by Martin Greig
He leaps to his feet and kisses her hand for fuck’s sake.
“But everyone calls me Rocky.”
“Enchanté. Delphine Marie Robin,” she smiles. What a smile. The whole room lights up. Something moves inside of me. Christ, I’m a sucker for a redhead. I’m a sucker for a pretty girl. And she is really pretty. I am surprised at my reaction; I didn’t think it possible in the immediate wake of Debbie’s harsh truths.
“I am so embarrassed to meet you like this; we have been at an all-nighter.”
“Oh really, where?” asks Rocky.
“At the UFO club.”
“Who was playing?”
“Tomorrow, Arthur Brown. Have you heard of Pink Floyd?”
“Aye, he’s terrific. Good auld Pink.”
Her lip curls slightly and she turns away from Rocky. She looks at me. Smiles at me. She is smiling right at me.
“Delphine, this is Eddie,” interjects Nicky.
“Hello.”
“Hi.”
“. . . and Mark,”
“H-hello.”
“Hi.”
“. . . and Tim.”
She walks over to me. She is walking right over to me.
“You must be Nicky’s cousin.”
“Yeah . . . p-pleased to meet you.”
I take her hand nervously in mine. Don’t know whether to kiss it or not, or to stand up and kiss her cheek, like I’ve seen French folk do in the pictures. So I just sit there like a fud holding her fingers as she stands there in limbo. Fuck. I glance over at Rocky, who looks as though he is about to explode with mirth. I could happily smack him in the mouth right now.
“I can see the family resemblance. Nicky has told me loads about you. You are an artist too? Nicky says you are very talented.”
How sexy is her accent!
“That’s very nice of him. I just daub away, really.”
“Aye, he’s a right dobber,” suggests Rocky to snorts of laughter.
One-nil to you, Rock.
~~~
1966-67. We hit the ground running. Domestically, we are rampant. The template is laid down. Every player knows his role, the standards required, the expectations to be fulfilled. Unity of purpose. Fellowship, friendship, systematic success. The first Old Firm league game of the season. Bertie Auld scores in the first minute and Bobby Murdoch strikes three minutes later. Auld and Murdoch then start to take control; keeping possession, spraying passes short and long, opening the game out. Rangers chasing shadows; out-fought and out-thought.
Auld and Murdoch.
I played them together last season a couple of times, but it was in pre-season that they finally cemented their partnership in central midfield. A match made in heaven. Auld, aggressive, dynamic, swaggering, bristling with self-confidence, but not just a ball-winner; gifted, a great passer, too. I moved him from outside-left to a central role beside Murdoch, where he could be in the heart of the battle and get forward more.
I brought him back to the club before I had even returned myself, the deal done while I negotiated my exit from Hibs. The chairman wasn’t sure about it. They had history, but it wasn’t about personalities, it was about winning. The chairman wants to win more than anyone. He wants to win playing attacking, attractive football. The Glasgow Celtic Way. He believes in the Corinthian spirit, the concept of fair play and respecting your opponent. I share all those beliefs but I know the realities, the harsh realities of the professional game. I know that not everyone shares those same beliefs. There are some who set out to ride roughshod over those principles, who interpret fair play as weakness. My team always sets out to live up to those principles, but they must always have an edge. We need men who can impose themselves mentally and physically when battles start to rage; men who know that the path to playing the kind of football we excel in can be a tough, physical one; men like Auld.
I needed winners and Auld was a winner. In my first game back, on March 10th 1965, he scored five.
“Auld played well today, chairman,” I said afterwards. He just nodded but I held his gaze, long enough for him to get the point.
Don’t ever question me on football matters. Don’t ever try to pick my team. This is my team. MY fuckin’ team.
Then there is Murdoch. Cool, calm, elegant and authoritative, a beacon in the middle, directing play like a conductor directs his orchestra; then, trotting off after 90 minutes with barely a bead of sweat on his brow. The engine of the side. He was an inside-right when I arrived. Bobby Murdoch. A bloody inside-right.
