Chapter 17
As they made their way along the Gallowgate towards Celtic’s football ground at Parkhead Joe could feel his dad’s mood begin to swing up.
Joe knew that partly it was being outside that did it. All week, when Joe was at school, his dad hardly left the house. He would never go into the city centre on his own. Even walking to the nearby shop was sometimes too much of an effort. So Saturday was special for him. A day out to support their football team, the Glasgow Celtic.
Joe saw the strain ease from his father. Like some substance leaking away from him, an insubstantial shadow withdrawing from his body. His dad turned and smiled at him. It was almost a grin, Joe decided. That was the strange thing about his dad’s condition. Other times he could smile when people were around, pretend he was OK in company. Especially when Joe’s granny, who was his own ma, was there. It grieved her to see her son in this condition and Joe’s dad was good at making a quip or two to keep her from asking how he was.
His dad tilted his face to the sky, and closed his eyes as the sun warmed him. Joe noticed how pale and wasted he appeared. He must try to get him out in the evenings during the week, now that the summer was nearly here.
‘Routine,’ the doctor had told Joe. ‘Routine is good. Set up a structure to his life. But he does need a lot of support in doing that.’
They turned down Janefield Street. And now they were with their own. The streets vibrant with green and white. Team colours, scarves, new strips, memorial tops, many wearing the magical Number Seven, some showing the face of Celtic’s former striker, Henrik Larsson. Outside one of the pubs they met up with Joe’s Aunt Rita’s brother, Desmond, and one or two of his mates. Joe knew that his dad thought Desmond was a bit of a screwball but he was good fun to be with, full of wild stories and tales of his exploits when following the team to their away games all over Europe.
‘Aw right, wee man?’ Desmond slung his arm round Joe’s shoulder and grabbed him.
‘Less of the wee man,’ laughed Joe, pushing Desmond away.
‘Oh. Oh.’ Desmond retreated in mock fright. ‘How’s the football training? Score any goals lately?’
‘Naw, but I set one up for our centre mid-field player last night, so I think I might be in with a chance of getting picked for the team.’
‘What mid-field player? Anyone I know?’
‘Don’t think so,’ said Joe, sensing what was coming next.
‘Does he no go to your school then?’
‘Naw.’
‘Don’t tell me he’s a Hun?’
‘His name’s Gregory,’ said Joe. ‘Does that sound like a Hun to you?’
‘You can never tell nowadays. What with Catholics being called after stars instead of saints.’
‘He’s a terrific football player,’ said Joe. ‘Him and me work great together, but we need more practice.’
‘Come to Glasgow Green tomorrow and me and the boys’ll play kick-about with you.’
‘I’ll see,’ said Joe. ‘I might phone you later. I’ve got something I need to do in the afternoon.’
They were at the ground now, and to get to their entrance they had to walk round the lines of mounted police. The horses stood patiently, their heads protected by clear face-guards, as the police shouted instructions and herded the fans into the correct queue for the turnstiles. Over at the London Road end Joe could see the Rangers fans being channelled to their section of the ground, kept apart by temporary steel barricades and squads of security guards and policeman.
Among the Rangers fans Granda Reid’s friend Sidney had stopped to chat to one of the street vendors who was selling flags and scarves. Graham could hear him hooting with laughter at some joke.
Graham looked over to the front of the Celtic Parkhead stadium. Thousands of fans swarmed outside, meeting up and calling to friends.
‘I’m keeping these hidden the now,’ Sidney said as he caught up with them. He opened his hand. In his palm were a couple of potatoes. ‘The polis are so paranoiac at Old Firm games, if they see these I’d get arrested for carrying a dangerous weapon.’ He grinned at Graham as he shoved the potatoes in his pocket. ‘They’ll be good for a wind-up later on.’
Chapter 18
Graham and his Granda Reid got to their seats.
