by Martin Greig
I glance at the newspapers on the desk. Their tone is downbeat.
The Yugoslavs are many people’s outsiders to win the tournament and Celtic Park will hold no fears for Vujadin Boskov’s impressive side.
The Press think we will lose. I heard it in the tone of their questions today.
‘Tough task ahead,’ they said, arching their eyebrows. Bastards. Fuckin’ doubting, snidey bastards.
“It is only half-time in the tie,” I told them. “With 70,000 fans behind us at Celtic Park, we will have the opportunity to express ourselves.”
But, beneath the measured comments, nagging doubts remain. They were compounded by the blow of losing Joe McBride a few days ago. It all started back in November, when he came back from a Scotland trip with a stiff knee. He struggled on, while continuing to score goals, but all was not well. Against Aberdeen on Christmas Eve, his knee finally gave way. The specialists had their say. A flaking bone behind the kneecap was the verdict. An operation loomed but I was desperate to get our 35-goal striker back in the frame for tomorrow night’s second leg. We stepped up his training ahead of Saturday’s game with St Mirren but my heart sank when he crumpled to the turf on the eve of the game. He remains defiant, desperate to get back fit in time for the final. I had a quiet word with the consultant.
“Any chance of Joe being fit for late May?”
He laughed quietly and shook his head.
I have reinforcements. Willie Wallace’s arrival in December now looks increasingly important. He took McBride’s place against St Mirren and scored twice in our 5-0 win. But it was bittersweet as he is ineligible for tomorrow night. Stevie Chalmers will have to play instead but he is not fully fit. Plus, they have key men returning. Pusibric and Trivic have served their suspensions and will come back into the side. We are facing a team who know their own quality. Before the first leg, Boskov said as much. “I think we will win by at least two goals,” he stated.
Stanic’s solitary goal failed to fulfil Boskov’s pre-match prediction. They were worth their win but I took heart from the fact that they had very few chances and their goal came from a mistake.
Boskov stated after the first leg that he hadn’t been too impressed with us and he was confident they would get the job done in Glasgow.
The Yugoslav Press had the scent of a story when they confronted me after, informing me of Mr Boskov’s rather ungracious words about us.
“Vojvodina are a very good team but we are better and we will win in Glasgow,” I told them.
I head for the car. As I pass Barrowfield, I slow down to crawling pace and look over at our illustrious visitors training. Earlier in the day I refused them permission to train at Celtic Park.
“The pitch is too soft,” I told Boskov. “There’s been too much rain and I can’t take the chance of it cutting up ahead of tomorrow night.”
I thought he was going to spontaneously combust.
“I’ll take this up with your chairman,” he shouted.
“That’s up to you, Mr Boskov. But my main concern is this pitch and your boys are not putting a foot on it tonight. You’re welcome to use Barrowfield, five minutes down the road. I’ll make sure the floodlights are switched on for you. Hell, I’ll even drive you there myself!”
“Let’s see how they react walking out there for the first time tomorrow night,” I said to Sean. A psychological blow? We will see. I move through the gears and carry on down London Road. Out there, in the stormy Glasgow night, fears linger. Have we met our match?
Half-time and the signs are not good. Pusibric should have scored after five minutes but missed from six yards. They are holding firm. The previous month I had arranged a friendly against Yugoslav side Dinamo Zagreb. We took the game to them in our usual manner. I wanted to see how Yugoslav teams cope with our all-out attack. Very well, was the answer. We failed to score. It suggested to me that we would need to be prepared to adapt, change the focus and momentum, when the real test came.
This match was going the same way. Vojvodina were comfortable to play it out. I had witnessed them see out victory in their third play-off match against Atletico Madrid in the last round. They had character. We have to change the flow of the match, break their composure.
“Tommy, Bobby and Cairney, I want you further up the park. Let’s force them onto the back foot more, drive them out of their comfort zones. Jimmy and John Hughes, I want you to switch wings. Let’s confuse them a bit.”
