The Road to Lisbon

by Martin Greig

  “Jesus Christ, they look like film stars!” says Jimmy.

  “Is that big yin there no married to Sophia Loren?” chips in Bertie.

  The players laugh. Nervously.

  The wait continues. The tension building. Then it starts. Bertie leads it off.

  Hail! Hail! The Celts are here . . .

  The Celtic song.

  What the hell do we care now?

  Jimmy joins in, then Billy, then Stevie. Suddenly they are all at it.

  For it’s a grand old team to play for, for it’s a grand old team to see,

  And if, you know, your history

  Inter are looking at us now.

  It’s enough to make your heart go: o-o-o

  The walls are shaking now. My spine shivering, heart swollen, feet tapping.

  For we only know that there’s gonnae be a show, and the GLASGOW CELTIC will be there!

  Then at last we are off. The click-clack of studs on concrete. Up the stairs.

  Out of the darkness and into the light.

  As we get to the top of the stairs I shout to John Fallon.

  “John – claim the bench nearest the halfway line before them.”

  John sprints off down the touchline and plants himself on the bench. Inter are raging and tell John to move. John is not for moving. Quite right; we have been allocated the home bench. But Herrera and his back-room team are not letting it lie. They drag over the Portuguese police and demand that they move us but the local constabulary have clearly been converted to the green side.

  “No. This is Celtic!” they tell them, as myself, Sean and Neilly stroll up and take our seats, grinning broadly.

  I take in the vast arena. The pitch is lush and green, flatter than a bowling green. If we can’t play on this then we should give up. The sun is beating down but starting to lose the worst of its heat. Green and white as far as the eye can see. I think of the supporters who have travelled across land and sea; the sacrifices they have made, the friendships they have formed. This is a defining moment in their lives. This is their team. They feel a part of it. They are a part of it. We knew they would come but we didn’t know they would come in these numbers. This is an invasion. How can anyone not be inspired by this sight? The running track separates them from the action but, even before kick-off, it still feels like they are right on top of us, inspiring us, driving us on. The strips look different, incandescent in the sunlight, in contrast to Inter’s dark attire. Light versus dark; attack versus defence.

  ~~~

  Before we know it it’s 5.20. Some figures emerge from the tunnel, then the teams, the green and white of the Celtic strips brilliant in the late-afternoon sun. The black and blue of Inter is impressive, intimidating.

  “Look fellas – the flags!” says Iggy. All around the ground the Celtic fans have raised their colours above their heads as they welcome the players with a spine-tingling cheer.

  The teams slowly walk in two files into the centre of the pitch, led by the match officials. The gait of the Celtic players betrays strain, but determination, as though they can’t wait to get started. All except Jimmy Johnstone, who is fooling around, grinning and nattering as he gestures manically to the Inter players.

  “What’s Jinky giving it?” asks Eddie.

  “He’s taking the pish out of the Inter guys!” says Iggy. “Showing he’s no scared.”

  ~~~

  Jimmy is already noising up Giacinto Facchetti. I can’t hear what he’s saying but he’s tugging at his top and pointing at him. Maybe he’s saying, Take a good look because this is as close as you’ll get. Or, Does your mammy know you’re no coming home for yer tea tonight?

  He’s like me, is Jimmy. Itching to get started, for the phoney war to be over.

  ~~~

  The teams line up in a long single row.

  “Check all the photographers!” says Rocky.

  Billy McNeill and Armando Picchi take care of the formalities with the referee, Kurt Tschenscher.

  “Big Billy will command everything in the air, the Brush will deal with everything on the deck,” says Eddie.

  “Celtic are going to sh-sh-shoot away from us in the first half,” says Mark. “What time is it, Tim?”

  “It’s . . . 5.29.”

  The players begin to take up their positions. Inter will kick off.

  “Well boys, this, as they say, is it,” says Rocky.

  We all look at each other for a moment, rather at a loss at what to do. Then I shake Mark’s hand, then Eddie’s, then Iggy’s, then Rocky’s, saying, “Fellas, it has been a pleasure.”

  The boys respond likewise with warm handshakes all round. We turn towards the pitch. One moment in time. The whistle sounds.

  We are off.

  “Go on Jinky!” says Iggy. “Who’s the Inter number 2?”

  “Burgnich,” I say. “He’s going to shadow Jinky everywhere.”

