by Martin Greig
Most of all I can see Delphine’s worthiness. Her gentleness, her vulnerability, the purity of her intentions. Her profound beauty as a woman and as a person. For a moment I feel unworthy of her, then I tell myself: ‘You are worthy of her.’ And I believe it. I know it.
I look round; Mark has left. So I withdraw my sketch of her and gaze at it and then I ask it out loud, to the sea, to the rocks and the sand; the seabirds are my witnesses: “WILL I SEE DELPHINE AGAIN?”
And the birds and the forest and the waves and the sand and the sky all return together, on one single ecstatic communal beat: ‘YES YOU SHALL!’
The rhythm of nature. The ocean continues to gently lap the shore; relentless, eternal, cathartic. The interconnectedness of everything. The pure truth of beauty. The truth in the way things are; the meaning of things, under the surface of things. God-ness silently vibrating in every tissue of the universe.
The effects diminish. Still strong – still incredibly strong, but in relative terms less so. I am able to perform basic tasks: lighting a fire and positioning the pan, organising the camp, eating fried bread. The Rioja is a myriad of subtle flavours. It is like drinking liquid sunshine. I smell the salt and listen to the ocean swell in the Bay of Biscay. The rushes are mellower. I feel pleasant and at peace. The firewood crackles comfortingly. The shadows lengthen as the sunlight becomes lateral. The sky glows a slightly darker shade of cobalt.
But something is happening in the forest. Something terrible. The sound of the little folk making merry with some cruel sport. I enter. I can hear Iggy’s inane giggling and a violent sound of breaking glass. Then a thump, thump, thump sound of wood striking a metal panel.
It takes me a few seconds to take in the scene. In a clearing at the end of the forest track are Iggy and Xalbador. They are both stripped to the waist like savages and smeared in places with black paint. Xalbador has a fence post gripped between his hands and is bringing it down in a violent rhythm upon the front end of a saloon car. Iggy is standing on the roof, leaping up and down like a monkey as he splashes the paint from a tin over the vehicle. The car is dark green with a white bonnet. Along the side are inscribed an emblem and two words. I take a moment to focus my eyes: GUARDIA CIVIL.
I fall to my knees, my stomach fills with fear, but worse than ever before, an insane dread, the dread of something evil and out of kilter with the rational universe. This cannot be happening. Why is this happening? Why did he have to do this? Why did he have to ruin everything? He is tripping, yes, but I can detect the madness in his eyes beneath the chemicals. The madness that got his wee brother killed, a tragedy that in turn awoke the same madness in Iggy like a genetic chain reaction. Sent him into a spiral of guilt and self-destruction, all hidden under the guise of the pursuit of fun and anarchy. Hidden from everyone but me, that is. I look at him giggling like an eejit, and a wave of the darkness descends; a living force, swelling within my limbs, mocking me with the extent of my friend’s ability to wreak self-havoc. And I feel a sickness, a terror in the pit of my being, the inability to contemplate my losing him. Suddenly he slips on the wet paint and falls on his arse, slides down the windscreen and lands on top of Xalbador in a heap. The two of them are hysterical with laughter. Eventually Iggy composes himself. I stand up and somehow manage to light myself a cigarette.
“It’s the Miracle of Gorbals Cross all over again!” Iggy announces gleefully.
Xalbador is grinning like a devil, his beady eyes flickering beneath his stupid tinted spectacles. I could gladly go up and tear them off his face and stamp them into the dirt.
“Miracles don’t strike twice ya balloon!”
“Don’t worry – Xalbador knows a joint where he’s gonnae dump it. Thump it – bump it – clump it – dump it.”
Machine-gun laughter from Xalbador as he glances up from daubing Basque slogans on the car, looking like a malevolent clown.
“Is this acid no amai-zing Tim?” enthuses Iggy. “I’m gonnae get a hold of some back in Glasgow. ’Cause it’s the FUCKING BERRIES!”
“Iggy. You’ve fucked us. You’ve really fucked us.”
“Come on Tim, the polis here are fascist bastards. We’ve made a political act! In fact – political art! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!”
