The Road to Lisbon

by Martin Greig

  What do they need to know? The years of praising, encouraging, criticising, fighting; all the different elements that went into forging this team, have come down to this one moment in time. The work has been done. There is nothing left to be said, or at least nothing that will fundamentally change the character of the 11 men who will take the field tomorrow.

  Maybe I should just speak from the heart. No mind games, no chest-beating; just let them know what I think of them. My team. My wee team. I pick up my pencil and turn the notepad on its side. I write five letters in big, bold capitals. I tear out another leaf and write another five-letter word. I stick them to the mirror.

  PRIDE TRUST

  Players need to know what’s expected of them, but they also need to be in a frame of mind to execute it. A football manager is a mood-setter as much as a tactician. I need to step inside the players’ minds and make sure they are clear. Footballers like what they like. Sometimes, they like what they like a bit too much. That is where my spies come in. But they are grown men and must be treated as such.

  After dinner, I round the players up and take them for a walk. Off we go, out of the hotel and turn left up a country road which winds into the far distance. We hit a good pace. As I look behind and see the players strung out behind me, bantering away, not a care in the world. The Pied Piper of Parkhead, I trail them further into the countryside. We reach the abode of Brodie Lennox, a Scottish businessman and golfer who has been in Portugal for years. He had extended an invite to the whole squad to visit if we wished to get a break from the hotel. Now seems the perfect time. What else are we meant to do, sit in our hotel rooms and let anxiety build?

  Lennox is the perfect host, giving the boys the full run of his villa, and letting them play snooker and watch the England v Spain international on the television. The night slips past and darkness falls. I’ve never seen the players look so relaxed but they also need proper rest, so we set off back to the hotel. Neilly offers to lead us back in the darkness.

  “Don’t worry, Jock, I’ve got a sixth sense when it comes to walking in the dark,” he says.

  “Nae bloody sense, more like.”

  A while later, as we make our way back along the country road, we spot the lights of the hotel to our right.

  “Boss, boss, there’s our hotel there,” shouts Jimmy.

  “Aye, but this is the road we came from so we should stick to it. We can’t go wrong if we do that,” I reply.

  Then Neilly chimes in.

  “The wee man’s got a point, though, Jock. The hotel is just there. I know a shortcut.”

  “Shortcut?” I splutter. “Neilly, I wish I had a shilling for every time you’ve led us round the houses on one of your bloody shortcuts!”

  “Aye, aye, I know Jock, but time’s cracking on. We want to get the boys to their beds before midnight. It’ll save us time, honest.”

  “Alright, alright, Neilly, but this is all on you. If anything happens, I’ll fuckin’ claim you.”

  So, off we go, creeping through the undergrowth, trying to find our hotel the night before the biggest game of our lives.

  “Ahhh, I think ah just stood on a badger!” shouts Jimmy to peals of laughter. I’m not laughing.

  I’m thinking about what Herrera and Inter are doing. They’ve probably had an early-evening team meeting, just to finalise tactics and go over one or two small details. Then they will have turned in, about two hours ago. Probably all sleeping soundly. Expecting and looking forward to victory tomorrow. Herrera might have stayed up for a bit longer, poring over his tactics one more time. He might have finalised his schedule for tomorrow. Every moment of the day planned to the most minute detail, none more so than the 90 minutes they will spend trying to suffocate us. He might be asleep by now. One thing’s for certain, he sure as hell won’t be leading his players on a midnight expedition in search of their bloody hotel!

  Suddenly, we halt.

  “What’s up Neilly, why have we stopped?”

  “It’s a fence, Jock. We’ll need to climb it.”

  “Christ Almighty, Neilly! Call this a fuckin’ shortcut?” I scream. “We’ve got a group of finely honed athletes with a big game tomorrow and you want them to climb a bloody fence!”

  “It’s no that big, Jock.”

  I can hear the players giggling like schoolkids in the pitch black behind me.

  “Right, looks like we’ve no bloody choice. But I’m first over. Neilly, give me a puddy-up.”

  Fifty yards later, we stop again.