I said to Sean: “Can you believe anyone ever thought Bobby Murdoch was an inside-right? We’ve got a visionary on our hands, a bloody sea captain not a galley slave. He should be in the thick of it, dictating everything with that range of passing. Plus, he’s physical. Look at those shoulders, Sean. I wouldn’t like to be on the end of a shoulder charge from Bobby. He’s no afraid to use his strength. He’s our man, Sean. Inside-right, indeed! What a joke. He’s a wing-half. I can build my team around this boy, Sean. Just watch me. Just fuckin’ watch me.”
At the start, the chairman wasn’t convinced. Before the 1965 Scottish Cup final, he called me on it.
“Murdoch at right-half? He’s not a right-half.”
I looked at him and smiled.
“You’ll see on Saturday that he is.”
Auld and Murdoch. Murdoch and Auld.
I watch their partnership with growing excitement and realise that I can take a step back. Poetry in motion. The team that manages itself.
A season to remember . . .
The anticipation is building. I can feel it. Christ, I can see it. I am standing in the boardroom looking down Kerrydale Street and watching the huge crowds snake up London Road towards the stadium. There is a carnival atmosphere as supporters sway along, shoulder to shoulder, a sea of bunnets, their tones cutting through the drizzle.
“Are attendances up this season?” I turn to ask the chairman.
“Up? Yes, Jock you could say that. We got 41,000 last week for Airdrie. It takes us twice as long to count the gate receipts these days.”
“That’s good news because we need them. We need them all. This is going to be a long season and the players will need all the encouragement in the world. We can’t create history on our own.”
Europe. No-one mentions Europe. But I can think of little else.
“The league will remain our priority,” I tell the Press before our first-round tie with Zurich, playing along with the myth that Europe is a sideshow, a mere distraction to the real business of domestic dominance. But even as I speak the words, as I watch them scribble them down intently, I am looking over their heads, gazing on some distant European horizon. Silently raising the stakes. A greater prize shimmers in the distance. The European Cup. Celtic has its legends, but we don’t want to live with history, we want to become legends ourselves. The only way for a team to be considered truly great in modern football is to be victorious in major European tournaments. That is where the real quality is. That is where we deserve to be competing. This might be the first time we have entered the European Cup, but we are ready. Does anyone suspect what I believe this team to be capable of?
My team. My wee team . . .
The first leg of our tie with Zurich. The Press have written them off as no-hopers. Seven Swiss internationalists in their squad, along with two Germans and an Italian, is proof enough of their quality; as is their domestic trophy haul and the fact that they reached the last four of the European Cup two years before. Their manager, Ladislav Kubala, has done his homework. He pinpoints Auld, Murdoch and Johnstone as the main threats to his side’s chances. He is right. They try to stop us by any means. Johnstone spends most of the early stages face down on the Parkhead grass after being sent spinning in tackle after tackle. The early goal we hoped for doesn’t come and the game slips into a familiar pattern. I glance at my watch, willing the arrival of half-time. That is when a manager earns his money. I have to instil confidence and organisation. I have
to find solutions to problems the players haven’t realised exist yet. With any other team that could be a tall order. With this team it simply involves a shift in emphasis. My half-time message is short and to the point.
“Get the ball out wide to Tommy Gemmell and Willie O’Neill. Let’s drag them into different areas, make them think, get them turned.”
After 64 minutes, John Clark switches the ball to Gemmell, who thunders a shot from 40 yards into the roof of the net. The game starts to open up and, soon after, Joe McBride scores our second. The result gives us a cushion to take to Switzerland.
The plane grinds to a halt on the tarmac at Zurich airport. The seatbelt light goes off. The players start to get their bags out of the overhead lockers, stir crazy after a seven-hour journey from London. I tell them all to sit back down and pay attention.
