by Martin Greig
The road to Lisbon. It is blocked by the Guardia Civil.
“I’ll do the talking,” I tell the boys as I depress the clutch and begin gliding the Zodiac to a halt at the side of the road. “Hold your nerve fellas.”
“Shite, Iggy,” exclaims Eddie. “Your hands are covered in paint ya tube!”
“J-J-J-Just like Xalbador’s will be,” says Mark.
“Keep them hidden, but be subtle,” Rocky commands.
Two teal-uniformed cops approach the car, fingering their gun-belts. Oh fuck.
“Buenos dias, senors,” I say, with surprising confidence. “¿Usted habla inglés?”
One of the policemen shouts over to his superior, a tall, stern man, salt and pepper hair. He approaches the car, removes his aviators.
“Where are you going?”
“Lisbon.”
“What for?”
“To see the football. Celtic v Inter Milan.”
He is unimpressed.
“Did you spend the night in Ispaster?”
I know that he knows we did.
“Yes. On the beach.”
“Why?”
“Our car broke down.”
“Who did you have dealings with?”
“Well, there was the man who gave us a tow, there was the man in the garage, oh, and the barman in the cantina.”
“The man who gave you a tow. Is this him?”
He produces a mugshot of a younger Xalbador, moustachioed and with a thicker head of hair.
“Erm . . . yes. I think so. Salvatore I think his name was.”
“You,” the cop says, suddenly turning his attention to Iggy, who happens to be sitting at the rear window. “We believe this man is responsible for stealing an official car. You know anything about this?”
“No, officer. We just got a tow from him, then we bought him a beer in the little cantina. To thank him, like. Then we just kind of made our excuses and left.” I glance at Iggy in the rear-view, his face a perfection of innocent charm. “To be perfectly honest with you sir, we didn’t particularly like him. He was a bit of a bore.”
The cop begins chatting with his colleague in Spanish. I can’t pick out a word.
“Okay,” he says, turning to us and rapidly rapping on the roof of the Zodiac. “Get moving.”
I pull away, slowly exhaling in profound relief.
“Thank God!”
“Sweet Jesus!”
“I’ll say one thing for Xalbador,” says Rocky. “At least he didn’t grass us up.”
“I’m just glad Iggy has so much experience of chatting up the polis,” I say.
~~~
Sean pops his head round the door.
“He’s coming, Jock.”
“Who?”
“Herrera. He’s coming to Ibrox on Saturday. Thought you might want to know.”
Helenio Herrera. Meticulous, thorough; it was to be expected that he would want to see us in action before the final. What better time than in the league decider against our old rivals? We only need a point to win our second successive title. And so, amid the Old Firm chaos, he will be sitting, filling his notebook with every detail, pinpointing strengths, searching out weaknesses. Fuckin’ Herrera.
How much insight do I want him to gain? Maybe I should try to keep my cards close to my chest, send him back to Italy with an empty jotter; or at least a false sense of what kind of team we are. That would allow us to surprise Inter in the final. But it is risky. It would mean abandoning our usual style, asking the players to perform in a way that is alien. The disappointment I felt after our second leg against Dukla Prague is still fresh. We might get away with it once more, but I would hate to abandon my principles again, so soon after Prague. Anyway, our best chance is to play the way we always do, to attack them and to try to win the match. And this is no ordinary game. This is the league decider against Rangers at Ibrox. How sweet it would feel to clinch the league there.
We have come this far playing attacking football. We know it works. We have a cabinet full of trophies to prove it. Take Herrera out of the equation and there would be no debate. We would attack. If we play in our usual style, Herrera will undoubtedly return to Italy with a bulging file. He will take copious notes on Johnstone’s mazy runs, on Murdoch’s precision passes, on Gemmell and Craig’s lung-bursting overlaps. But he will also board the plane with more than a few worries. Our constant attacking will be sure to plant seeds of doubt in his mind. He will return with more than a few missing answers. So what will we do? We will attack, we will try to win the league and we will show Herrera what we are made of. I stand on the cinder track with my hands thrust into my overcoat, raindrops trickling down my neck and soaking my shirt. Behind me, the crowd throbs with anticipation. On the pitch, my players are ready, their pristine white socks and shorts standing out against the greyness and glaur of Ibrox Park. A scrum of photographers race up the track but as they draw level with me they keep going. Instead, they point their lenses into the main stand.