I go over to Xalbador, grab him roughly by the shoulder.
“You, ya bampot. Did you put him up to this?”
“My friend – ”
“DID YOU?”
“Oh f-f-f-f-f-fuck!” Mark too has followed the commotion to its source.
“You have surpassed yourself this time Iggy,” I say. “You have fucked it for us.”
“Fucked what?”
“Lisbon.”
My legs are turning to jelly. Thoughts suddenly spinning out of control, the darkness threatening to overwhelm me. I expect to see policemen and demons loom out of the shadows towards us.
“Oh, f-f-fuck,” says Mark, pacing up and down.
“Ach, give us peace,” says Iggy. “We can dump it further into the woods or off a cliff. They’ll no know it was us that knocked it.”
“Are you kidding? Five foreigners just happen to be in a wee village and a fucking polis car goes missing. They will read this with their eyes closed.”
“Oh, f-f-fuck,” says Mark.
“Will you stop fucking saying that!”
We congregate around the fire, the others drifting out of the woods like lepers. I tell Xalbador to get to fuck. I comfort Mark with whisky, coax him away from the darkness. A slight squall rises and we bed down, close our eyes, try to ignore the weirdness, and drift off to sleep.
~~~
I listen to the chirping of the crickets and the soft rustle of the leaves in the trees. The warm night air wraps around me like a blanket. I gaze out towards the sea and see the lights of an ocean liner glinting in the pitch darkness. I am tired from the flight, but tiredness does not always mean sleep for me, particularly this week. If only I could turn my mind off, close my eyes and not open them again until the alarm clock sounds in the morning. If only it were that simple. One a.m. has been and gone. I have done my night patrol three times already, stalking the corridors, listening for any signs of life. But the boys are asleep. They know better than to pull any tricks this week, the biggest week of their lives. Then I hear a shuffling sound from above. My antenna twitches. I lean over the edge of my balcony and look up. I can make out a head poking over the edge, breathing in the night air.
“Who the fuck’s that?”
“It’s me, boss, Jimmy. I can’t sleep.”
“What’s up, Jimmy?”
“I’m worried, boss. Every time I close my eyes I can see all the great Inter players in my mind. Then I run through all their names in my head. Facchetti, Burgnich, Mazzola. These guys are absolute stars, boss.”
“You’re right, Jimmy. They are stars. They have been there and done it. But it doesn’t mean that they will do it again. Here’s a wee exercise for you. Every time you close your eyes and think of those guys, picture one of your team-mates. So every time you imagine Facchetti ploughing up the flank, think of big Gemmell belting up the other side. When you think of Cappellini or Corso sniffing around our box, think of Stevie hovering, ready to pounce on any slip-up at the other end. Then, think of Burgnich. Think how close he is going to get to you. So close you’ll be able to smell his aftershave. But think about spinning away from him, leaving him trailing in your wake. I’m not saying they don’t have great players, Jimmy, but look at what we have got. Is there one player in our team that you don’t totally trust and believe in?”
“You’re right, boss. We’ve got everything. You know me, I’m just a worrier. I’m just concerned we won’t get what we deserve.”
“Jimmy, only worry about the things you can control. Football is unpredictable. They’ll get breaks, so might we but we can’t control any of that. We can control how we want to play.”
“I’m just so desperate to do well, myself, boss. It’s completely taking over my mind. I really wa
nt this to be my stage. I want people to remember this game and remember how I played in it. That may sound selfish, but it’s what my game is all about. I take people on. These boys are all about stopping players like me. They aren’t interested in anything else. I know I’m good, but I can’t take on a whole team myself.”
“I’m not asking you to, Jimmy. This game is not all about you. Sometimes, even for the real individual talents like you, it is about contributing to the team in other ways. Remember that every time you pull Burgnich away from his area, you have started to disrupt their system. And if they haven’t got their system then they haven’t got anything. If you manage to pull their defence out of position, it creates space for other players. I’m not asking you to take on their eight-man defence. Think about it like a dam. Every time you pull them out of position, you punch another little hole in that dam. It may take a while for that dam to burst, but something will have to give at some point.”