  “Em, Jock, we’ve hit a wall this time.”

  I can feel my blood pressure rising. First a fence, now a wall!

  “And, em, there appears to be a bit of a slope on the other side,” he adds.

  “Neilly, if we get out of this intact, I’m gonnae murder you with my bare hands.”

  “Are you gonnae bring on the sponge when one of us gets injured tomorrow then boss?” shouts Jimmy.

  “Johnstone, I can’t see but I can hear you. You’re for the fuckin’ high jump, too.”

  I’m fuckin’ livid now. But the players are not even trying to hold in their laughter now. The angrier I get, the more they laugh.

  “Right. We can’t exactly back out now. So every one of yous be careful. If there’s one twisted ankle among yous I’ll have you shot like a lame racehorse.”

  I’m first over. Then the slope. I can’t see where I’m going so I hunker down and slither down it on my backside. I reach the bottom and can make out the vague outlines of the players dreepying down the wall.

  “Right. Everyone on their arses and slide down the slope. No-one try to run down it or I’ll fine you.”

  A chorus of whoops and yells follow as some of the greatest footballers in the world negotiate a slope in the pitch black the night before the European Cup final.

  “Right, is everyone okay?”

  “Yes, boss,” is the cry.

  “Okay, let’s get into the hotel. But one more thing – Neilly . . .”

  “Yes, Jock.”

  “Start running, because I’m going to murder you!”

  Neilly turns on his heel and takes off. I’m after him in a flash, bad ankle and all. After 50 yards, I give up and stop. All I can hear is the players’ laughter. Then it hits me, too. Wave after wave of laughter. And once I start I can’t stop. I’m hysterical now. Neilly trudges back and taps me on the shoulder. We embrace and then he starts laughing, too. We walk back into the hotel lobby, a bit muddy and with bits of grass sticking to our clothes, arms around each other’s shoulders, laughing like drains. Neilly turns to head for his room. Then he stops.

  “Boss.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve heard a rumour. There’s a game on tomorrow.”

  I hear his laughter tinkling all the way to his bedroom.

  But the pressure never leaves for long. When the laughter stops and the lights go out, it returns, like a storm cloud drifting back to obscure the blue sky. Temporary relief is all you can ever hope for in these situations. Anxiety is a strange condition. It creeps over you in unusual ways. Sometimes it throws problems into your mind, problems that don’t exist, others that do but are not worth spending time thinking about. It is scary, but experience teaches you to ignore these thoughts. Trust the ones that you know you can rely on. Trust yourself.

  Other times it is physical. A tightness in the chest, a shortness of breath, a cold sweat, a sense that the world is bearing down on you; that everyone is analysing you, judging you. They are. A team is an extension of the manager. This is my team and I will be judged on it. I slip under the sheets and glance at the mirror before I turn off my light.