Sean whispers in my ear. “Herrera.”
I do not turn around. I do not acknowledge his presence. Fuck him. Simply another face in the crowd. Jimmy Johnstone looks over to see what all the commotion is about. I clench my fist then point straight at him. He winks. Rascal. The conditions make it difficult but we pour forward in search of the opening goal. Rangers attack us, too, and the match swings from end to end. Jardine scores after 40 minutes but we reply instantly through Johnstone. 1-1.
Jimmy Johnstone. The rain gets heavier and I look at him, socks at his ankles, looking like the runt of the litter, but he refuses to get bogged down. He is on his toes constantly, skating over the gluey surface. Then it happens. Seventy-four minutes. Chalmers takes a throw-in and finds Johnstone. He picks it up on the right and starts to make a beeline across the penalty area. I sense something is about to happen. I clamber out the dugout. He runs splashing through the mud. I am at the edge of the park now. I watch as he taps it out of his feet.
“HIT IT WEE MAN,” I scream.
And Jimmy hits it . . . boy does Jimmy hit it. The ball leaves his boot like a missile. I am in the air before it hits the net. Sean grabs me and we embrace. Suddenly I feel it all ebbing away, all the tension, the fear and insecurities. My shoulders slump and I feel as if a huge weight has been lifted off my shoulders. Roger Hynd equalises soon after and the game ends 2-2 but the league title is ours. The entire bench run on to greet the players but I remain on the touchline and shake every player’s hand as they come off. Then I turn, slowly, and look up. I scan the crowd a couple of times. Suddenly, I see him; staring straight at me, his face expressionless. Herrera. I meet his gaze and hold it for a few moments. Long enough to say: ‘Fuck you Herrera. I know you’re here. I’ve known all along. But it didn’t make any difference because this is about us, Celtic Football Club . . . and you’re next.’
I stop off briefly in the dressing room to add my congratulations to the players and head straight to the airport for my flight to Turin. Tomorrow I will take in the Juventus v Inter match and have my own chance to assess the opposition’s strengths and weaknesses. Unsurprisingly, Herrera’s offer to fly back with him on his private jet has been withdrawn, but I purposely never cancelled my original booking. Never try to kid a kidder, Helenio.
The next day Herrera is there to greet me, all smiles and backslaps. I, too, greet him like an old friend. He assures me that a car has been booked to take me to the stadium where there is a ticket left in my name. Neither materialises so I have to swing a Press pass. The Scottish Press boys are livid but I order them not to report a word of it.
“Mind games, boys, it’s all mind games. You can’t let things like that upset you. That’s playing into his hands.”
The game is stale, Inter camped behind the ball and Juventus finally winning by a solitary goal. The league title, secured in three of the preceding four seasons, could yet move to Turin if Inter lose to Mantova in their final game of the season, after Lisbon.
The
home fans are in full voice, the same refrain filling the night air over and over.
‘Vecchia Inter, vecchia Inter, vecchia Inter.’
“What does ‘vecchia’ mean?” I ask someone.
“ ‘Old’. The Juve fans are singing ‘Old Inter’.”
I smile to myself. Is the most sophisticated defensive system in the world a smokescreen for an ageing team? Do Herrera’s players sit behind the ball so much because they don’t have the legs to play the game in the opposition’s half?
“Vecchia Inter, vecchia Inter, vecchia Inter.”
~~~
The phone rings.
“Jock, it’s Bill Nicholson at Spurs here. I want to speak to you about buying Jimmy Johnstone.”
“Not interested, Bill. He’s part of my plans.”
“Oh, right, Jock . . . it was just that I heard on the grapevine a while back that you wanted him off your hands.”
“That was then, Bill, this is now. Thanks for phoning, but Jimmy is going nowhere.”
