by Martin Greig
“Garbage. I only knew her for five minutes!”
“She telt me it was love at first sight. A once-in-a-lifetime experience.”
I read the letter for a last time. Then I purposefully fold it and put it away.
“You okay?”
“Aye. Go back to sleep, Rocky.”
I am okay. From somewhere in the desolate night comes a knowledge that things will work out for the best. I lie back and wait for exhaustion and the comfort of a real bed to coax me back to sleep.
~~~
It is easy to tell when footballers are confident. They swagger, talk the talk. Start to think they are somebody. That’s when they start getting ideas.
It starts as a few whispers. Rumblings. When you walk into a dressing room and the conversation dies, that’s when you know something is afoot. And there’s only one thing that players talk in hushed tones about. Money.
“Must think I’m fuckin stupid, Sean. I know they’re plotting. Fuckin’ cheek. Don’t know they were born, these boys. They need to spend a day down the mines.” I am sitting at my desk. I can hear the rumble of voices from the dressing room. When I passed earlier, the door was shut.
“Oh aye,” I thought.
I am waiting for the knock. When it finally arrives, it is a timid one, almost apologetic. I ignore it. Another knock.
“What?”
Billy McNeill pops his head in. I don’t even look up.
“Boss?”
I carry on writing my imaginary note. I finish it. Look up.
“What?”
“Boss, it’s just that the boys have elected me to come and chat to you about our European bonuses.”
I stare at him. Fuckin’ glare at him.
“So, er, can I have a word?”
“Here’s two for you. FUCK OFF.”
He turns on his heels. The boys will be waiting for him to come back with some news. But Billy can’t go back. Not yet.
I put my head round the door 15 minutes later. Down the corridor, I see the toilet door opening and Billy skulking out. He’s been killing time. Kidding on he’s been fighting their case for the last quarter of an hour and not sitting in the lavvy counting the bits of toilet paper.
I chuckle heartily, maybe even loud enough for the players to hear . . .
. . . The Palacio Hotel, Estoril, Portugal. Marble tiles, gleaming paintwork. Tropical gardens, Mercs and Rollers parked at the entrance, the crystal-blue ocean a stone’s throw away. Luxury. Opulence. Nothing but the best, and what are this team and these players, if not the best?
The Palacio Hotel. A playground for the wealthy, but also an important statement. The players troop off the bus.
“Boss, I think we’ve stopped at the wrong place. The youth hostel is down the road,” quips Bertie.
“The Kings of Europe do not live like beggars,” I fire back. “Bags in the rooms and then meet me in the lobby in 20 minutes.”
The first battle lines must be drawn. Limits set, rules laid down. I have identified the first enemy in the camp – that burning sphere in the sky. Stein versus the sun. There is only going to be one winner. The players return to the lobby and gather round.
“Gentlemen, you stand on the brink of greatness. Everything you ever dreamed of is now within touching distance. Nothing can be allowed to compromise that. So I will tell you once and I will not tell you again. Stay out of the fuckin’ sun. You know what happened in America last summer. A certain little red-haired gentleman came down with sun-stroke. Twice. If I see so much as a freckle on those peely wally faces of yours, I’ll fuckin’ kill you. Then I’ll drop you and send you on the first plane back to Scotland. In that order. Every moment spent in the sun saps your energy, affects your ability to fulfil your destiny. This is not a holiday. This is not about sunbathing. This is not about sightseeing. This is about making history.”
~~~
The road to Lisbon. Spain suggests herself from behind the curtain of the Pyrenees.
We are entranced by the vista of the mountains sweeping down towards the Côte Basque. We plunge into a pleasantly wooded gorge before crossing the border. After we have stopped in San Sebastian to change our money and stock up on cartons of fags and a crate of Rioja, I notice that our conversation has become distracted. We share jokes and stories but now that we are in Spain there’s a tense rattle in our voices. We all know that we are ignoring the elephant in the room: two days until the match.
