The Road to Lisbon (11 page)

“Mr Stein, Mr Herrera has said that he has arranged for Inter to have the ‘lucky’ dressing room. What do you think of that comment?”

I smile, can’t help myself.

“I think that football is played on a pitch not in a pavilion. And I think that luck is something that you earn through hard work. We have won every competition we have
entered so far this season. You might call us the luckiest team in Europe!”

The journalists laugh. I smile contentedly.

“Watch out for the mind games, the gamesmanship,”
Shanks had told me. In truth, I knew what to expect. The business of winning can be ugly. Where do you stop in
your pursuit of success? It is a question that cuts to the core of being a football manager. For some, there are lines that they will not cross. For others, those lines are mere blips on the
horizon. Each to their own. The important thing is to be prepared, have your wits about you, make sure that you are never compromised in your own pursuit of excellence.

Bravely, the Italian press bowl one more googly.

“Mr Herrera also claims he has acquired two of the footballs to be used in the match . . .”

“Only two?” I reply. “We have been training with three for the last week. Jimmy Johnstone sleeps with one under his bed every night. Big Billy McNeill takes his
into the shower with him every morning. I always bring mine to breakfast with me and sit it on the seat beside me.”

The place is in an uproar by now.

“Thank you for your time, Mr Stein.”

“No problem, I’m always available to chat to good gentlemen like yourselves. Just stay away from the wee man with the red hair or you will have me to answer
to.”

Show over, I drift back to my room. Match balls? Lucky dressing room? Come on tae fuck Herrera, surely you can do better than that. I chuckle as I slip back under the covers.

The road to Lisbon. Albany Street. Sometimes the sun shines on the bitumen. Regents Park looks beautiful.

Rocky got four hours in his scratcher and assured us he’s okay to drive. I, meanwhile, had sat bolt upright in my bed, sleep an improbable scenario as thoughts flickered through my brain
like midgies dancing in a lozenge of sunlight. Last night’s booze and the sleep deprivation mean I have a dry nausea sitting in my stomach, and it feels like someone has screwed a wood-vice
to the lower rear of my skull.

Eddie didn’t bother with bed. He seems disoriented as he blinks in the daylight.

“How you keeping Eddie boy?” I ask him.

He responds with an abstract sound that rises from a guttural noise deep in his larynx up into a cheerful exclamation:

“Haaaaaaaaaaaaaay-yap!”

I feel a bit sorry for Barbara. She seemed gutted to see Mark go. I also felt kind of sad saying goodbye to Nicky and the others. Life’s like that, I suppose. Mistrustful introductions
followed by melancholy goodbyes.

“Keep it slow – there’s coppers about,” I complain irritably.

I had anticipated Rocky being jealous when he saw Delphine and me holding hands earlier on but instead he was disarmingly pleasant.

“How’s it going, big fella?” he had simply asked with a wink as he chewed some gum.

That made me suspicious. Does he have Debbie waiting for him back home? Did he only flirt with Delphine in order to stoke up my desire for her, hence motivating me to pull her, hence driving a
further distance between myself and Debbie?

Shite, I’ve done it again. Underestimated people. Paranoia. Guilt. This hangover has new complexities to work through.

“Haud the bus – I’m only doing 30 for Christ’s sake!”

There is a pause. He smiles. It never takes Rocky long to regain his good humour.

“Ya bloody woman driver you!” he adds.

“Aye, loosen up ya tube,” slurs Eddie, passing forward the bottle. He’s moved onto
Emva Cream Sherry
. He’s evidently on a bender, and I don’t doubt he could
keep it up until Lisbon. I take a draught and the spiders scuttle back into their nests, for now.

But there
are
cops around, and one of them, on a motorcycle, has taken a particular interest in our heavily-laden, green-and-white decorated Imp. He motors alongside and signals to Rocky
to pull over. We stop. The cop dismounts and approaches the driver’s window.

“Bit early in the morning for festivities, isn’t it sir?” he says, clocking Eddie’s bottle.

“I’ve not touched a drop. Honestly officer.”

It’s true. Rocky was about to touch a drop, but hadn’t yet.

“Where you all off to?”

“Dover . . . then Lisbon.”

“For the final?”

“Yes.”

“I’m a Fulham man myself.”