I put the phone down. Smile to myself. Poor Bill, six months too late. I have now accepted my fate.
Jock Stein and Jimmy Johnstone, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health.
A marriage made in heaven, but with frequent trips to hell and back. What the fuck have I taken on?
Just as well I like a punt. This is a player who I dropped from the Scottish Cup final victory over Dunfermline in April. On the day we ended the club’s trophy drought, Jimmy did not even get a kick of the ball. I had proved then he was not indispensable. If Bill had phoned me the morning after that victory, the answer might have been different. I might have packed his fuckin’ bags for him. I thought then he was a luxury, a player more content to do his own thing than be part of a team. Individuality is one thing, but greed another. He crossed that line too often for my liking.
But he gets under your skin, the wee man, he burrows his way into your affections. There’s the child-like enthusiasm, the vulnerability. What could he become with a firm hand and a shot of self-belief? Anything he wants, was the answer I arrived at. A manager is like a doctor. He is meant to make people better. It is impossible to change characters completely, but you can craft them, sand off the rough edges, polish them to a shine. A good manager is able to do all that. What he can’t do is give people talents they don’t possess. I could coach some players for a lifetime and they would never be able to lace Jimmy Johnstone’s boots. How to channel that talent into a team framework, that is the biggest challenge I face. It will not be easy, it may not even be possible. But I know one thing: if I pull it off, it will be my greatest achievement in the game.
What makes a top player? Skill, vision, consistency. Determination, too, but something more. Courage. Moral and physical courage. The courage to show for the ball when the chips are down, when it would be easier to drift out of the action, when the crowd are baying, ready to condemn, to abuse. Physical courage, too. The ability to absorb all kinds of punishment. Then, get back up and take it all over again . . . I watch him bounce back to his feet like an inflatable punch-bag, gravel stuck to his cheeks where he has been sent spinning onto the track. I watch him demand possession once more. I watch him make a beeline to beat the same player who has just kicked him. Courage.
But, lurking beneath that spirit, something else. A vulnerability, insecurity, an inferiority complex. He needs to feel valued, to feel loved. He needs attention. He needs the ball.
I watch him in games when he is starved of possession. I watch his shoulders slump and frustration kick in. Some players hang about on the fringes for 89 minutes and then win the game with a moment of magic. He is capable of that but it is not his character. He is impatient. He is irrepressible. He has the attention span of a goldfish. He wants to be central to everything. He wants the ball. He needs the ball.
I could have sold him. I didn’t. Now, if I was going to use him, I had to make him the centrepiece of the team. I had to throw my weight behind him completely, cash in all my chips, harness that talent in a way that had never been done before. It was all or nothing.
And so I tell the players: “Give it to Jimmy at every opportunity.”
Then I tell Jimmy: “You want the attention? You want the adoration? You want the glory? You want the ball? Well, son, now you’ve got it. Now you’ve got it all. Don’t fuckin’ waste it.”
~~~
By early afternoon Iggy is at the wheel and the leather upholstery of the Zodiac is scalding hot. The Kinks’ Waterloo Sunset gives way to a news report. I make out from the occasional understood word that war is impending in the Middle East.
Iggy lights a Woodbine from the one he has just smoked.
“For a kid who spent a year in a TB sanatorium you sure smoke a lot,” I tell him.
“Sorry mother.”
We have already made headway into Castille and León; we are well on the way to Salamanca. The powerful Ford chews up the miles, leaving slower drivers in our wake. Increasingly we come across members of the Celticade, and we pass them with much flag-waving and cheering.
Beetles, Imps, Minxes and Minis. Morris Minors, Morris Oxfords – even a rusty old Morris 10. An Austin Cambridge and a salmon-pink Somerset. Fords: Consuls, Zephyrs, Cortinas, Prefects and Anglias. The Vauxhall Velox and Victor. The Humber Sceptre and Hawk. A portly Wolsley 1500 and a stately 1560. A Simca, a Citroën, a Volvo, a couple of little Fiats. A Rover 2000, two Rover 80s. A two-toned (green and white!) Triumph Herald. Vans: Commers, Bedfords and Ford Transits. Motorcycles, sidecars and an E-Type Jag. A Leyland double-decker and several motorcoaches: three Albions, a Bristol, a Seddon – even an ancient Vulcan. Caravans and campervans – even an ice cream van!