The Basque countryside is beautiful. Naturally terraced hills wooded with pines give way to a dramatic coastline. I close my eyes to commit the scene to memory; I will try to sketch it later.
Eddie shatters the idyll and we all join in on the second line.
Hail! Hail! The Celts are here,
What the hell do we care, what the hell do we care,
Hail! Hail! The Celts are here,
What the hell do we care now.
For it’s a grand old team to play for,
It’s a grand old team to see,
And if, you know, your history,
It’s enough to make your heart go: o-o-o
We don’t care if we win, lose or draw,
What the hell do we care,
For we only know that there’s gonnae be a show,
And the Glasgow Celtic will be there!
As the song goes into its final flourish our singing startles a peasant farmer, who we overtake as he chugs along on an ancient tractor. He looks at us as though we have just arrived from Mars. We all laugh. The song has cleared the air, relieved the tension, refocused us from yesterday’s trials to our love for Celtic, the entire purpose of our trip. Plus we are all glad to have enjoyed the comforts of the pension – we are well slept and fed, washed and shaved; bright as new pins.
“Bar’s open!” announces Iggy cheerfully, passing the bottle. I get tore in. Man, that’s the gemme; makes you feel alive. Makes yesterday’s anguish drain away. Unravel it later. Now there is only the road. The road to Lisbon.
It is nice taking the byways for a while, and apart from the tractor we don’t see a single other vehicle. We are off the Celticade’s beaten track, off on our own thrilling, private, comradely adventure.
But a little further on I notice Rocky’s brow has furrowed. I can feel the power drain from the Zodiac. Rocky is pumping the accelerator but we are slowing.
“What are you slowing down for Rocky?” asks Iggy.
“The car . . . it’s losing power.”
He glides us to a halt at the side of the road. We all get out. A staccato phut phut phut phut rises in pitch and then falls away as the tractor passes by.
“Hauw, auld yin!” says Iggy. “Gonnae give us a ride on your tractor?”
The rubbernecked farmer simply regards us with the same astonished expression, as though we belong to a different species.
I head into the brush and pee against a bank of honeysuckle, enjoying the foreignness of this secluded, sun-dappled place. I take care not to hit a little lizard who is enjoying the morning warmth. I go back to the car. The lads are all helping out so I just sit right down, spark up a ciggy and draw in the smooth blue smoke.
“Okay Iggy – give her some gas.”
On Rocky’s command Iggy guns the engine. It barks and roars with complaint, then reaches a deafening, whining crescendo. The din sets my nerves on end; will the engine explode, shearing my pals to pieces with ragged shards of shrapnel? Or will it simply surrender, and rupture itself beyond repair in order to stop the agony? Yet Rocky is unfazed, his hand calmly continuing to circle in indication.
I watch him. He is utterly absorbed in the engine, in complete control of it. I wonder if I ever lose myself like that in my painting. Hard to know, I suppose, but I doubt it. Too many subtexts, too much shite spinning around inside my head. I seem to lack a quality of certainty about myself that people like Rocky effortlessly possess. I feel a pang of envy as I consider how much Debbie would doubtlessly be drawn to this man of action, this uncomplicated breadwinner. I think back to when they wer
e both 16 and went out together.
Then I think about the first night she and I spent together. Her modesty, despite her profound beauty. I had watched her silhouette as she undressed carefully, seriously. I treasured that moment as the most precious in my life. I knew this didn’t come cheap to a girl like her. I loved her for a lot of reasons but at that moment the main one was that she had chosen me.
Rocky looks up from under the bonnet. Flushed and greasy. Signals to Iggy to kill the engine.
“We need a new throttle cable. Fuck.”
~~~
I look out. At the rows of eyes fixed upon me. Scottish Press men, English, Portuguese, Italian. The world’s media . . .
I am the centre of attention. They are ready to hang on my every word. They are waiting, hoping, longing for a story. I am not going to disappoint them.
“Thanks for coming along gentlemen. I won’t keep you long. I know you all have deadlines, and I, frankly, have more important things to do.”