“Gentlemen, if you are feeling anything like me then you’ll be knackered. You’ll be stiff as boards and you’ll be desperate to get some fresh air. Well, there’s only one solution to that. We’re going to head straight to the stadium for a training session. Get that bloody stiffness out of your legs.”
A gasp of disbelief sweeps around the plane. Their faces fall.
An hour and a half later we are putting them through their paces inside Zurich’s stadium. The Swiss weren’t expecting us but our surprise arrival has attracted an audience. It must be 80 degrees. The players troop out. They can’t even look at me. They fuckin’ hate me in this moment. Hate me with a passion. But they know better than to mess around.
They respond to the presence of the Zurich officials. The edge is there, the statement is clear. We’re here to do a job on you.
“I told you this was a good idea,” I say to Jimmy as he jogs past.
“No bother for me, boss. Better than being stuck in that bloody plane for hours.”
Our visit to the stadium allows some last-minute preparations. I pace out the size of the pitch and am pleased to discover that it is only one yard smaller in length and width than Celtic Park. That means there will be no need to adjust the tactics that I have already settled on.
We have 17 players in the travelling party. Too many. The Press think that the extra bodies mean we will pack our defence.
The presence of reserve centre-half John Cushley leads one to suspect that Celtic’s policy in Switzerland will be one of containment, read one report.
I had a quiet chuckle to myself at that one.
After the training session my secret weapon comes out. The magnetic tactics board that has been gathering dust in my office. The 6 × 4 board that holds the key to our European success. The canvas on which I can fully express my philosophies and beliefs.
The first leg had been a bruising affair. Zurich defending like demons and kicking everything that moved. Us probing patiently before the two late goals. The Swiss claimed Joe McBride had committed a foul in the lead-up to the second goal. They will be out for revenge and I don’t want to risk McBride getting caught up in anything. For that reason, Bobby Lennox will replace him. They can kick Bobby all day – if they can catch him, that is – and he will never react. His pace will be important, too.
I watched Zurich carefully, scrutinised every player, their strengths and weaknesses, technical abilities. I concluded that they were a busted flush. What they showed at Celtic Park is all they have in their locker.
I tell the players the night before the match.
“Gentlemen, here is what is going to happen. Zurich will play the same way they did in Glasgow. They will play their ‘sweeper’ system. They will chase and harry, kick and scream. The game will be a carbon copy of the first leg. You may expect them to attack because they are at home. But you would be wrong. They will defend like their lives depend on it.”
I look around at the faces staring back at me. Furrowed brows. Confusion.
“Any questions?”
Jimmy Johnstone slowly raises his hand.
“Boss, I hear what you are saying, but they are at home and they are 2-0 down. Surely they will come and attack us?”
“First of all, never fuckin’ question me. When I ask a question, it’s rhetorical. You think I haven’t thought this all through? You think I don’t know what European football is all about? Remember, I’m here to talk and you’re here to listen. So fuckin’ listen. And never interrupt me again.
“You are confusing your own mentality with theirs. If we were 2-0 down and were facing them at Celtic Park, then we would attack. But they are not us. They do not have the players to do what we can do. They will defend. Defend like their fuckin’ lives depend on it. I have never been more certain of anything.”
I stop speaking. The players look at me. They will scurry back to their rooms and discuss it among themselves. They will question me.
The game ends 3-0 to us. I stand at the edge of the park, meeting every one of my players as they come off. No ‘Congratulations.’ No ‘Well played, lads.’ Nothing. Just a firm handshake. And a stare. A stare that says, ‘I told you so.’ A stare that says, ‘Believe in me.’ A stare that says, ‘Don’t ever question my judgement and authority again.’ A stare that says, ‘This is the start of something. Something special.’
“I’d prefer a Real Madrid or an Inter Milan in the second round. I feel we can beat the big shots,” I tell the Press afterwards. They look at me. Disbelievingly. I hold their gaze. Raising the stakes. Demanding respect.
The road to Lisbon.
A season to remember . . .