  ~~~

  Jimmy’s first touch. He knocks the ball down the right wing. Tarcisio Burgnich is breathing down his neck. No surprise that they’ve chosen to man-mark him. Burgnich will follow him everywhere. Jimmy swivels and turns inside. Burgnich is on him. Jimmy spins again and goes back where he came from. Still Burgnich is there. Then Jimmy reverses again and moves inside once more before laying it off to Bertie. Bertie shuttles the ball down the right wing, but I keep my eye on Jimmy. He has dragged Burgnich into the middle now. He keeps spinning and swivelling. The ball is 50 yards away but still Jimmy twists and turns. Burgnich mimics every moment faithfully. The big Italian looks like a Labrador chasing a bit of paper in a gale. I see Jimmy smile up at him as if to say, ‘Enjoying my game, Big Man?’ But Jimmy is not playing at little games. Minutes later, he picks up the ball on the right edge of the box. Burgnich shadows him but Jimmy flicks the ball inside. Burgnich slips to the turf as Jimmy spears in a low shot which the Inter goalie Giuliano Sarti blocks. Then Bobby Lennox hits the byeline and floats the ball over. Jimmy is up highest, angling in a header which Sarti tips over the bar. I catch Jimmy’s eye, give him the thumbs-up. He smiles.

  ~~~

  Inter make some ground over to our left.

  “Well in Jim Craig!”

  The West German referee’s whistle sounds shrilly.

  “N-never a free-kick!”

  “He’s saying Mazzola was pushed in the back.”

  “Garbage ref!”

  Mazzola’s free-kick is easily picked out of the air by Simpson.

  “Well taken Ronnie!”

  Inter attack again, on their left this time.

  “Shite, Corso’s skinned big Tam . . .”

  “Oh, Christ.”

  Corso crosses perfectly and Mazzola bullets a header downwards; Simpson saves, then clutches Cappellini’s follow-up.

  “That was c-c-close!”

  “I’m no sure Ronnie knew all that much about that header.”

  “COME ON CELTIC!”

  Good play by Celtic now. Jinky beats his man, turns two defenders inside into the box to make a gap.

  “Go on Jimmy, GO ON!”

  He shoots! Saved, spilled, caught by Sarti the Inter keeper, clad entirely in black.

  “Great stuff!”

  CEL-TIC, CEL-TIC, CEL-TIC.

  Lennox on the right now, hits the byeline at lightning pace.

  “Go on the Buzz Bomb!”

  He somehow manages to fire a great cross back towards the penalty spot. It is met by wee Jinky, of all people, who rises to force a great save from Sarti, who touches the ball over the bar.

  “Oooh, g-great header wee m-man!”

  “Wee Jimmy must have springs in his heels!”

  Mazzola drifts left and threads a marvellous ball through to Cappellini in the penalty area, taking out most of the Celtic defence. Jim Craig checks the run. The Italian goes to ground, very easily. Every pair of eyes turn to the referee.

  He points to the spot.

  “He’s given it,” I whisper. “Jesus Christ he’s given it!”

  “Ach a
way, n-never a penalty!”

  “He’s rolling around like he’s been poleaxed – GET UP YA CHEATING BASTARD YE!”

  “BOOO!”

  “Tschenscher – you are a fucking HUN!”

  “Who got at you ref? How much are they paying you?”

  “FIX! It’s a fucking FIX!”

  “REFEREE! REFEREE!” shouts Iggy. “YER MA WAS A VIRGIN YER FAITHER WAS A FUCKING MAGICIAN!”

  A ripple of defiant laughter, but sickness in everyone’s stomachs now. The Celtic players’ protests die down, all in vain.