A ripple of laughter.
“I’ll take questions in a minute, but first . . . here’s my team.”
A dramatic pause. They all look at me as if I have lost my mind.
Forty-eight hours before the biggest match of his life and the Big Man is going to name his team . . . he has fuckin’ lost it, the pressure has finally got to him.
But I have my reasons. Eleven of them. Eleven names that have been inscribed on my brain for the past month; names that are the most powerful statement of intent I can deliver at this moment. No secrecy, no hidden agendas, no mind games. Just the names of the men I trust to win in the style I want. I may be revealing my hand, but I am showing Herrera that I believe I have a winning hand.
I’m showing that I know my best team, how we are going to play, how my players are going to rise to the challenge and that they can be relied upon on the greatest stage of all. Eleven names that spell out belief and courage. I know my team. Do you know yours, Helenio? And, if you do, do you have the balls to tell the whole fuckin’ world? Those names will be the sound of a gauntlet being thrown down. The men who now know they are in the team can relax and focus properly on the biggest challenge of their lives. They know that I believe in them. Their backs will straighten. They will now feel they can conquer the world.
I reel through the names once more in my mind, the names that have become like a mantra. I do not need a sheet. They are tattooed on my brain. I stare straight ahead and out they come, tripping off the tongue.
“Simpson . . . Craig . . . Gemmell . . . Murdoch . . . McNeill . . . Clark . . . Johnstone . . . Wallace . . . Chalmers . . . Auld . . . Lennox.”
I reach the end and wait for the scribbling to stop. They put their pencils down and look at me.
“Any questions?”
Silence.
“Well, I think that means you have got your story! And that means I can get back to the real stuff. Thanks boys.”
I walk out. I stand for a moment and listen.
Still silence.
~~~
Eddie, Iggy and me volunteer to walk westwards to find help at the next village.
“It’ll be okay lads,” I say as we amble along. “Even if we miss today we’ve got all of the morra to get to Lisbon . . . and even Thursday morning and afternoon if needs be.”
The road curves slightly and we happen across a middle-aged, olive-coloured SEAT 600 which is parked up. A beautiful young woman, with chestnut hair and iodine skin, is standing on the passenger seat, her upper body protruding through the sunroof. Alongside, a man has climbed a telegraph pole. He is attaching a flag, which has a red background with a green diagonal cross beneath a white cross. The girl notices us with alarm and begins speaking urgently to the man. He clambers down quickly, exchanging a few sharp words with the female.
“Hola!” I call out, hoping to put them at ease.
The man tosses the flag at the girl and nervously lights a cigarette. He is about 30, of medium height and build, with handsome, broad features. His stance is rather effeminate, with one hand tucked into his back pocket, the other pointing the cigarette with understated belligerence. He is unshaven and wears brown plastic-rimmed spectacles with tinted lenses, behind which his small eyes dart quickly. His lips pout rather arrogantly as he regards us suspiciously.
“Gora Euskadi Askatuta!” shouts Eddie.
The man’s stern expression breaks slightly at Eddie’s words. Eddie sees my puzzled look.
“And I thought you were supposed to be politically educated,” he smiles. “It means, ‘Long Live a Free Basque Country’. That’s a Basque flag he was trying to pin up. It’s forbidden.”
“Hola,” shouts the man. The girl is stashing the flag in the car.
“You speak English?”
“Sure. Ah, you are Scottish? You go to Lisboa for Celtic?”
His voice is rather high-pitched. His hair, which is thinning a little on top exposing a high forehead, is slicked to one side with oil and combed down into long sideburns. He wears a tan-coloured leather jerkin which tones with his corduroy flares, and a white roll-neck sweater.
“Yes!”
“Ah, very good. We met a bunch of you in San Sebastian yesterday.”
“Our car has broken down, just back there. Is there a village nearby?”
“Ispaster. It’s less than a kilometre. There is a garage there. It is very small but they may be able to help.”