~~~
I am lying on the couch dreaming of her, sweating into my simmet. I come round to find she is sitting in the lotus position on the floor, fixing me with her deep azure eyes, which are framed by Twiggy-esque lashes, teased outwardly by thick black mascara. She is wearing a chocolate and cream silk headscarf which tones in with her flowing summer dress. Her hair spills out at her crown, soft and gorgeous, catching the light in its myriad of hues.
“Sorry,” she says. “I just love watching people sleeping. It makes the finest subject. It’s the only time that the human being is truly unaware and unselfconscious. And you are very . . . interesting to look at.”
“Thank you.”
She flips the pad, which had been resting on her lap, to face me.
“I took the liberty of sketching you. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” I say, sitting up awkwardly to view the drawing, trying to disguise my arousal. She smiles, knowingly. The sketch is in black soft pastel. She has expertly approximated my dormant face with minimal strokes and shading.
“Gosh – that’s excellent; you have made me look quite respectable!”
“Your tattoo, ‘Cumbie forever’. What is this?”
“A gang.”
“The artist who is also the street-fighter. How enigmatic!”
I feel a flash of tired irritability, taste the dry sourness in my mouth. An image of us stoating around the Gorbals like urban princes flashes into my mind. We owned the joint, stole what we couldn’t afford, but never from anyone who couldn’t spare it. We weren’t liberty-takers. And no-one ever got a doing who didn’t deserve it.
“I’m finished with all that now.”
“Ah, but still proletarian experiences you can draw upon, no doubt. For your painting.”
Yeah, and maybe at my exhibitions they will feed me fish from a bucket.
She gets up, walks over to the sideboard and lights herself a Gauloise from a table lighter.
“Where is everyone?”
“Outside, enjoying the sunshine. They’ve gone to Primrose Hill to play football.”
“The great unifier.”
“I told them not to awaken you after all your driving. You looked so peaceful.”
She throws the cigarette packet at me. I grab it. She throws the table lighter. I gasp as it lands on my loins. She smiles wryly, amused, walks over and sits beside me. I light up. She smokes like a movie star. I choke and splutter on the thick tobacco. I feel shabby, awkward and inadequate alongside
her.
“Barbara seems rather taken with Mark.”
“The poor lassie. She’s in for a big disappointment.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing.”
She slaps the pad upon my lap.
“Anyway, it’s your turn now.”
“Sorry?”
“To sketch me.”
“I’m not great with pastels.”
“Well I have pencils next door.”
“An easel?”
“Yes. I shall pose on the chaise longue.”
She leads me through to where several works in various states of completion lean against the walls and furniture. The room has a kind of shabby luxury to it. Rubber plants festoon the window sills, matching the rich verdant garden outside. Sunlight streams through alder branches and dapples an ancient sofa and chaise longue. There are brimming bookcases, wicker chairs and shelves crammed with Victoriana. A large table dominates the centre of the room, with gnarled carvings on its stubby fat legs, crouching like a prehistoric reptile. An Afghan bong and oriental rugs lend the room the impression of an opium den.
I don’t really know what to make of her art other than I rather like it. Most of all I enjoy an impressive work of abstract expressionism, which is simply a series of quite thin vertical stripes in vivid colours over an 8 × 4ft landscape canvas. When you step back it is really striking yet when you get closer you realise that every stripe has a different surface texture. I walk back and forth a few times, and the image has a queer effect, almost as though it is alive.
I rack my brains and try to think of something insightful to say, try to classify it within a certain movement, try to discern her influences.
I manage: “That’s truly fabulous.”
“Merci.”
“But, forgive my ignorance, I’m not sure I quite understand it.”
“There is nothing to understand.”
“It kind of just provokes . . . an emotional response.”
“Then it has succeeded. It is my best work so far.”
She walks over to the chaise longue, luxuriates upon it.
“Would you mind removing your . . . headscarf.” I have to clear my throat to remove a nervous, croaky texture in my voice.