by Martin Greig
“Bit early in the morning for festivities, isn’t it sir?” he says, clocking Eddie’s bottle.
“I’ve not touched a drop. Honestly officer.”
It’s true. Rocky was about to touch a drop, but hadn’t yet.
“Where you all off to?”
“Dover . . . then Lisbon.”
“For the final?”
“Yes.”
“I’m a Fulham man myself.”
“That Johnny Haynes is some player.”
“He certainly is.”
“Is Tommy Trinder still your chairman?”
“Yes. He’s bloody marvellous is Tommy.”
“My mother loves him.” Good old Rocky. Always quick with the flannel.
Another police motorcycle splutters to a halt. The second copper dismounts, starts fiddling with his radio.
“What’s that?” asks the first cop.
“What?”
“What they’re sitting on, in the back.”
“Oh, it’s a railway sleeper.”
“A railway sleeper – you’re joking!”
“No, gen up. Someone swiped our back seat in Glasgow last Sunday. Fu-God knows why. On the Lord’s day as well, officer. We couldn’t lay our hands on a new one in time so we had to chop up a railway sleeper.”
I’m waiting for the cop to get his book out, charge us under some by-law like the bastards back home, but instead his officious expression gives way to one of profound amusement.
“ ’Ere, Pete,” he shouts over to his colleague, “come ’ere and get an eyeful of this! They’ve only got a railway sleeper as their back seat!”
His pal comes over. He finds it equally hilarious. The two almost slap each other on the back with mirth.
“You boys Celt-ic?” asks the second cop.
“Yes officer.”
The first copper surveys the rest of the vehicle, the amused expression still on his face. He comes back round to address Rocky.
“Now, no drink-driving lad, alright?”
“Understood.”
He checks the tyre, kicks it gently.
“Anyway, I hope you win, lads. Come on. You deserve the royal treatment after giving me such a laugh.”
“Pardon?”
“We’ll escort you, far as Whitechapel. Railway sleeper! That’s a new one. I ask you!”
The cops mount their bikes and wave us off, then accelerate beyond us, taking the lead. Inside the Imp there is a shocked silence. I glance behind me; Mark and Eddie are wearing identical expressions, their eyes wide open and their jaws hanging low.
“So this is how it happened,” I observe. “This is how four Gorbals chancers in a Hillman Imp were given a polis escort through central London!”
“And one French girl!”
I glance in the mirror at Delphine, perched happily between Eddie and Mark in the rear, having insisted that I take the passenger seat. Her hair is up. She looks cool and demure in her kinky boots, brown skirt and red roll-neck sweater.
“And one French girl,” I add, smiling, feeling so glad that she asked if she could get a lift to the south of France.
“They will talk of this for years to come in the Gorbals,” says Eddie, almost in a reverential whisper, as he solemnly shakes his head from side to side. “Years.”
“If anyone believes us!” says Mark.
“They’ll believe us alright,” says Rocky. “This makes us legends, boys, legends. DO YOU HEAR ME? THIS MAKES US FUCKING LEGENDS!”
“They’ve even turned on their blue lights now!” I splutter.
“Look, they’re holding up the traffic for us!” adds Delphine. “People are waving at us!”
Sweet Jesus, what a feeling.
“What about it my china?” I ask Rocky.
“The best, my friend. This is the best of times.”
“W-W-WOOOO-HOOOO!” hoots Mark.
“LISBON HERE WE COME!” shouts Eddie.
~~~
What is a manager’s job? It was a question I had never thought too much about until one day in April 1955. We had narrowly lost out on retaining the league title, but the situation was made worse by the events of the Scottish Cup final against Clyde. It may have been the first final to be televised live, but it was not one that any followers of Celtic would have wanted to see again. We should have had the game wrapped up inside the first half hour, with Bobby Collins to the fore, but it took until the 38th minute for Jimmy Walsh to open the scoring. We should have built on our lead, driven home our superiority. We didn’t, and we paid. With two minutes left, a corner from Clyde’s Archie Robertson caught in the swirling Hampden breeze and went into the net. Instead of hoisting the trophy, we steeled ourselves for a replay.