When the match was at Parkhead, the Celtic ground, the Rangers fans were allocated a corner of the Lisbon Lions Stand. Double lines of stewards with empty seats in between separated the two groups of supporters. Graham didn’t always get a ticket when the match was held at Parkhead Stadium. It was strange, and off-putting, having to face into tier upon tier of green and white. He wondered where Joe and his dad sat to watch the game.
Granda Reid and Graham stood up to sing Simply the Best as the Rangers team came out of the tunnel. They were better than all the rest. Second to none. Part of the beating heart of this great city.
Joe was on his feet as the Celtic players ran onto the pitch. His voice combined with all the other fans roaring out their welcome to the people’s team. The city itself threw back the sound and folded him in.
The game began.
There was always more tension at an Old Firm game than at any other. A tang of bitterness. Graham thought that it sometimes took away the enjoyment of the actual football, but he would never say this to his granda. He knew that in his granda’s opinion the only thing that counted in an Old Firm game was the result. And this was an important game. It was almost the last game of the League Championship. Both teams sat at the top of the league table, closely followed by Hearts. With no goal difference between any of them, it could be a decider. They needed Rangers to go ahead today.
They didn’t have long to wait.
In the nineteenth minute, Houston, Rangers’ new star striker, charged through, unleashed a stinging right kick, and lashed the ball home.
Houston had scored! With the rest of the Rangers fans Graham catapulted to his feet. They had a goal! Despite being away from home and in the minority, all around him Rangers shouts and songs began to drown out the Celtic supporters’ boos and whistles.
Now they were bouncing. Jumping up and down. And yelling themselves hoarse. Rangers were ahead! And in only nineteen minutes too! It was going to be a fabulous day.
‘Hello! Hello!
We are the Billy Boys!
Hello! Hello!
You’ll know us by our noise!’
Graham danced around. Stamping and clapping. His granda was ecstatic.
‘Quality shows.’ His granda beamed at him. ‘Quality shows.’
In response to the crowd Rangers lifted their performance even higher, and for the rest of the first half Celtic were left chasing the game.
Just before half time the Rangers support rose and sang a salute to their team to carry them through the break.
‘There’s not a team like the Glasgow Rangers.
No, not one! No, not one!
Celtic know all about their troubles,
We will fight till the day is done.
There’s not a team like the Glasgow Rangers,
No, not one! No, not one!’
What must it feel like to be on the park? Graham wondered. Hearing the support. Surfing that sound.
‘They’ll be demoralized for the second half,’ said Granda Reid as they trooped out of their seats. ‘We’re one up. They’re down. Let’s hope it stays like that. Us on top. The way we should be.’
‘Aye, and they don’t have Larsson to sort their problems out for them now,’ gloated Sidney.
Further over in the Lisbon Lions Stand Desmond had his head in his hands.
‘Where’s Henrik Larsson when we need him?’ he moaned.
‘Life without Larsson,’ said Joe’s dad. ‘Good title for a poem, that.’
‘You write one then,’ said Desmond aggressively.
‘It would be a lament,’ said Joe’s dad. ‘A dirge. De Profoundis we cry to thee, Henrik. Come back to your kingdom, O King of Kings.’
‘Joseph, you a
nnoy me stupit the way you don’t take anything seriously,’ said Desmond.
‘Au contraire,’ said Joe’s dad. ‘My doctor tells me that I take things far too seriously.’
‘I’m talking here about things that matter,’ Desmond retorted. ‘Really important things.’
Joe interrupted as his dad opened his mouth to reply. ‘Let’s get something to eat,’ he said. ‘I’m starving.’
Queuing for Bovril and hot snacks, they watched the replay over and over on the TV screens set above the bar. The comments were non-stop.
‘Flaming ridiculous, that goal, so it was.’
‘Shouldn’t have been allowed, that.’
‘He was offside.’
‘Aye, well offside.’
‘Dirty Hun.’
‘Mah-nure!’
‘That ref’s a bigoted b—’
Returning to their seats after half time, they passed the doors to one of the bar areas which was locked today as it was in the Rangers supporters’ section of the ground.
