defender, Welsh headed home. The noise was deafening. Lexi remembered going to see MFC Mykolaiv with his father but it was nothing like this.

Aberdeen held on after that and did well to keep themselves in the match till the 75^th minute when Celtic winger, Jota, fired an unstoppable shot high into the net. Again, the crowd erupted and left Lexi wishing he knew some of the songs which spilled from the stands onto the pitch, like a love song to their team. And then it was over. Lexi had to admit that whole spectacle drew him in and left him spellbound at times. ‘That was quite something, Rosco,’ he said to his friend as they trooped from the stadium. ‘That you a Jungle Jim noo?’ his friend replied in that impenetrable Scottish dialect of his. Lexi grinned, ‘if that’s a good thing, then yes, I’m a Jungle Jim.’ Rosco returned his smile, ‘good man, always knew ye were wan of the good guys.’

As the train back to Grahamston swayed and rattled over the tracks, the group of friends sat on either side of a table discussing the events of the day in happy tones. ‘That was some goal fae Jota,’ Dominic said, ‘he’s gonnae be great this season.’ Rosco nodded, ‘big Ange looks like he might get a tune out of this team.’ Lexi listened carefully before saying, ‘a tune? Celtic has an orchestra?’ Everyone laughed as did Lexi. His increasing knowledge of Scottish slang terms meant he could sometimes have a joke at their expense. ‘Whit did ye think of yer first Celtic game?’ Rosco said, looking at him. Lexi thought for a moment, ‘it was amazing and I did forget my troubles for a while. It was a…’ he searched for the right words. ‘It was a beautiful distraction.’ Rosco agreed, ‘aye, I never thought of Tania in fifth year once.’ Dominic cut in, ‘liar, ye had a Paddy Bonner for most of the first hauf.’ Lexi looked confused. He had much yet to learn about Scottish slang.

Where there’s a will

 

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.’