“That Johnny Haynes is some player.”

“He certainly is.”

“Is Tommy Trinder still your chairman?”

“Yes. He’s bloody marvellous is Tommy.”

“My mother loves him.” Good old Rocky. Always quick with the flannel.

Another police motorcycle splutters to a halt. The second copper dismounts, starts fiddling with his radio.

“What’s that?” asks the first cop.

“What?”

“What they’re sitting on, in the back.”

“Oh, it’s a railway sleeper.”

“A railway sleeper – you’re joking!”

“No, gen up. Someone swiped our back seat in Glasgow last Sunday. Fu-God knows why. On the Lord’s day as well, officer. We couldn’t lay our hands on a new one in time so we had
to chop up a railway sleeper.”

I’m waiting for the cop to get his book out, charge us under some by-law like the bastards back home, but instead his officious expression gives way to one of profound amusement.

“ ’Ere, Pete,” he shouts over to his colleague, “come ’ere and get an eyeful of this! They’ve only got a railway sleeper as their back seat!”

His pal comes over. He finds it equally hilarious. The two almost slap each other on the back with mirth.

“You boys Celt-ic?” asks the second cop.

“Yes officer.”

The first copper surveys the rest of the vehicle, the amused expression still on his face. He comes back round to address Rocky.

“Now, no drink-driving lad, alright?”

“Understood.”

He checks the tyre, kicks it gently.

“Anyway, I hope you win, lads. Come on. You deserve the royal treatment after giving me such a laugh.”

“Pardon?”

“We’ll escort you, far as Whitechapel. Railway sleeper! That’s a new one. I ask you!”

The cops mount their bikes and wave us off, then accelerate beyond us, taking the lead. Inside the Imp there is a shocked silence. I glance behind me; Mark and Eddie are wearing identical
expressions, their eyes wide open and their jaws hanging low.

“So this is how it happened,” I observe. “This is how four Gorbals chancers in a Hillman Imp were given a polis escort through central London!”

“And one French girl!”

I glance in the mirror at Delphine, perched happily between Eddie and Mark in the rear, having insisted that I take the passenger seat. Her hair is up. She looks cool and demure in her kinky
boots, brown skirt and red roll-neck sweater.

“And one French girl,” I add, smiling, feeling so glad that she asked if she could get a lift to the south of France.

“They will talk of this for years to come in the Gorbals,” says Eddie, almost in a reverential whisper, as he solemnly shakes his head from side to side.
“
Years
.”

“If anyone believes us!” says Mark.

“They’ll believe us alright,” says Rocky. “This makes us legends, boys, legends. DO YOU HEAR ME? THIS MAKES US FUCKING LEGENDS!”

“They’ve even turned on their blue lights now!” I splutter.

“Look, they’re holding up the traffic for us!” adds Delphine. “People are waving at us!”

Sweet Jesus, what a feeling.

“What about it my china?” I ask Rocky.

“The best, my friend. This is the best of times.”

“W-W-WOOOO-HOOOO!” hoots Mark.

“LISBON HERE WE COME!” shouts Eddie.

What is a manager’s job? It was a question I had never thought too much about until one day in April 1955. We had narrowly lost out on retaining the
league title, but the situation was made worse by the events of the Scottish Cup final against Clyde. It may have been the first final to be televised live, but it was not one that any followers of
Celtic would have wanted to see again. We should have had the game wrapped up inside the first half hour, with Bobby Collins to the fore, but it took until the 38th minute for Jimmy Walsh to open
the scoring. We should have built on our lead, driven home our superiority. We didn’t, and we paid. With two minutes left, a corner from Clyde’s Archie Robertson caught in the swirling
Hampden breeze and went into the net. Instead of hoisting the trophy, we steeled ourselves for a replay.

Nothing could have prepared me for the team-sheet for that second game. Collins: dropped. Mochan: dropped. Walsh: switched from his usual inside-left to right wing. McPhail: moved
from centre to inside-left. Fallon: brought in to lead the line after a lengthy injury absence. Not so much a team-sheet as a suicide note. I watched the manager, Jimmy McGrory, read out the names,
his head bowed, desperately trying to avoid eye contact. Spirit fuckin’ crushed. It was not his team. How much it ever was, was a source of debate, but this selection had nothing to do with
him. The dropping of Collins was the biggest shock. Some of the lads speculated that the chairman had not taken kindly to his physical approach in the first game. Either way, it was never clearer
that the boss had been completely undermined by the chairman. It came as no surprise that the replay, on a foul evening at Hampden, ended in a 1-0 defeat. As we trudged off disconsolately at the
end, I looked over at the boss, a hunched, broken man. I vowed then that if I ever managed a team, no-one would pull my strings. It would be Jock Stein, master of his own destiny.