After the interval, the balance begins to swing in our favour. We start to break their rhythm and the aggregate equaliser comes when Gemmell’s cross is forced home by Chalmers.
But the pressure is intense, the crowd’s anxiety almost overwhelming.
I hear everything. Every expectant murmur from the watching thousands. Every barbed comment, every fuckin’ damning verdict tossed like a sharpened spear from the heaving terraces. Sometimes I look around and take in the gargoyled faces, twisted with rage. They hate me. They fuckin’ hate me and they love me. All in the space of 90 minutes. I feel their beery breath on the back of my neck. I feel the burden. Any manager who says otherwise is lying. People look and judge. They see the confidence, the self-assured marshalling of troops from the sidelines, the calmness in the eye of the storm. But they do not fully comprehend the responsibility on my shoulders. The heaving weight of expectation that sometimes brings me close to buckling under the strain. It is a form of torture.
The flip-side is the joy, the excitement, the ability of 11 men under my charge to make people’s lives better. It resonates through me, straightening my back when the pressure feels like it will cripple me. My burden is also my lifeblood. Ultimately, it is not about me. I am a representative of the people, a custodian of their hopes and dreams. The Keir Hardie of the dugout.
Managers are often the first to take credit for success, but it is about the players, always the players . . . their ability to absorb information and then to use it amid the cauldron of match-day, when all around they are being willed, urged and abused. The presence of mind to occupy the moment, and then to seize it, that is what makes a good player great.
There are just moments left now. A replay seems a certainty.
“Looks like Rotterdam,” says Sean. Then we win a corner. “It’s not over yet,” I say. “Get a fuckin’ move on,” I gesture to Billy McNeill, who quickens his pace as he crosses the halfway line. One last, mighty effort . . . the forwards do their job, dragging their markers away from the goalmouth, leaving the way clear. Charlie Gallagher swings it into the middle and then time seems to stand still. The ball hangs in the air. There is a momentary vacuum of sound as Celtic Park holds its breath. I feel Sean gripping my shoulder. Then, he arrives. Big Billy. Like a steam train crashing through the bollards at the end of the track. As the ball leaves his forehead, my arms are in the air. As it arcs into the net, I am already hugging Sean. The ball nestles in the net. We are through. We have come from behind, survived even more pressure on our home ground and have found a way to win. We are through! Somehow.
“There is something happening here,” says Sean as we walk up the tunnel. I nod. “This could be a season to remember.”
~~~
The street ends in obscurity; a pool of water and a glade of salt grass. In the rapidly diminishing light we dig a little pit in the sand and gather driftwood that has been bleached and dried by the sun. Mark gets a fine blaze going which envelopes us in a bubble of light and warmth amid a darkness that creeps around us like silence. The White Horse bottle is passed from person to person like a peace pipe, sealing the bond that has been set between us today.
“What a day,” says a downcast Iggy.
“That poor, poor man,” says Delphine.
“So young. It’s awful. Just awful,” says Eddie.
“Certainly puts things into perspective,” says Rocky.
Delphine begins to sob. Iggy comforts her.
“What do you say, Mark?” I ask.
“Yous m-m-maybe don’t want to kn
ow.”
“Go on. Nobody will judge you.”
He looks around the assembled fire-lit faces.
“I think it was his t-t-t-t-t-time.”
“Away!” exclaims Rocky.
“He was our age for Christ’s sake, younger even!” protests Iggy.
“I know, I know. Maybe I haven’t expressed myself r-r-right. It’s just that . . . I believe certain things happen for a r-r-reason. Even t-terrible things sometimes. Ach, I haven’t even worked it out properly in my heid so maybe I shouldn’t be b-b-blethering like this, but I do believe that the ways of G-G-G-God are m-mysterious. There’s more to life than m-meets the eye. It’s no all random bad l-l-luck. And even if today was only that – just a random, tragic event, I believe we can still take m-meaning from things, ’cause at the end of the day good will triumph. That boy – he was p-p-p-peaceful at the end. Naw, more than that, he was full of j-j-j-j-joy.”