  PRIDE TRUST

  ~~~

  The bar is a pleasant enough wee howff, intimate, smoky and softly lit by shaded lamps and candles set in empty port bottles. Its wood-panelled walls are decorated with maritime paraphernalia. Samba music plays on the wireless and the clack of billiard balls comes from an anteroom. Salazar smiles down at us from the gan
try with conditional beneficence.

  “You guys from Scotland?”

  “Aye.”

  A Yank sailor.

  “I was stationed at Holy Loch.”

  “Okay. So you’ll know Glasgow then?”

  “Yeah. A great place, my friend. My kinda town.”

  “That’s nice of you to say so, pal.”

  “Joe’s my name. I’m from Brooklyn, New York.”

  “Good to meet you Joe.”

  I buy him a beer and introduce the boys, chat about Glasgow for a while. Some other sailors amble through from the billiard room. Joe seems like a nice fellow, but one of his pals is drunk. A squat, tough-looking character with a round head. He chins Iggy.

  “What you wearing that button for, buddy?”

  Eddie intervenes.

  “It’s for peace, my friend. Means we’re against the war in Vietnam.”

  “You want to be ruled by Moscow?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Then why don’t you support the boys over there?”

  “We’ve got nothing against them, just against the war itself. The politicians who wage it.”

  “Yeah, well fuck you, pal.”

  “Hey, hey, Max, Max, Max. Take it easy buddy,” urges Joe.

  “Yeah. Listen to your pal, Max,” says Eddie.

  “Make me.”

  Max grips the pool cue he is holding with both hands, and shifts it over his right shoulder as though he is about to swing it at Eddie. Then Iggy does something that could be considered daft even by his standards. He withdraws something at double-quick pace and points it at Max. It is a stiletto knife. My mind flashes back to the hardware shop in Salamanca; he must have stolen it. At that moment, as I watch my wee pal with an inane grin on his face and a deadly weapon in his hand, a realisation dawns on me: Iggy will not see middle age. I have to give it up. I can’t protect him all the time. I can’t protect him from himself.

  “Time to let it go, Max,” says Rocky.

  Max glances round. Silence.

  “Looks like you’re facing the whole team, pal,” I say.

  “What team?”

  “The Cumbie,” I say. “Pure, mad, mental. And don’t you forget it.”

  I wink at Eddie and he grins at me.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something? There are only five of you, there are eight of us.”

  “Look, I’m telling you, this ends now,” says Eddie, calmly. “ ’Cause you are out of your depth. We will wipe the floor with yous.”

  Slowly, Max lowers the cue. We collect our fags and leave. Outside Iggy has to shout some smart-arse comment over his shoulder.

  “Away home, your mammy’s got your tea on.”

  “That’s enough, Iggy – shut your face! And how come you ended up with that chib?”

  “Big Vinnie asked me to get one for him. You can’t get them back home.”

  “Can I see it?”

  He produces the knife and hands it to me. I walk to the dockside and throw it in to the dark, silent water where the Tagus meets the mighty Atlantic.

  “What the fuck did you do that for?”

  “You don’t need to act the eejit all the time Iggy. Nobody blames you.”

  At that moment someone calls out, Iggy ducks and I am aware of a brief image of Max, his face contorted with rage. I hear a swish, then there is an explosion of light and pain inside my head. Now I am falling, falling . . .

  So this is drowning. This is what it feels like. A momentary pretence that it isn’t happening, then the rapid descent into a panicked struggle as the irresistible power of water, which it has carefully concealed from you all these years, suddenly becomes dreadfully apparent. The realisation that you aren’t going to escape, that you are going to become one of them, the prematurely deceased. The realisation that you weren’t anointed for greatness after all. Faces come to you. Da, Ma. My sisters. My nieces and nephews. Debbie. Delphine.

  I can see the Angel of Death. Sweet Jesus, have mercy on me.

  Then Rocky grabs you. Hauls you. Drags you. Saves you.

  Day Seven

  Thursday, May 25th, 1967

  Sunlight streams into the ward. The walls are painted baby blue, the bed sheets are crisp white and the place has a reassuring odour of bleach. My head throbs a bit, and I felt nauseous and dizzy when I got up to use the toilet earlier but the nurses don’t seem too worried. I can’t resist coaxing a smile out of one of them, a pretty African girl.

  Rocky comes in.

  “Alright?”

  “Alright?”

  “Thanks for saving my life.”

  “Don’t mention it. That stick was meant for Iggy. Joe and his pals say they are really sorry. So is Max. Apparently he has not long since lost a brother in Vietnam. He’s taken it really bad.”

  “Poor bastard.”

  A pause.

  “Rock.”

  “What?”

  “I just need to tell you. It’s . . . okay.”

  “What is?”

  “You and Debbie . . . getting together. I mean, one day. It’ll be okay by me.”

  He pulls up a chair and sits. Sighs as though a great burden has been lifted.

  “And it isn’t ’cause of . . . what you did. I had already decided it.”

  “I know.”

  “We’re getting older, Raymond. We’ve got to grow up. You realise that you will have to get out the Cumbie?”

  “Aye. Deep down I suppose I knew that you were right to get out. You are a fine man.”

  “And you are too. Except I never give you the credit. It’s just that . . .”

  “What?”

  “Things can’t be the same, between us. When you two are . . . together. We have to be realistic.”

  His eyes well up.

  “I understand,” he says, his voice breaking slightly.

  He looks sad. I mean a lot to him. At this moment, finally, I realise that he does to me too. He gets up to leave.

  “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

  “It’s one visitor at a time. The boys are waiting outside.”

  “Bugger that, I’m coming with you.”

  “Are you kidding? You’re in no fit – ”

  “Rocky. Celtic play in the European Cup final this afternoon. And I’ll drag myself there if it’s the last thing I do. We’re going to the gemme. All of us. Together.”

  He helps me up from the bed and I pull on my shoes.

  Corpus Christi. The priests’ vestments are brilliant white, in honour of the feast. Standing room only. Packed with Portuguese families, Celtic fans, the odd Milanese. Jack Palance, of all people, notices my bandage-swathed head, gives up his seat for me.

  Raise my eyes up to the big cross. No need for the words now. He knows what I mean.

