by Martin Greig
Jimmy nods. “I’ll do it, boss.”
I have decided to give the team-talk before we leave for the stadium. I want their minds clear when we get there. I look at their faces and feel a surge of pride.
“I am going to keep this short because everyone in this room knows what this occasion is all about. Every achievement boils down to one key moment, one big occasion which decides who is the winner and who is the loser. But let me just say this. It has been a wonderful season. We have won every competition we have entered. We are already winners. Now we have the opportunity to make it an even better season. This can be a season that we can all look back on with great fondness. It can be the best season of our careers. We have a chance to make history. The opportunity is there for each and every one of you to be remembered forever. We know about all the great players of the past. We don’t want to live with the legends, we want to become legends ourselves. Just remember when you take that field that I am proud of you all and trust you to meet the challenges ahead.”
~~~
We walk to Rossio Square where the troops are congregating for a bevvy and a sing-song. A massed sidey breaks out. Twenty-five-a-side; Scots, Portuguese, some Inter fans. Yank sailors and tourists – Jerries, Spaniards, French, English, Aussies, Japs – stop to watch. Today, Lisbon is the centre of the world. I take it easy and view proceedings from the shade with a cheese baguette and a lemonade. It is hot. So hot.
I tell the boys I need to buy some fags but really I’m making a beeline for a post office I had noted earlier.
Inside I nod at a seated row of aged Portuguese women who smile pleasantly back at me, then chatter approvingly to one another, presumably about how impressive these northern interlopers to their city have proved to be.
There is no queue for the telegram booth.
I take the blank form from the clerk. I pick up the little pencil and carefully copy my cousin Nicky’s London address in block capitals. Then I write:
FAO Mlle Delphine Marie Robin
STOP
September is coming soon
STOP
Yours
STOP
Timothy Mario Lynch
I pay the requisite number of escudos, then leave and rejoin the boys.
It is time.
We decide to go to the ground on foot. My head hurts less now and the saltwater nausea has passed; just a wee bit weak-feeling.
“Mr Stein.”
“Aye, lad.”
“This is it.”
“It is that, aye.”
“What will you tell them?”
“To enjoy themselves.”
“Just that?”
“Only that. Everything else is in place. They have the belief; they know they can do it. It’s up to the players, now.”
“And for me?”
“Everyone reaches a point in their life when they have to stand up and be counted. A crossroads. A life-changing moment. When it comes along, seize it with both hands. Step into the brave new world.”
“Mr Stein. Just one last thing.”
“What’s that, son?”
“Thanks.”
“What for?”
“For taking us to the stars. No matter what happens out there today, thank you for showing us the stars.”
“Tim! Tim! Tim!”
“Eh?”
“You’re away with the fairies.”
“Och, sorry Rocky. What’s up?”
“You’ve never told us.”
“Told you what?”
“What your favourite-ever Celtic game is.”
“Och, that’s easy. Scottish Cup final, April 25th 1965. Celtic 3 Dunfermline 2. The Big Man’s first trophy as Celtic manager – Celtic’s first trophy since 1957!”
A vivid image of Hampden on that glorious day comes into my mind.
“Stein had shown that he was a force to be reckoned with in the same fixture in ’61, when his Dunfermline side done us to win the cup after a replay.
“In ’65 they led from early on, but after about half an hour Charlie Gallagher cracked a pile-driver from outside the box. The baw hit the bar, spun up in the air, and wee Bertie was waiting to head it in. But just before the break Dunfermline went ahead again, after some shite defending at a free-kick.
“The spirit in that second half was all about Big Jock. First, Auld got his second; a cracker after a one-two with Lennox. 2-2. There was something strange about the atmosphere now as the game raged from end to end. We all roared the team forward; we sensed that something had changed, that something was different now.”
I suddenly feel self-conscious and look at the boys. They are hanging on my every word so I continue.
“And so it proved. In the 82nd minute, Cesar rose majestically to meet a Gallagher corner. He seemed to hang in the air for an eternity, just waiting to connect with that baw and send it crashing into the net. We all celebrated like crazy, not just because we had scored a goal that would win a cup, but because we knew the significance of that goal. After years in the shadow we had finally stepped into the light again.”