‘See that?’ Joe’s Uncle Desmond pointed to the blacked-out glass windows. ‘That’s so they can’t see us. During Old Firm games they stick bin liners over the glass on they doors so that the Huns can’t give us the finger and try to cause aggro. Animals, so they are. Animals.’
Joe remembered Graham saying this morning that his Granda Reid went early to the Old Firm games to avoid any trouble. As they were going upstairs Joe turned his head and looked back at the blacked-out door.
Graham was on the other side of that darkened glass.
Chapter 19
One down.
Losing to the enemy.
A goal gone to them.
It lay like a cold pie in the pit of Joe’s belly.
Unthinkable defeat. Celtic had their last league game next Sunday against Hearts while Rangers would play Kilmarnock. If Celtic lost by any margin to Rangers this week, then Rangers would almost certainly win the Championship.
The play went on.
Ten minutes to the end of the match.
They began to sing. Quietly at first.
A few brave voices, from the terraces high above where Joe sat. He turned to his dad and grinned as they both heard the familiar opening lines of You’ll Never Walk Alone.
‘If that doesn’t lift them, nothing will.’
The singers had started slowly, pacing the first words, allowing the song to unfurl. Pulling like a powerful undercurrent.
‘You have to sing along with that one, Dad,’ said Joe.
His dad nodded. ‘It’s a song of such tremendous human spirit,’ he said, ‘yet it always makes me want to cry.’
Rippling from row to row, the pulsing, throbbing tune was carried by the throat of each fan. The crowd caught the mood and it became unstoppable.
The great rolling anthem gathered strength.
Taken up by the people beside Joe, sweeping round the stadium, drowning out everything else, soaring and soaring. The singing rose to a deafening crescendo, pulling him out of his seat to join in.
A song of defiance, of courage, but above all, hope.
Every Celtic supporter on their feet.
Kerr had the ball. He was running to goal.
‘Pass it! Pass it!’ Joe’s dad cried out. ‘Carmichael’s in the clear!’
Desmond was incandescent. ‘Give it to Carmichael, you great big galoot!’
‘To Carmichael!’ Joe screamed. ‘To Carmichael!’
Kerr tried his own shot. The goalie punched the ball aside. A Rangers defender gathered it and booted it down the park.
Joe, his dad, and Desmond fell back into their seats, energy spent.
‘I could’ve done that better myself,’ Desmond growled.
The Rangers end bawled their appreciation of their keeper’s save:
‘North, South, East or West,
Glasgow Rangers are the best.’
* * *
The game went on.
Insults and jibes were thrown back and forth among the supporters. The Rangers fans gesticulated and goaded those in the Celtic seats closest to them.
‘Where’s your Fields of Athenry now? Eh?’
‘Tottie fields, mair like it!’
A shower of potatoes flung by Rangers fans in the front seats cascaded onto the park.
In an instant Desmond was on his feet. ‘I’ll go over there and batter their melt in!’ he bellowed.
‘Save your breath,’ Joe’s dad advised Desmond. ‘Watch the play.’
‘Never mind the play!’ Desmond foamed. ‘It’s a goal we want!’
‘Our team need your support,’ said Joe’s dad.
‘You’re right.’ Desmond got to his feet and began his own song.
‘Stand up if you hate the ’Gers,
If you hate the Teddy Bears!
All on your feet now!
Stand up if you hate the ’Gers!’
Joe’s dad shook his head. He grabbed Desmond’s sleeve and dragged him into his seat. ‘Keep your attention on the field of play,’ he said. ‘Look! Carmichael’s carving open their defence!’
Joe craned forward. His dad was right.
Under the desperate onslaught of Celtic the Rangers defence was buckling. Wave upon wave of Celtic players hurled themselves forward. Vaughan, and Dignam, a late substitute for Celtic, were relentless, creating chance after chance, as Sutton and Thompson had done for Larsson in the great days gone by. And Carmichael, slicing in, found a gap. Pouncing on a cut-back from Dignam, Carmichael nutmegged the Rangers’ keeper.