Nothing could have prepared me for the team-sheet for that second game. Collins: dropped. Mochan: dropped. Walsh: switched from his usual inside-left to right wing. McPhail: moved from centre to inside-left. Fallon: brought in to lead the line after a lengthy injury absence. Not so much a team-sheet as a suicide note. I watched the manager, Jimmy McGrory, read out the names, his head bowed, desperately trying to avoid eye contact. Spirit fuckin’ crushed. It was not his team. How much it ever was, was a source of debate, but this selection had nothing to do with him. The dropping of Collins was the biggest shock. Some of the lads speculated that the chairman had not taken kindly to his physical approach in the first game. Either way, it was never clearer that the boss had been completely undermined by the chairman. It came as no surprise that the replay, on a foul evening at Hampden, ended in a 1-0 defeat. As we trudged off disconsolately at the end, I looked over at the boss, a hunched, broken man. I vowed then that if I ever managed a team, no-one would pull my strings. It would be Jock Stein, master of his own destiny.
~~~
The police escort was a wonderful turn-up, yet nothing would have prepared us for Dover.
We pull into the ferry terminal.
“Holy Jesus!” exclaims Mark.
“Have you ever seen such a thing of pure beauty,” whispers Eddie. We look out to sea.
Beneath a perfect sky, upon a sparkling Channel, the Townsend ferry Free Enterprise II is sailing into harbour, her green-and-white livery complementing a massive sign on her portside, ‘GOOD LUCK CELTIC’. Rocky pulls in and we all step outside to gaze in awe at the glorious sight. Then we realise that there are dozens of other Celtic cars in the queues, and we salute each other enthusiastically.
All the crew wear green-and-white rosettes, and hand us a sprig of lucky white heather as we climb up from the car deck. We assemble with around two hundred other fans in the bar and start to make merry. Half the Gorbals is here. There are Tongs too, but nobody is giving a fuck, everyone’s just shaking hands and passing round pints and striking up sing-songs. Delphine is feted by the company and catches my eye, smiles over at me. Then the captain makes a Tannoy announcement that he will fly a Celtic flag from the mast and myself and a dozen others instantly dash back down to the cars. I detach our Eire flag, race back upstairs and present it triumphantly at the bridge entrance.
“Well done Tim!” says Rocky as he slaps my back.
“You’re a legend my boy,” adds Eddie.
“You d-d-d-dancing bear!” says Mark.
We watch the flag flutter up the pole into the gorgeous azure heavens, I glance at Delphine who looks fantastic as she unfastens her red hair to let it billow gloriously in the wind and I consider that if life can’t get any better than at this precise moment then I don’t care.
I sit on a bench and she settles on my lap.
“Tim.”
“Yep.”
“You realise that you are beautiful.” Her face is rested upon my shoulder as she gazes into my face, stroking my hair. “You are the most beautiful man I have ever seen.”
“I have a lovely personality as well.”
“Sure. But physically . . . you are literally and utterly beautiful. Your hazel eyes and hair, your delicate, noble features. Your slim, lithe build. You must sit for m
e. Properly this time.”
“That’s very flattering . . . if only we had time. Delphine, when you are in France, are you going to visit your family?”
“My sister is in Switzerland for the summer. And my father . . . it is very difficult. We don’t get along.”
“And your mother?”
“My mother is dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
She takes my cigarette from me, draws from it, places it back in my mouth.
“I’ve never met a man such as you. A man who straddles two strata with such ease. You capture the zeitgeist.”
“The what?”
“You capture the moment in that you are a man for our changing times of social deconstruction. You reflect the lower classes finding their means of expression. I find it very attractive.”
I make to get up.
“Excuse me.”
She slides off my lap, her expression a little puzzled. I stand up and walk over to the rail and gaze at the French coast.