There is a reverent silence, only the sound of our marching.
“Well telt Lynchy,” says Rocky. “Here, have a daud of this fizzy wine.”
I get torn in, sickly sweet, my first bevvy of the day. Hope the bubbles aren’t premature.
“You know the queerest thing of all?” says Eddie.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“The team that played then – in ’65, and even before then. Most of them will play today.”
“Aye,” says Iggy. “We had the players but we were shite. Except we weren’t shite, no really.”
“Aye, everyone knew we had potential,” says Rocky. “Maybe no how much, but we knew we had potential.”
“All it took was Big Jock to unlock it,” I say.
~~~
The road to Lisbon. It rarely runs straight. The greyness of the morning has given way to glorious sunshine. The atmosphere is buzzing as we board the bus at 3pm.
Hail, Hail the Celts are here . . .
The boys are in fine voice. Myself and Sean sit at the front of the bus. Time passes and then someone points out that the traffic is moving in the opposite direction.
“I think we might be going the wrong way,” says Sean.
I grab the driver by the shoulder.
“Estádio Nacional,” I say, pointing in the opposite direction.
He looks at me blankly.
“Estádio Nacional, that way,” I shout, gesturing to the hundreds of cars travelling the opposite way.
The driver looks sheepish as he pulls over and prepares to cut back on himself.
“The biggest day of our lives and this fuckin’ idiot is driving us in the opposite direction,” I say to Sean.
The players have noticed.
“Boss, what’s up? Are we lost?” shouts Jimmy, stopping mid-chorus.
“Lost? Are you joking? This kindly fellow has just taken us the scenic route. He wanted to show off his fine city to us visitors. In fact, why don’t we all give him a cheer.”
The players stamp their feet and burst into another chorus of The Celtic Song. Sean looks at me and laughs.
“Nice one.”
“Aye, well let’s hope we make it in time, Sean. This traffic is murder.”
The minutes tick past. Four o’clock comes and goes. The singing is louder up the back of the bus. My heart is pounding. I ask Sean the time again.
“It’s two minutes later than the last time you asked me.”
“Christ, Sean, it’s less than 90 minutes to kick-off.”
“I don’t think the boys are particularly worried, Jock.”
“Boss,” shouts Bobby Murdoch. “Put it this way, they can’t exactly start without us, can they!”
Another deafening cheer and a chorus rises up as I sit down in my seat and try to disguise my anxiety with a smile.
The stadium is a reassuring and inspiring sight. I feel the hairs on my neck r
ise as the concrete giant looms into view. The Celtic fans, strung along the main drag to the ground, part like the Red Sea when they see us approaching. Their songs fill the late afternoon air.
We’re gonna win the cup, We’re gonna win the cup.
Jimmy bangs the window in recognition as we speed past. Not a shred of tension. Apart from me. I straighten my back against the seat, feel the dampness on my shirt and become aware of a slight feeling of nausea. I fix my gaze straight ahead. Please, please, let’s get this game started.
~~~
The approach to the Estádio Nacional is wooded with eucalyptus trees. A pleasant mini-forest walk. The air is fresh here, strange for inside a city. I am wearing a crisp, white short-sleeved shirt I saved for the day, a fake-silk Celtic scarf, and I have a bottle-green V-necked jersey tied round my waist. I must look a sight; my bandages are crowned by the top hat I bought in Salamanca, replete with green-and-white ribbons. As we climb the slight ascent I look over my shoulder to witness the tide of humanity behind me, making the last leg of this great pilgrimage. The fans are too nervous to sing. But I feel kind of at peace.
“Do yous realise it’s a new cup?” asks Rocky. “I mean, the actual trophy itself. They let Real keep the original one last year.”
“Aye,” says Iggy. “It’s a new shape and everything. It’s ginormous.”
“I hope this heat isn’t gonnae affect our boys too much,” says Eddie.