“Aye, you’re right boss. I’m just so used to being the man who is relied upon to do something different. It’s hard, y’know?”
“Here’s a question for you wee man. What do you remember about the Scottish Cup final against Dunfermline a couple of years back?”
“Well, the first thing I remember is big Billy smashing home that winner. What a feeling. I remember the Celtic fans going absolutely mental. And I remember thinking that maybe things were starting to turn.”
“What else do you remember?”
“I remember Bertie scoring twice to bring us back into the game. We played well that day, boss. I remember being proud of us, even though I wasn’t playing myself.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what I remember. I remember thinking that we were starting to go places, that the team really turned a corner that day. I remember feeling really proud, too. But if you asked me for one moment in that game, it wouldn’t be big Billy and it wouldna be wee Bertie. It would be John Clark clearing a ball off the line when it was 2-2. I remember Dunfermline’s John McLaughlin beating John Fallon to the ball and thinking: ‘Shite, we’re done for now.’ Then I remember Luggy hoofing it clear. I can’t describe the relief I felt in that moment. And at the final whistle, as everyone ran over to Billy to celebrate, I grabbed Luggy and gave him a bloody big bear hug. I told him I’d never been so glad to see a man on the line in my life. The next morning, I bought all of the papers and I spread them out on the coffee table. Big Billy’s face grinned out at me from the back pages. I read all the match reports. You know, some of them didn’t even mention Luggy’s clearance. Not one fuckin’ tiny reference to it. It was as if it never happened. It had been forgotten about. But I hadn’t forgotten. And I knew Luggy wouldn’t either. I knew he’d be sitting in his house with his feet up, looking at his medal and happy with playing his part in a job well done. And I said to myself: ‘That’s the type of player that every team needs.’ So when you’re running your socks off and keep bumping into big Italians, just keep reminding yourself that you are doing your bit and that your team-mates appreciate it.”
“Aye you’re right, boss. It helps me to think about it like that. I’ll need to be patient. The whole team will need to be. Anyway, all this talk of dams bursting has left me desperate for a pee, so I’ll leave you to it! And try and keep the noise down, I need my beauty sleep.”
“Away, ya cheeky wee bastard!”
Silence descends once more. I shake my head and smile. The wee man. I may sound like the voice of calm and reason, but anxieties prey on my mind, too. Hence the reason I’m standing on my balcony in the middle of the night. Maybe myself and the wee man have more in common than I would like to admit. But it is not only shared anxieties that bond us. It is the fact that, in the heat of battle, they will all disappear. When it arrives, we will be ready to seize the moment. That’s what we both want just now – the moment to come, the battle to commence.
The final bend in the road.
Day Six
Wednesday, May 24th, 1967
Breakfast at the Palacio Hotel. The sun is shining, Jimmy Johnstone is singing and all is right with the world. The players are loving it, the waiters are cracking up.
“Go on yersel’ wee man!” shouts Bertie Auld as holidaymakers at nearby tables look up from their plates of croissants. There is a relaxed mood in the camp. The Press and some fans drift around the lobby, chatting to the players. A few of the boys are tucked away in the shade beside the pool, immersed in a card school. And me? I am in the thick of it, playing the part of the ringmaster.
“I hope Celtic are getting a cut of the collections at 10 o’clock Mass,” I tell the Press men. “I hear the takings are up 50 per cent!”
Gales of laughter billow around the hotel.
“I hear there’s a game on tomorrow,” Sean whispers to me.
I smile. Sean knows how carefully I have worked to create this atmosphere.
“Keep them relaxed, keep the mood light,” I told him and Neilly every day for a week before we arrived. The plan is working perfectly.
As I sit in the lobby, watching for anyone doing anything they shouldn’t be, I catch the peals of laughter, the raised voices and the arguments.
“You’re at the cheatin’ . . . show us your hand then!”
Bluff and counter-bluff. These players hate losing. Even at cards. Their competitiveness never far from the surface.