  ~~~

  I’m off the bench, screaming blue murder, looking for blood. Never a penalty. Never a fuckin’ penalty. Never. Never. Never. Never. Never. The referee was looking to give it almost before Cappellini hit the ground. It was all there in the casual way he pointed to the spot. He wanted to give it, was desperate to give it. Why? Because it is Inter. And Inter always win penalties, always win games, always win cups. That is the natural order of things.

  Giving Inter a penalty is the easiest decision in the world for a referee. The Italians have history, too. Inter’s 2-0 win over Borussia Dortmund in the second leg of their European Cup semi-final in 1964 was a perfect example. A few months after the game, the referee was on his holidays in Italy allegedly at the expense of Inter. Not to mention Shanks’ Liverpool getting robbed in the ’65 semi. Even in their semi-final play-off against CSKA Sofia last month, they offered the Bulgarians two-thirds of the gate money to play the game in Bologna instead of Austria. It worked. They won 1-0.

  I’m screaming at Herrera now.

  “Cheats. Fuckin’ cheats. Diving, cheating bastards!”

  Herrera looks at me, confused. Mazzola steps up and slots home the penalty. I kick the bench. I kick the ground. I turn back to the pitch. Bobby Murdoch comes over.

  “Nothing’s changed Bobby,” I tell him. “Keep playing exactly the same way. We know what we need to do.”

  Bobby nods, turns and spreads the word. Jimmy looks over. I gesture with my palms downwards. Keep it calm. Jimmy nods.

  It’s a test of nerve but we have been here before.

  ~~~

  Celtic probe, but through-balls from Auld and Clark catch the forwards offside. And whenever a midfield man is beaten a full-back is waiting to put the challenge in. Got to be patient, boys.

  CEL-TIC, CEL-TIC, CEL-TIC.

  For a moment the curtain of Inter players stand too far off our midfielders. Auld goes past two, into the box – chips the keeper – the ball slaps off the face of the bar!

  “Oooh, Sarti was beaten!”

  “Good God, we can hurt them!” says Iggy. “We can score!”

  Hope springs.

  Bobby Murdoch now, great defence-splitting ball to Lennox, Wallace shoots – well held by Sarti!

  “We’re getting at them Tim! We’re getting at them!” shouts Rocky. He’s right. We are playing really well. Our heads haven’t gone down at all.

  A sublime one-two between Johnstone and Lennox takes out the Inter defenders on the left-hand side. Tackle made. Corner-kick.

  “We’re getting change out of them over there.”

  “L-Lennox is looking g-great!”

  “The whole team is looking great!”

  Corner headed on – what a chance – headed just wide!

  ~~~

  How will Inter respond to going a goal in front? Sarti bounces the ball. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. He rolls it to his centre-half, who rolls it back to him. He picks it up. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. The ref, to his credit, trots over and tells them to get a move on. I look at my watch. Fourteen minutes. Fourteen minutes into the 90 and they are already wasting time. We are creating chances. Lennox, Wallace and Johnstone have gone close already. Inter are the top scorers in the Italian league with 59 goals in 33 matches. My team had scored 59 goals by Christmas. I watch Sarti roll the ball out and pick it up. Then I look to our half. Not one Inter player in it. They have pulled down the shutters. Without Suarez, they have no idea how to build attacks; some of the most talented players in the world shackled by a system designed to rob football of all its beauty and unpredictability. It is up to us to break them down now.

  The game settles into a familiar pattern. Us dominating possession and creating chances but the one-way traffic is not all to do with Inter’s negativity. Our fitness is shining through brighter than the Portuguese sun. Every time they get the ball we are onto them, blocking passes, snapping at their heels, denying them space. It is little wonder they have retreated into their shell.

  Bobby Murdoch trots over to the bench.

  “You okay, Bobby?”

  “No really boss. I took a sore one on the ankle a couple of minutes in.”

  I look down and his right ankle has swollen up like a balloon.

  “You able to carry on?” I ask.

  “No question, boss. My right may be loupin’ but that’s why God gave me a left peg!”