“Aye, and Inter will be u-u-used to it,” says Mark, his brow furrowed. He nervously fumbles with a cigarette. I reach over and light it for him.
“Mark. It’s gonnae be okay.”
He smiles thinly.
Iggy is wearing a kilt he scored out of Paddy’s Market. Christ alone knows what tartan it is. On his chest he wears a white T-shirt with the words JOCK STEIN scrawled in childish lime-green crayon. Eddie wears his suit with collar and tie, and is draped in our Eire flag. Mark is wearing a green-and-white hooped jersey, onto which is pinned a giant Celtic rosette. Rocky is wearing flannels and a green-trimmed tennis shirt he had saved for the occasion; his trilby and shades make him look like a movie star.
Iggy, Mark, Eddie, Rocky. I feel a wave of tenderness for them. Yet I feel a sense of sadness because our time together is passing. And then I remember what I had said to Eddie three days earlier, about Celtic always being there for us, as a focus for our love no matter how well or badly they are playing, providing us with a sense of identity no matter what else changes in our lives.
I think of the enormity of the task that faces us. Internazionale. La Grande Inter. The Nerazzurri. Their third final in four years. Twice winners.
But somewhere out of the darkness must come light. My generation coincided with Celtic’s worst period. Yet they still occupied a special place at the edge of my imagination, as a powerful, strange force that always somehow held the promise of a sense of meaning. And now, incredibly, that promise finally threatens to be delivered. So savour this moment. Remember this place. Remember the way it looks and sounds and smells. Remember the way the moment feels. Savour it when life gets tough. Because if this can happen – if a football team that contains Catholics and Protestants, a set of players who all hail from the Glasgow area, a club set up to feed the hungry children of despised immigrants – if they can become champions of Europe, then anything is possible.
I take out Barney’s St Anthony medal. Kiss it.
Estádio Nacional is downright odd. In fact, it is beautiful. An entire side of it is simply open space, but for a temporary stand erected for the occasion, making for a sense of the surrounding forest encroaching in. Beautifully manicured hedges and shrubs are landscaped into the arena. The ends sweep away majestically from the main stand. It is constructed of pale stone and marble, and is like a benign Roman amphitheatre. The pitch is like a bowling green, the turf looks lush. The precious match tickets, priceless at 10 shillings, so carefully stowed away, dog-eared and grimy from being checked and double-checked a hundred times, are produced. 4.21pm. Just over an hour until kick off. In we go.
The Celtic fans inside have rediscovered their gallusness, aided no doubt by the sale of bottles of lager and carafes of cheap Portuguese tinto. We get a double round in, and Eddie, Iggy and Mark also buy some of the paper sunhats scores of our fellow fans are wearing. They look like merry Glaswegians crossed with Chinamen. We walk round to take up our positions in the southern end of the ground, about halfway up the terrace, slightly to the eastern side. As we climb the steps we meet more and more folk we know from back home. Everyone seems to have developed a skill for arts and crafts. Novelty green-and-white stovepipe hats, replica trophies, club shields, giant rosettes – all fashioned from coloured foolscap and card, foil and crepe paper. There are all sorts of flags. Some fans wear bunnets and woollen tammies, just like you would on a January trip to Dens Park – they must be roasting! The Inter fans have air horns and seem to occupy most of the temporary stand, which they have draped with enormous black and blue banners covered in slogans. There are hundreds of dignitaries, occupying the temporary stand and the area round the plinth in the main stand.
The vividly lined running track is a constant hubbub of activity. It is patrolled by stewards in berets and boiler suits, and policemen in peaked caps and smart, braided uniforms. Handicapped guys putter in on little motor trikes and photographers grab the best positions behind the goals.
We are chatting nervously, singing, chanting. In front of us are a few boys from Duntocher who are wearing sombreros. They have palled up with a bunch of amiable Portuguese fellows who seem totally taken with all things Celtic. Behind us is a church group – male and female – from Wyndford, led by a young curate. There are lads from Ireland to the left, and kilted boys from Barra to the right, brandishing a beautiful big saltire. These are the strangers we will share the most significant 90 minutes of our lives with.