Everyone is relaxed. Well, not everyone. Another sleepless night for me. Eyes out on stalks. Every ounce of tension that is banished from the players is absorbed by me. I laugh and I joke and I play the part, but behind the mask there are concerns, doubts, worries, fears. If the confidence is real then so are the anxieties. There is no conflict between the two. That is life. I am only human. The confidence that courses through my players stems from many things; from their relationship with success, from self-belief but also from their youthful ignorance. They are young men on the brink of an achievement that will live forever in the history books. They do not realise the full significance of the occasion. And I do not want them to. I want them to play with their usual carefree expression, unburdened by the weight of history.
But, for me, it is different. For me, the journey has been too long, the sleepless nights too many to fail to appreciate the significance of this moment. No British club has ever won the European Cup. By God, no club from northern Europe has won it! We can become the first. An achievement that would live forever, that would be a source of pride for generations.
Tactics occupy my mind more than anything. This is my greatest challenge. How to break down an eight-man defence? I know how I will approach it. I am confident that it will work, but I cannot guarantee anything. I have watched Inter strangle the creative juices out of great teams before.
The players know their jobs. Jimmy Johnstone and Bobby Lennox will play centrally in an effort to draw their markers with them. Wallace and Chalmers will take turns of dropping deep and drawing the centre-backs out of position. It will be a thankless task but their endeavours will hopefully allow us to hurt them on the wings. The focus will fall on Auld and Murdoch to feed the full-backs, Gemmell and Craig. It will be a game of tactical chess. We are capable of executing the plan to perfection, but they have the grandmaster. Helenio Herrera. The image of the Inter boa constrictor will haunt me until the final whistle blows tomorrow.
~~~
The seabirds herald a beautiful morning yet trepidation hangs over the camp like a pall. I go for an invigorating dip in the ocean. As I walk back I can feel the blood coursing through my veins. The boys are all busying themselves with various chores. We have lived months in five days. All of this – packing, driving, stopping for the night, unpacking, waking, packing again, then hitting another unfamiliar open road; its very unfamiliarity is normality to us now. Five previously untravelled boys are now hardened veterans of the highway.
A figure at the edge of the woods. We all look up, apprehensively. It is Angelu.
“The police, they have arrested Xalbador,” she tells us pla
intively. “On suspicion of stealing the police vehicle.”
“Fuck ’im,” I mutter, under my breath.
“They’ll be searching the woods soon,” says Rocky. “Better get to the garage and see about the Zodiac.”
“I’m going to leave you now,” says Angelu.
“Why not hang around with us for a bit,” protests Eddie. “We’ll look after you.”
She walks over to Eddie. Takes his hands in hers. Looks into his eyes.
“No. I am known to the Guardia. If they see me in your company it will make things bad for you.”
She kisses him goodbye. We make our farewells and I watch Eddie as he watches her clamber back up to the tree line and out of sight forever. His expression is sad, yet determined. I half-expect him to grab a drink but he doesn’t.
We finish gathering our things together and then walk towards Ispaster. We approach the village like a gang of outlaws in a Western, our nerves fretted with tension, camping gear chinking like spurs, the sun already beating down fiercely.
At the garage an enamelled 7-Up sign flaps in the slight breeze. A puddle of hosewater smells sweet and damp as it evaporates in the sunshine. A mower chatters in the near distance. Other than that the place is silent.
“It’s quiet. Too quiet,” says Iggy with movie gravitas.
“We’re out in the open now,” I say. “You boys head to the cantina and act natural. Rocky and me will find out what’s going on with the car.”
We go round to the back of the garage and find the proprietor in his tiny office. By pointing at the map and the clock he conveys that his brother will arrive from Bilbao at 10 o’clock with the throttle cable. He doesn’t mention a missing police car and his brother arrives more or less on time. The part is fitted straightforwardly and at a low cost, and by half-10 we are delighted to be back on the road, the tension finally starting to recede.
The acid has all but worn off; only a slight afterglow remains. Mark seems a bit pensive. The others seem to be hooked upon the humour of the whole experience, which I find a wee bit disappointing. I feel as though I have crossed the Rubicon. I don’t know how or why but I know that nothing is ever going to be the same again.