“Never!” says Iggy.
“Aye!” insists Mark. “You saw it T-Tim. He was j-j-j-j-joyful at the end, was he n-no?”
“Well . . .” I begin.
Suddenly I feel self-conscious with five pairs of eyes on me.
“Aye, he was,” I say.
Delphine rises and walks towards the road. After a moment I get up and follow her.
She is standing at the edge of the continent, gazing inland. I place my jersey over her shoulders. She turns and smiles at me.
“Debbie is the love of your life, and you aren’t over her. That’s why you won’t commit to London, isn’t it?”
“It’s just too sudden . . . my head’s all mixed up.”
She gazes into the distance again.
“What are you thinking of?”
“What to do now; this is as far as I go. I might stay here, by the ocean. Or I might visit my father. He stays up that road somewhere. About 100 kilometres or so.”
“You said you don’t get along . . .”
“He is a difficult man, but today . . . that poor man in the car . . . it has got me to thinking. And I don’t blame father entirely. He could never come to terms with mother. He moved here, to the south, after she . . . died. He couldn’t bear to return to Carnac. Did I tell you that my mother had red hair, like me?”
“She took her own life, didn’t she?”
She continues to gaze up the road, into France, her homeland. Then, barely perceptible, a nod.
~~~
I sit alone with my thoughts. The wife and kids are in bed. The television flickers in the corner. A reporter, standing in front of a fountain in a square in Lisbon, is speaking in posh BBC.
“Tomorrow, Celtic will leave Glasgow for their much anticipated meeting with Inter Milan in the European Cup final. Many of their fans are, as you can see, here already, regaling locals with their songs. Helenio Herrera, the Inter manager, has encouraged the Portuguese, as fellow Latins, to support his team, but it seems that the charm of the Celtic supporters has won them over instead. It all adds up to a carnival atmosphere, but it will be nothing compared to the party if Jock Stein’s team can overcome the might of Inter Milan on Thursday.”
I turn off the television and sit quietly in the darkness.
The road to Lisbon. The final stretch. The most important part. The most exciting part. The most terrifying part.
~~~
The pension is spartan but clean and welcoming. A hall lamp casts fantastic shadows on the staircase walls. I bunk up with Rocky. The sweet warm aroma of wood and dust greets me. Part of me is already tired of the open road and longs for permanence. And this day has taken its toll. In an effort to help myself feel at home I booze and smoke as I place my few things in one of the dresser’s musty drawers, which are lined with glossy patterned paper and contain the odd worthless coin or redundant key. But this night brings a feeling of sorrow that neither whisky nor cigarettes can dispel. The darkness. Everything is altered; everything sits at a slightly different angle or has a peculiar hue to it.
“Mr Stein, did that poor fella die before his time?”
“Perhaps. Certainly it happens. I knew a lad of 16 who died in a pit accident. Suffocated, the poor sowel. All for the price of decent safety standards. Yet death is a part of life, and sometimes folk dying young is a part of life.”
“Seems to me the older you get the more of your dreams about how life was meant to turn out get stripped away. And it’s the darkness – I mean your darker premonitions – that come true instead.”
“Maybe. But it’s how we deal with that – the bad things, the defeats, the disappointments – that’s what makes us men. It’s easy to be strong when things are looking up. When things are tough you still have to retain some belief, in yourself, but also in life. Good things can happen too. Your pal, Mark – you should pay heed to his words. He knows how to give it up.”
“Give what up?”
“Uncertainty. Contradictions. He knows to give them up to God. Us humans, we’re no supposed to comprehend everything in this life. Aye, our brains are remarkable for solving problems, for making things better for humanity. But there’s a whole realm of mystery out there that we can only wonder at. We can write songs and poems about it but no much else. If we think on it too much it will drive us mad.”