The ball was in the back of the net.
Celtic had scored!
Four minutes to go! And Celtic had equalized!
Now they were jubilant. Many on their feet, singing,
‘Sure it’s a grand old team to play for,
It’s a grand old team . . .’
The euphoria and relief of the Celtic fans continued:
‘We don’t care what the Rangers say,
What the hell do we care?
’Cos we only know
That there’s going to be a show,
And the Glasgow Celtic will be there . . .’
Fast clapping, they began to shout, ‘C’mon the Hoops! C’mon the Hoops!’
Over and over, round the stadium: ‘C’mon the Hoops! C’mon the Hoops!’
As the supporters beside him took up the refrain, Joe stood up, yelling at the top of his voice, ‘C’mon the Hoops! C’mon the Hoops!’
The Rangers fans shouted a mocking echo: ‘C’mon the Choobs! C’mon the Choobs!’
* * *
Both sides were still shouting when the final whistle went.
‘Aye, yous are no so smart now! Are yous?’ Desmond turned and bawled at the Rangers fans. ‘You shower of animals!’
‘Animals! Animals!’
Groups of fans began pointing at the corner which held the Rangers supporters.
‘Animals! Animals!’
Joe heard his own voice joining in. But the space immediately to his right was quiet. His dad had not stood up. He remained seated, applauding the teams leaving the field.
Joe fell silent. He took a swig from his can. Then he sat back down beside his dad.
Chapter 20
Outside the park the disappointment and frustration among the supporters rumbled on.
Graham and his Granda Reid got through the gates with their friends and moved away from the ground, walking quickly back to his granda’s house.
Joe and his dad and Desmond were stalled as they came round the stadium and it took them longer to get onto the street. The crowds here were dense and the rain was coming on so they decided to cut across an open lane that connected to the Gallowgate. Desmond was kicking cans and anything else that lay in the street as his bad temper began to overflow. His agitation was infectious. When they met up with anyone he knew he bad-mouthed players from both sides, the manager and the referee.
‘Give it a rest, Desmond,’ said Joe’s dad.
‘I pay
good money for my season ticket. It’s not cheap. These guys are making millions at my expense. I’m entitled to my say.’
‘I won’t talk to you when you’re like this, Desmond.’ There was a finality in Joe’s dad’s voice.
To one side of the lane a group of youths sat on some railings. Two or three of them were stripped to the waist, with green-and-white flags and scarves tied about their heads and shoulders. They were singing ragged snatches of songs and passing a bottle of alcohol wrapped in a plastic carrier between them.
‘As if the polis are fooled by that,’ Joe’s dad commented as they came level with them.
Desmond broke away to speak to them. Joe saw one of them offer his uncle the bottle. Desmond took it and drank.
Joe’s dad shook his head.
Joe heard Desmond tell the youths about the Rangers fans throwing potatoes onto the park near time-up.
‘We never saw that,’ said one of the boys.
‘They wouldn’t have got away with it if I’d been there,’ said another.
Desmond took a potato from his pocket. ‘They shouldn’t get away with it now,’ he said.
Joe’s dad took Joe firmly by the arm and steered him to the far side. ‘There’s a whole load of Rangers fans standing at the top end of that lane,’ he explained.
‘The polis are up ahead,’ said Joe.
‘Not enough of them.’ Joe’s dad’s eyes were troubled. He increased his pace, pulling Joe along with him.
Joe glanced back.
He couldn’t see exactly what happened. But next minute, to howls of fury from both sides, potatoes and coins were flying through the air.
Joe’s dad put him to the inside of the pavement. ‘Pull your jacket over your head,’ he ordered Joe. ‘Tuck your face in. Quickly now.’
Joe was too interested in what was happening to fully obey his dad.
Close beside Joe a woman screamed as a coin hit her on the cheek. There was a trickle of blood on her face. A young child began wailing. Adults picked up their children and began to hurry away as, to the sound of shattering glass, men and boys in Rangers colours came running down the lane.
Divided City Page 7