  The midfield area is key to our pressing game. We need to have Murdoch at his best. I watch him closely for the next 10 minutes, for any sign that he’s struggling. Nothing. He is everywhere. Winning tackles, spraying left-foot passes. If only people knew. If only they could appreciate the genius of a man who is dominating some of the best players in the world on one foot. His ‘wrong’ foot. That is what this team is built on. Courage. Mental and physical courage, running right through its heart.

  ~~~

  Sustained pressure from Celtic; a shot by Chalmers from outside the box!

  “Oooh – just over!”

  Great effort from Stevie.

  Whenever Inter get the ball they can’t attack as there are no forwards to pass to. Celtic’s players seem to dispossess them at will. But when we attack they generally defend effectively. Their sweeper, Picchi, tucks in behind their back line. The catenaccio in all its strangled glory.

  “HOW’S THE SUNBATHING RONNIE?” shouts Eddie.

  Faither’s had nothing to do since the penalty. He turns round and gives a wee smile. A roar of approval from the fans.

  ~~~

  The play rages but Gemmell is on the ground injured inside the Inter area after a rampaging overlap. Less than 20 minutes gone and one of our key men is down. Shite. Inter break but Clark cuts out the danger. I am still looking at Gemmell. He is limping back into position now. Simpson rolls the ball back to him again. Clark advances. He spots Gemmell, now partially recovered and loitering on the left touchline. He pings it to him. A pass that says: ‘We need you Big Man. Do your stuff.’ Gemmell kills it and moves inside. Pulls it onto his right foot and lets fly. It slips past the post and hits the side-netting. Some fans cheer, they think he’s scored.

  “He’s alright,” says Sean.

  I breathe a sigh of relief. The full-backs, Gemmell and Craig, are key. Inter know how to defend against attacking teams. They know how to shut down the channels and deny forwards space. Gemmell and Craig are so important because they present a different threat from a different area. With them, our 4-2-4 formation becomes something altogether different, something alien to Herrera and Inter.

  “You’re awfy hard on the wee man.”

  Even my dear old ma thinks I take it too far. But she doesn’t know him like I do. He needs to be kept on his toes. He wants to be kept in line. He needs it.

  March 1967 and the players are drained after our late win over Vojvodina a few days earlier. Five minutes left against Queen’s Park. Jimmy’s been getting a hard time all game. He snaps. Lashes out and picks up a booking. I see my chance. The final whistle goes and I’m straight over.

  “You’re a fuckin’ disgrace to the club with antics like that. This club is built on discipline and fair play. You think you’re above all that, do you? You think you can disrespect me and the chairman with your disgraceful antics?”

  The players are all looking over. I keep going, right up the tunnel, the wee man fuckin’ cowering.

  “This is not over. I want you in the boardroom in an hour.”


  He pitches up, sheepishly takes a seat.

  I give the chairman a wee nod to start proceedings.

  “Jimmy, you have been warned time and again about your conduct. You have gone too far this time. We see no alternative but to suspend you for seven days.”

  “But, chairman, that means I’ll miss playing for the Scottish League team against England . . .”

  “Not my problem, Jimmy. You’ve had enough warnings. That is all.”

  He looks at me, willing me to intervene. I stare straight ahead. He troops out, shoulders sagging, looking like someone whose tyres have just been let down.

  The chairman turns to me.

  “Were we a bit harsh there, Jock?”

  “Chairman, this is not about a booking. This is about getting under the wee man’s skin. He needs a rocket. It keeps him on his toes. He plays well when he’s angry, when he’s got a point to prove. We’ve got a big couple of months ahead. We need him up for it. We need him angry. We need him at his best. Just you watch the wee man over the next couple of months. He’ll be a giant.”

  ~~~

  Johnstone is terrorising Inter on the right-hand side, crosses it into the box.

  “Referee!”

  “Surely that was d-dangerous p-play!”

  No foul given for a bicycle kick in the area, although it would have been indirect. Instead, a free-kick but for a different foul, on the left-hand edge of the box. The ball in is just too high.

  “We need to make the crosses count better,” I say.

  Auld makes a bold run from midfield – shoots – just over!