Day Five
Tuesday, May 23rd, 1967
Jimmy Johnstone hates flying, detests it more than anything. The non-flying winger, that’s what we call him.
“Can I no get a boat to Lisbon, boss?” he says, only half-joking.
“Don’t worry Jimmy, if we hit the water you’ll be first in the lifeboat,” I reply. “Then big Billy . . . the rest of yous are good swimmers, so I’ll see you in Lisbon. Kick-off is at half-five. And if you’re late, I’ll fuckin’ fine you.”
They all laugh. The tension broken. We walk across the tarmac to the waiting plane. I look back over my shoulder.
We’ll be running round Lisbon when we come,
We’ll be running round Lisbon when we come,
We’ll be running round Lisbon,
Running round Lisbon,
Running round Lisbon when we come!
Hundreds of fans, singing loudly, their banners draped over the front of the terminal building, have come to bid us farewell.
“I feel like one of the Beatles,” I say to Sean.
“The Beatles aren’t as popular as us, Jock. Not this week, anyway.”
Cabin crew in aeroplanes have seen it all – sick children, petrified adults . . . but they haven’t seen Jimmy Johnstone. We are all sitting on the plane ready for take-off when I feel a splash on my head. I swing round. It is Jimmy, spraying holy water from a small plastic container in the shape of the Virgin Mary. I stand up, the water trickling down my face.
“Sorry boss, but you can’t take any chances,” he says, flashing a nervous smile.
“Jimmy, if you don’t sit down I’ll fuckin’ sling you off this plane.”
“That might no be such a bad thing. I could still catch that boat,” he replies.
I frogmarch him back to his seat and the cabin crew breathe a sigh of relief. Another Jimmy drama over.
~~~
My father comes to me when I am asleep. I am amid a throng of people, then he appears, suddenly, briefly, only long enough to say: “Follow your dreams,” then he is gone, disappeared into the crowd.
I awake, clammy with sweat in the muggy night.
Rocky is snoring. I take a slug of lemonade. Spark up a fag. The tobacco crackles as the flame jets from the lighter. It illuminates something, a piece of paper slotted into the dresser mirror.
Dear Tim,
I’ve decided to go. I’m sorry for leaving without a word but I couldn’t bear a long goodbye.
I’ve only known you for a few days but I feel so strongly drawn to you, yet you are breaking your heart over Debbie.
I couldn’t sleep so I’m sitting by the beach at dawn. I can hear the terns calling on the shore, enjoying the first warmth of the day as the sun creeps over the horizon.
The water looks so gorgeous, framed by the sky and the pale dunes – I wish I could waken you and share this glorious sight; I wish I had time to paint it! The sound of the ocean is so soothing. I feel sadness, but at the same time a strong sense of ardour for being alive and young in these heady days. I feel that the world is brimming with possibilities today and that although we are to be parted now, perhaps forever, that Fate has wonderful things in store for both of us in our lives.
I told you that true love was a fallacy. I lied. You have loved and lost, and I feel for you. I hope Celtic can bring you some consolation in Lisbon. You said that they are the underdogs, the artists; well I have a feeling that Thursday is to be their day. Tell the boys that my love goes with them. They will have a special place in my memory.
I am off to visit my father now. Pray that when he sees me coming up his path he will recognise his daughter and not the shadow of the woman he so loved and lost.
I ask only one thing of you, and it is this: fill out an application for St Martin’s. My tutor Peter will expedite it. Come September, if you still wish to remain in Glasgow, then so be it. But at least leave yourself that option.
Know that a little part of my heart will forever keep alive the hope that one day there will be a knock at my studio door. It will be you, Tim, arrived to sit for me.
Au revoir,
Yours,
Delphine Marie Robin
I finish my cigarette and sit there for a few minutes, rereading the letter. An initial wave of sorrow and guilt gives way to conflicting emotions and desires.
“She was crazy about you.”
Rocky’s voice gives me a start. He has woken and seen me reading the letter, put two and two together.
“Eh?”
“Delphine. She loved you.”