“What is wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“No, not nothing.”
I turn to her.
“It’s just that . . . Delphine, I’m just Tim Lynch from the Gorbals. Lynchy. I’m just bobbing and weaving, trying to get by like everyone else.”
“So you wish to spend your life in some menial existence just to comply with some class stereotype?”
“No.”
“Well come to London, go to art school – follow your heart.” She winks. “And besides . . . I’ll be there too.” She walks down the stairs.
If someone had suggested this idea a week ago I’d have burst out laughing.
None of us boys have visited the continent before, so the crossing would have been a real treat anyway. We are as excited as a bunch of weans on their way ‘doon the watter’ for their summer holidays. We eagerly pore over the little roadmap the AA dished out for free. We are constantly going upstairs – ‘up top’ as we call it, for a fag, and to watch the white cliffs retreating and the coastline of the Pas de Calais getting nearer.
Then, before we know it, it’s back to the car deck. Rocky, who is as high as a kite with excitement, jumps into the driver’s seat.
“Tim, I’ll take another shift at the wheel, okay? Okay?”
“Aye. If you want.”
I’m shattered so I am secretly grateful for the offer.
We cheer loudly as the Imp bumps noisily onto French soil.
“M-mind and drive on the right!” says Mark.
~~~
European football is not all glamour. The Marcel Saupin Stadium could be mistaken for Gayfield on a storm-tossed evening. Shipbuilding is the main occupation in the town of Nantes. Football fever set in an industrial heartland. Home from home for us, you could say. I have watched our second-round opponents and am confident.
“How will you approach the tie?” ask the Press men.
“We will play the same team that led us to victory against Hearts at the weekend,” I tell them simply. A statement of intent. The Frenchmen are a decent, technically accomplished side, but they have lost their previous four matches. They are no match for a team of our attacking abilities. I believe that. Not everyone does.
“Do you feel your team are good enough for this level?” ask the Press men, their voices betraying doubt. I look at them closely, huddled round the table, scribbling into their notepads. Professional sceptics. Professional critics. The power to shape public opinion, but who is holding them to account? I feel the anger rising.
“What the fuck would yous know about it?” I reply. “The stuff this club has had to put up with over the years. Incredible. I think about yous lot every time I feel like sitting down and watching the 7-1 game from 10 years ago. Only I can’t do that because some fucker conveniently forgot to take the lens cap off for the second half of the game. No footage. Beyond a fuckin’ joke.
“Every week you fill your columns with shite about my players. What do you really know about it? What do you know about trying to perform in front of 100,000 people? What do you know about pressure? You can fuck off with your deadlines. That’s not real pressure. You’re no fuckin’ fit to write about football. What do you even know about kicking a ball in a straight line?”
“Come on now, Jock, we’re entitled to our opinions . . .”
“Yes, you are, but I am saying, ‘what are they really fuckin’ worth?’ ”
I am on a roll now. “Right. Let’s see what you can do. Follow me.”
They follow me out of the Press room to the muddy training pitch. Neilly obliges with a bag of balls. I place one on the penalty box.
“Right, let’s see you hit the target.”
By this point, the players have congregated at the side of the pitch. The first Press man steps up in his brogues. He takes a long run-up but, as he prepares to strike the ball, his left foot slides on the turf and he lands on his arse. The players erupt, even his fellow hacks are laughing. The next plucky contender skies the ball 10 feet over.
“You’re a danger to low-flying aircraft with a shot like that. Pathetic.”
Ten minutes later I call time.
“That was an embarrassment. You should all be ashamed of yourselves. Remember, next time you pick up your acid pen to slaughter one of my players I’ll be poring over every fuckin’ miserable word of it. And if you’re out of line, I’ll be kicking down your office door. And remember this as well – I’ve watched every one of you fail to hit the target from 12 yards.”
Stein 1 Press 0.