The main stand is to our left, the tunnel opens in the ground behind the faraway goal, the benches are to our right, in front of the temporary stand. The team comes out briefly. A roar of approval. John Clark points as he chats to Tommy Gemmell. They seem truly stunned by the number of us who have made the journey. They wave at us as they return to the dressing room. They love us. We love them.
I think of my cousin Nicky watching the television pictures, probably with Barney and the other Irishmen at the pub in Camden. Maybe Albie, Austin, Barbara and Margaret-Mary will be with him. I think of Scots and the Irish diaspora all over the world tuned in on televisions and wirelesses. I think of Da back home. Of everyone back home, but especially Da. He’ll be sitting there in his favourite chair, his eyes sparkling, a wee dram in his hand, a grandchild on his knee. He’ll be delighted by the novelty of the television set, quietly thrilled at the magnitude of the event. He’ll be fussing, making sure everyone is comfortable, has a drink, can see the screen. He’ll have read the bit about Lisbon in his tattered old encyclopaedia. He’ll be looking out for me. He’ll pretend to himself and the assembled that he caught a glimpse of me, shout my mother through from the kitchen.
“Teresa! Teresa! I’m sure I just saw our Timothy! I’m sure it was him!”
Everyone will play along, just to keep him happy.
I’ll see you soon, Da.
~~~
It is 4.40pm when we arrive. Fifty minutes till kick-off. The diversion has worked in our favour. It has given the players less time to think. They stroll into the stadium, up the tunnel and onto the pitch. A quick wave to the Celtic fans then back into the changing room. I leave them to their own devices, let them relax and enjoy each other’s company in these crucial moments. As they change, I slip outside and hand the referee our team-lines.
“Where’s Inter’s?” I ask.
He shrugs.
“It’s your job to get them,” I shout. “We are not taking the field until we have seen their team-lines.”
He scuttles off. Five minutes later, he arrives clutching a sheet of paper. I scan the names. My heart leaps. Suarez i
s out.
Suarez is oot, Suarez is oot, Suarez is oot.
Luis Suarez. A £124,000 signing from Barcelona in 1961. A world-record transfer: signing-on fee said to be around £60,000, annual wage around £7,000; arguably the greatest playmaker in the world. A superstar, but a superstar with a thigh strain. A thigh strain that I suspected was a ruse by Herrera. “He’ll play, he’ll play,” I kept telling the boys. I called that one wrong.
I hand the sheet back to the referee.
“Thank you for doing your job. And I hope you have taken notice of what just happened here. The game’s not even started and they are trying to bend the rules. You need to watch them closely; because, be sure of this, I’ll be watching you just as closely.”
I turn away. Smile. Suddenly, I feel the tension ebbing away. I take a moment and listen to the Celtic fans in the stadium singing their hearts out. I feel the warm sun on my neck and, for the first time in days, weeks even, I relax properly. Tactics sorted. Players ready. The stage is ours. I glance at my watch. 5.10pm. I walk into the dressing room. I casually swing my foot at a bit of mud on the floor. Then I stand in front of them. The room goes silent. Then I speak. No fist-pumping, no battle cries, just simple words spoken from the heart.
“Right, lads. You’ve made history. Go out and enjoy yourselves.”
The players leap to their feet, more ready than they will ever be.
The darkness. The darkness of the mines. The darkness that envelopes everything, that seeps into your soul and claims a part of you forever. The hand goes out. Taps the man next to you. Comradeship.
The tunnel stretches before us. The air is cooler down here. It is dark but there is light ahead. Glorious sunlight. I watch the shafts pouring in, illuminating the concrete steps. I look down the line. Impatience. Jimmy is hopping excitedly from one foot to another. Big Billy twists his neck, loosening up. Bertie looks like a caged animal. Then they appear, gliding past like prize thoroughbreds entering the paddock. They do not so much as look at us. Do not acknowledge our presence. The strip. That famous strip. Blue and black vertical stripes. Football royalty. Hair slicked back, muscles oiled. Slow and purposeful movements. The battle lines drawn.