  ~~~

  The road to Lisbon. It leads us to the altar. A wing and a prayer. I stand at the back of the room listening. To the silence. I look at the heads of my players bowed in prayer. I gaze at Father Bertie O’Reagan holding the host aloft. Ten o’clock Mass in the Palacio Hotel in Estoril. The Feast of Corpus Christi. A Holy Day of Obligation.

  I may not be a religious man but there is something moving about the rituals and the ceremonies involved in religious practice. If there is a God, and he has the power to determine something as insignificant as a football match, then surely he must be on our side! If there’s no deity, or he has bigger things on his mind than us beating Inter Milan, then there is still something powerful happening in this room. This time spent by the players – the Catholic ones, anyway – collecting themselves, focusing their minds, is invaluable. What better way to start the most important day of your life than with some moments of peace?

  The battle for hearts and minds has been won in the chapels, they tell me. Herrera’s attempts to get the locals to support Inter have fallen on deaf ears, swept away by a wave of piety. The Celtic supporters have all congregated in the plaza in the city centre, winning over the locals but it is their attendance
at Mass which has further endeared them. As a Catholic nation, the Portuguese locals have been impressed by the devotion of their Scottish visitors.

  The boys all go for an afternoon nap. I don’t even bother trying. A knot is forming deep in my stomach and my mind is beginning to race. I am sweating despite the cool, air-conditioned corridors of the Palacio. I go to the lobby and make the trunk call I had promised Jean. It is good to hear her voice. She can detect the strain in mine.

  “John, take care of yourself.”

  “Ach, I’m fine love.”

  I go up to my room and lay out my things. Suit, new for the occasion, crisp white shirt, polished shoes. Sunglasses, chewing gum, my faithful notebook.

  I strip and take a shower, the powerful jet of water temporarily blasting away my anxiety. I think back to my Albion Rovers days, standing shivering under a temperamental spray after a hard match. I think about how far I have come. I dry myself and dress, the nerves building again. I inspect myself in the mirror. Check my watch. Take a deep breath. Time to go downstairs.

  The players are feeling well rested when we all meet up before boarding the bus. I take Gemmell aside.

  “Tommy, this is a big day for you. You are up against Domenghini. He’s good. Lovely tricks and flicks but he’s lazy. He’s not interested in chasing back. If you push up the field, he’ll let you go. You’ll get more room today than you’ll have had against any team in the competition. Their system is all about snuffing out the threat middle to front, but it’s not designed to stop rampaging full-backs. This is a big day for you, son.”

  Gemmell beams from ear to ear.

  “You know me, boss. I never need a second invitation to get forward.”

  Jimmy is next for a quiet word.

  “We need you today Jimmy, more than we’ve ever needed you. But you’ll not get the space to attack the way you like. They know about you. You’ll have been the first name on Herrera’s chalkboard. ‘Stop Johnstone and we’ll stop Celtic,’ that’s what he will have told his players. I’m asking you to sacrifice yourself for the team. Keep on the move, constantly twisting and turning, dragging them out of position. It’ll be so frustrating at times. You’ll feel like greetin’, but keep the head up. Everything that you do will be making space for others. That’s the only way we can get through them, Jimmy.”