The players sense the opportunity to make an early impression but the line between attacking and being cavalier is a fine one. In 16 minutes, Nantes take the lead and the stadium erupts. Fireworks light up the night air, raining down onto the pitch, and thousands of Nantes supporters suddenly find their voice. I look at the players for their reaction. Ronnie Simpson grabs the ball out of the net and punts it to the halfway line. The Nantes players are still celebrating as the ball is re-spotted in the centre circle. My men are impatient, eager to atone. None of them look to the bench for direction. They know what they need to do. We have set ourselves up to attack and we will continue to attack. Not only that, but we will attack with more determination. Why? Because that is what we do . . . better than anyone. Ten minutes later Joe McBride equalises and the noise level abates. The band of travelling Celtic supporters bounce up and down. As the home side, the pressure is on Nantes to continue to take the game to us, but as they push forward we pick them off. At the start of the second half, Bobby Murdoch springs Bobby Lennox who sprints clear and dispatches the ball into the net.
“It’s all over,” says Sean. And so it is.
We knock the ball around with ease for the rest of the game. Stevie Chalmers scores a third. Jimmy Johnstone turns on his tricks, bamboozling Jean-Claude Suaudeau in a manner that must surely qualify as a cruelty sport.
Then, an extraordinary thing happens. The French crowd start to cheer Jimmy. Every twist and turn meets with roars. Sean laughs.
“Even the French love him, Jock.”
“The French know their football.”
The final whistle blows. We are clapped off the pitch. The quarter-final of the European Cup within our grasp.
A straightforward 3-1 home win in the second leg deposits us in the last eight of the European Cup. As the players relax in the bath afterwards, word filters through that Liverpool have lost 5-1 to Ajax. Everyone is delighted. Liverpool put us out of the Cup Winners’ Cup last season and were considered one of our biggest threats. The shock of Liverpool’s exit is matched by the excitement over the emergence of Ajax, particularly their young protégé, Johan Cruyff. Everyone is talking about them. Hugely gifted . . . but young and inexperienced. Can they bear the burden of expectation? That is a question for another time. For now, they serve as the perfect diversionary tactic. Outside the dressing room I keep the lid on the significance of our progress to the last eight. Inside, I remind the
players that, while the Dutch are blazing a trail, we are continuing to make impressive progress.
“Forget Liverpool and Ajax,” I tell the players as they prepare to drift off into the night. “We have now won all four of our matches, home and away. That is an impressive achievement at this level of football. We are now a force to be reckoned with. Fuck the rest of them. This is about us.”
~~~
The road to Lisbon. Sometimes Rocky drives like a clown.
He’s aye showing off and playing the tough guy. Despite the fact that the Imp is fully laden he insists on overtaking lorries, at an agonisingly gradual rate.
Up ahead the bank of cypress trees that lines the highway swoops westwards; we are approaching a bend.
“The thing about the Hillman Imp is that they tend to oversteer,” says Rocky.
“What’s that?”
“When you are cornering the rear wheels don’t follow the front ones; it can cause a spin, if you don’t know what you’re doing.”
“Well drive a bit more slowly then ya bloody madman!” I demand.
Rocky responds to this by turning to me and grinning. He then stares dead ahead, raises his bottle of Eldorado to his lips and takes a long draught. Then he slams the gear lever down into third and floors it. Full throttle. I look at the speedo. The needle crawls pathetically up to 65mph. He turns to grin at me again. Smart arse. Best not say anything else – that will just encourage him. The curve in the road is approaching. He’s not slowing. I glance at him. He has a maniacal expression on his face. The needle reaches 70 and falters there. Back into fourth gear. The engine complains as we go in, but the Imp is holding the road. It’s not until we are coming out of the bend that I start to feel the rear wheels go. I glance at Rocky; I can tell by the look on his face that he is losing control. In an attempt to hold the road he has straddled the left-hand lane. In the middle distance a lorry is approaching, its horn already moaning. The rear of the car suddenly lurches forward.
“H-h-holy Mother of G-G-God,” exclaims Mark.