“This has never happened before,” Eddie says wistfully.
“What?” I ask.
“This amount of folk going abroad to see a gemme.”
He’s right. Another first for Celtic. A sense of history. A sense that people will talk about this for years.
One convoy numbers at least 20 vehicles and pulls in at Valladolid, which allows us to pass. We overtake a VW camper van, custom-painted with peace signs and hippie imagery. The longhairs inside give us the thumbs-up and one of them waves an Irish tricolour at us. The dry and dusty road, straight and true beneath the vast Iberian sky. The shimmering horizon, the relentless sun; the purposefulness of our motion now, hurtling towards the edge of Europe, towards destiny, towards tomorrow.
Tomorrow. May 25th, 1967.
Mark is still quiet. I catch a glance of his dejected eyes in the rear-view. Poor boy; he must feel odd. Confused, maybe. I guess I feel a wee bit odd too, but nothing else. Need to cheer him up.
“Rocky. Your favourite-ever Celtic match.”
He steers with one hand and uses the other to light five fags.
“Only one contender and I wasn’t even at it. Hampden. October 19th 1957. Scottish League Cup final. Celtic v Rangers. I mind listening to it on the wireless. Seven past Niven. 7-1. Seven-one. Celtic goalscorers: Wilson 23, Mochan 44, McPhail 53, 69, Mochan 74, McPhail 81, Fernie 90 – penalty. The BBC commentator fucking choking as he described the fifth and sixth and seventh goals. Barely able to get the words out. The television division were worse. They tried to kid everyone on that they had – purely by accident of course – no recorded the second-half footage. No visual record for posterity. Aye, right. Queen Margaret Drive – no Catholics need apply right enough. My big cousins were at the match. There to witness history. Outside the cops whipped their legs with batons but the boys didn’t give a fuck. My big cousin Gerry – a poet of a man from County Sligo – told me how he just lay there on the deck smiling up at the bastards with a look that said: ‘You can number every one of my bones but nothing will alter what has happened here today. Paddy has just fucked you seven-one.’ ”
We eat fine tapas in Salamanca, take a little time to browse the shops, to check out the spectacular Renaissance architecture. The locals eye us with fresh familiarity; our species is k
nown to them now. I buy a battered old top hat from a second-hand store, and two lengths of ribbon – one green, one white, from a haberdashery. One hardware shop is of particular interest to the keen street-fighter. It is stocked with an assortment of awesome weaponry: airguns, swords, flick-knives, knuckledusters, machetes, truncheons, crossbows. The boys stand in silent wonder, dreaming of the kudos such arms would give them back home. Me, I’m glad to have left all that shite behind.
Iggy acts furtively, leaves suddenly; he’s up to something. I follow him outside.
“What’s the score?”
“Nuthin’.”
“What the hell are you up to Iggy?”
“I’m up to fuck all!”
He walks off in the cream puff to the next corner, lights a fag. I light one too. Gaze up at the cathedral. Feel bad.
“How are the preparations going Mr Stein?”
“Fine, lad. Our hotel in Estoril is right swanky. The players love it.”
“Mr Stein.”
“Aye, lad.”
“Sometimes I think I’m too hard on folk.”
“Nobody’s perfect, lad.”
“But I even think the worst of my pals, and they are very dear to me. I never seem to give them the benefit of the doubt. Then they do something great. Prove you wrong. Make you feel rotten to the core.”
“I’ll wager you have done some fairly great things yourself. You spoke about your father – are you a good son to him?”
“I think I am, now.”
“There you are then. We’ve all got our faults, lad. We need to work at them, aye, but in the grand scheme of things are they really that serious?”
“No . . . I suppose not.”
“We’re all wired in different ways. All we can do is to try our best lad, to overcome that. But sometimes we will fail. And when we do we must be gentle with ourselves.”