“I don’t suppose you could tow us?”
“No problem my friend. You should be able to squeeze into the back. My name is Xalbador. This is Angelu.”
We shake hands. The girl smiles shyly.
Inside the car Xalbador pauses, scratches the back of his neck distractedly. “My friends, I believe you saw . . .”
“The flag? You can count on our discretion, my friend,” I assure him.
“It is very important.”
“In Spain it is a serious business,” says Angelu rather timidly.
“No bother,” says Eddie in a soothing voice. “We know all about flags and symbolism . . . the fight for self-determination. We live in hope for the day when the Six Counties are reunited with Ireland.”
“I salute that noble goal!” says Xalbador.
“Me too,” says Angelu, flashing a smile of brilliant white teeth at Eddie.
“Up the flying columns!” declares Iggy.
~~~
Most managers look back on their playing days with nostalgia. Life was simpler, then. They turned up, ran about a bit during the week, checked the notice board on a Friday to see if they were in the team, and then finished their working week with a game. After the game, a few pints with the boys and then the cycle began again on Monday morning. Footballers are creatures of habit and there was a comfort in the monotony. They knew where they were, had a set position and that was it. Simple. For a few, like me, it was plain dull. I hated the repetitiveness of it. Ploughing round a cinder track, playing the same position week-in, week-out, it bored me to tears. I wanted to try out new things. But, as a player, nobody wanted to listen. As a manager, you could make them listen. Encourage them, inspire them, command them.
Playing or management? Give me management any day of the week. Some people go to college or university to learn. My football education started to accelerate when I took my first steps into coaching. Learning fired my imagination. I wanted to immerse myself in different football cultures, break free from Scottish and British football, to gain a more rounded education. The memory of the great Hungarian team still burned brightly. I knew there were different things, great things, happening in Europe and I wanted to be part of it.
It was in November 1963, while manager of Dunfermline, that an opportunity presented itself. I was offered the chance to travel to Italy and study the methods of Helenio Herrera, the legendary Argentine coach of Inter Milan, who had won the league the previous season for the first time in nine years.
Herrera was a small, serious-looking man with a huge presence. He did not walk into ro
oms. He entered. When he did, the atmosphere changed. Tall, bronzed footballers suddenly stood to attention when he addressed them. He spoke to them with a brutal clarity. His philosophies were pinned up around the training ground.
Who doesn’t give it all, gives nothing.
Class + Preparation + Intelligence + Athleticism = Championships.
He was obsessed with building a winning mentality. His players were trained to deliver positive messages to the media.
We have come to win . . . we have the players to be victorious.
If any deviated from the script, they were fined.
Discipline was top of his agenda. Smoking and drinking were forbidden. The players’ diets were strictly controlled. Three days before games he took his squad to a country retreat to prepare them.
I looked around the walls of his office and saw box files packed with personal profiles of every player at the club. Thorough, meticulously researched, Herrera was taking things to a whole new level.
On the training field, he broke the mould. He carried out drills I had never dreamt of. He laid out his philosophy, explaining his concept of mounting lightning-quick attacks from deep and the value of overlapping full-backs. He was thinking thoughts no-one had before. The players were well-drilled athletes, clean-living and open-minded, diamonds polished by his militaristic regime.
It made me think about Scottish football; the closed minds, the rivers of alcohol, the clouds of tobacco smoke and the betting dens. How would Herrera survive in Scotland? He wouldn’t. He would take one look and leave. I had to find my own way to get the best out of players who had grown up in one of the most densely-populated, heavily-industrialised corners of Europe.
I watched how Herrera talked about football, broke it down, analysed it like a science experiment, or a mathematical formula. Herrera was most famed for developing the catenaccio, the stifling ‘door-bolt’ system with its close man-marking and its rigid line of defenders. He spoke passionately about the role of attacking full-backs. He picked out Giacinto Facchetti as the prime example of a defender he had converted into a rampaging full-back and spent just as much time in the opposition’s half as he did his own. It was inspiring.