The police escort was a wonderful turn-up, yet nothing would have prepared us for Dover.

We pull into the ferry terminal.

“Holy Jesus!” exclaims Mark.

“Have you ever seen such a thing of pure beauty,” whispers Eddie. We look out to sea.

Beneath a perfect sky, upon a sparkling Channel, the Townsend ferry
Free Enterprise II
is sailing into harbour, her green-and-white livery complementing a massive sign on her portside,
‘GOOD LUCK CELTIC’. Rocky pulls in and we all step outside to gaze in awe at the glorious sight. Then we realise that there are dozens of other Celtic cars in the queues, and we salute
each other enthusiastically.

All the crew wear green-and-white rosettes, and hand us a sprig of lucky white heather as we climb up from the car deck. We assemble with around two hundred other fans in the bar and start to
make merry. Half the Gorbals is here. There are Tongs too, but nobody is giving a fuck, everyone’s just shaking hands and passing round pints and striking up sing-songs. Delphine is feted by
the company and catches my eye, smiles over at me. Then the captain makes a Tannoy announcement that he will fly a Celtic flag from the mast and myself and a dozen others instantly dash back down
to the cars. I detach our Eire flag, race back upstairs and present it triumphantly at the bridge entrance.

“Well done Tim!” says Rocky as he slaps my back.

“You’re a legend my boy,” adds Eddie.

“You d-d-d-dancing bear!” says Mark.

We watch the flag flutter up the pole into the gorgeous azure heavens, I glance at Delphine who looks fantastic as she unfastens her red hair to let it billow gloriously in the wind and I
consider that if life can’t get any better than at this precise moment then I don’t care.

I sit on a bench and she settles on my lap.

“Tim.”

“Yep.”

“You realise that you are beautiful.” Her face is rested upon my shoulder as she gazes into my face, stroking my hair. “You are the most beautiful man I have ever
seen.”

“I have a lovely personality as well.”

“Sure. But physically . . . you are literally and utterly beautiful. Your hazel eyes and hair, your delicate, noble features. Your slim, lithe build. You must sit for me. Properly this
time.”

“That’s very flattering . . . if only we had time. Delphine, when you are in France, are you going to visit your family?”

“My sister is in Switzerland for the summer. And my father . . . it is very difficult. We don’t get along.”

“And your mother?”

“My mother is dead.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

She takes my cigarette from me, draws from it, places it back in my mouth.

“I’ve never met a man such as you. A man who straddles two strata with such ease. You capture the zeitgeist.”

“The what?”

“You capture the moment in that you are a man for our changing times of social deconstruction. You reflect the lower classes finding their means of expression. I find it very
attractive.”

I make to get up.

“Excuse me.”

She slides off my lap, her expression a little puzzled. I stand up and walk over to the rail and gaze at the French coast.

“What is wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“No, not nothing.”

I turn to her.

“It’s just that . . . Delphine, I’m just Tim Lynch from the Gorbals. Lynchy. I’m just bobbing and weaving, trying to get by like everyone else.”

“So you wish to spend your life in some menial existence just to comply with some class stereotype?”

“No.”

“Well come to London, go to art school – follow your heart.” She winks. “And besides . . . I’ll be there too.” She walks down the stairs.

If someone had suggested this idea a week ago I’d have burst out laughing.

None of us boys have visited the continent before, so the crossing would have been a real treat anyway. We are as excited as a bunch of weans on their way ‘doon the watter’ for their
summer holidays. We eagerly pore over the little roadmap the AA dished out for free. We are constantly going upstairs – ‘up top’ as we call it, for a fag, and to watch the white
cliffs retreating and the coastline of the Pas de Calais getting nearer.

Then, before we know it, it’s back to the car deck. Rocky, who is as high as a kite with excitement, jumps into the driver’s seat.