The Road to Lisbon (12 page)

“Tim, I’ll take another shift at the wheel, okay? Okay?”

“Aye. If you want.”

I’m shattered so I am secretly grateful for the offer.

We cheer loudly as the Imp bumps noisily onto French soil.

“M-mind and drive on the right!” says Mark.

European football is not all glamour. The Marcel Saupin Stadium could be mistaken for Gayfield on a storm-tossed evening. Shipbuilding is the main occupation
in the town of Nantes. Football fever set in an industrial heartland. Home from home for us, you could say. I have watched our second-round opponents and am confident.

“How will you approach the tie?” ask the Press men.

“We will play the same team that led us to victory against Hearts at the weekend,” I tell them simply. A statement of intent. The Frenchmen are a decent, technically
accomplished side, but they have lost their previous four matches. They are no match for a team of our attacking abilities. I believe that. Not everyone does.

“Do you feel your team are good enough for this level?” ask the Press men, their voices betraying doubt. I look at them closely, huddled round the table, scribbling into
their notepads. Professional sceptics. Professional critics. The power to shape public opinion, but who is holding them to account? I feel the anger rising.

“What the fuck would yous know about it?” I reply. “The stuff this club has had to put up with over the years. Incredible. I think about yous lot every time I feel
like sitting down and watching the 7-1 game from 10 years ago. Only I can’t do that because some fucker conveniently forgot to take the lens cap off for the second half of the game. No
footage. Beyond a fuckin’ joke.

“Every week you fill your columns with shite about my players. What do you really know about it? What do you know about trying to perform in front of 100,000 people? What do
you know about pressure? You can fuck off with your deadlines. That’s not real pressure. You’re no fuckin’ fit to write about football. What do you even know about kicking a ball
in a straight line?”

“Come on now, Jock, we’re entitled to our opinions . . .”

“Yes, you are, but I am saying, ‘what are they really fuckin’ worth?’ ”

I am on a roll now. “Right. Let’s see what you can do. Follow me.”

They follow me out of the Press room to the muddy training pitch. Neilly obliges with a bag of balls. I place one on the penalty box.

“Right, let’s see you hit the target.”

By this point, the players have congregated at the side of the pitch. The first Press man steps up in his brogues. He takes a long run-up but, as he prepares to strike the ball, his
left foot slides on the turf and he lands on his arse. The players erupt, even his fellow hacks are laughing. The next plucky contender skies the ball 10 feet over.

“You’re a danger to low-flying aircraft with a shot like that. Pathetic.”

Ten minutes later I call time.

“That was an embarrassment. You should all be ashamed of yourselves. Remember, next time you pick up your acid pen to slaughter one of my players I’ll be poring over
every fuckin’ miserable word of it. And if you’re out of line, I’ll be kicking down your office door. And remember this as well – I’ve watched every one of you fail to
hit the target from 12 yards.”

Stein 1 Press 0.

The players sense the opportunity to make an early impression but the line between attacking and being cavalier is a fine one. In 16 minutes, Nantes take the
lead and the stadium erupts. Fireworks light up the night air, raining down onto the pitch, and thousands of Nantes supporters suddenly find their voice. I look at the players for their reaction.
Ronnie Simpson grabs the ball out of the net and punts it to the halfway line. The Nantes players are still celebrating as the ball is re-spotted in the centre circle. My men are impatient, eager
to atone. None of them look to the bench for direction. They know what they need to do. We have set ourselves up to attack and we will continue to attack. Not only that, but we will attack with
more determination. Why? Because that is what we do . . . better than anyone. Ten minutes later Joe McBride equalises and the noise level abates. The band of travelling Celtic supporters bounce up
and down. As the home side, the pressure is on Nantes to continue to take the game to us, but as they push forward we pick them off. At the start of the second half, Bobby Murdoch springs Bobby
Lennox who sprints clear and dispatches the ball into the net.

“It’s all over,” says Sean. And so it is.

We knock the ball around with ease for the rest of the game. Stevie Chalmers scores a third. Jimmy Johnstone turns on his tricks, bamboozling Jean-Claude Suaudeau in a manner that
must surely qualify as a cruelty sport.

Then, an extraordinary thing happens. The French crowd start to cheer Jimmy. Every twist and turn meets with roars. Sean laughs.

“Even the French love him, Jock.”

“The French know their football.”

The final whistle blows. We are clapped off the pitch. The quarter-final of the European Cup within our grasp.

A straightforward 3-1 home win in the second leg deposits us in the last eight of the European Cup. As the players relax in the bath afterwards, word filters through that Liverpool
have lost 5-1 to Ajax. Everyone is delighted. Liverpool put us out of the Cup Winners’ Cup last season and were considered one of our biggest threats. The shock of Liverpool’s exit is
matched by the excitement over the emergence of Ajax, particularly their young protégé, Johan Cruyff. Everyone is talking about them. Hugely gifted . . . but young and inexperienced.
Can they bear the burden of expectation? That is a question for another time. For now, they serve as the perfect diversionary tactic. Outside the dressing room I keep the lid on the significance of
our progress to the last eight. Inside, I remind the players that, while the Dutch are blazing a trail, we are continuing to make impressive progress.

“Forget Liverpool and Ajax,” I tell the players as they prepare to drift off into the night. “We have now won all four of our matches, home and away. That is an
impressive achievement at this level of football. We are now a force to be reckoned with. Fuck the rest of them. This is about us.”

The road to Lisbon. Sometimes Rocky drives like a clown.

He’s aye showing off and playing the tough guy. Despite the fact that the Imp is fully laden he insists on overtaking lorries, at an agonisingly gradual rate.

Up ahead the bank of cypress trees that lines the highway swoops westwards; we are approaching a bend.

“The thing about the Hillman Imp is that they tend to oversteer,” says Rocky.

“What’s that?”

“When you are cornering the rear wheels don’t follow the front ones; it can cause a spin, if you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Well drive a bit more slowly then ya bloody madman!” I demand.

Rocky responds to this by turning to me and grinning. He then stares dead ahead, raises his bottle of
Eldorado
to his lips and takes a long draught. Then he slams the gear lever down into
third and floors it. Full throttle. I look at the speedo. The needle crawls pathetically up to 65mph. He turns to grin at me again. Smart arse. Best not say anything else – that will just
encourage him. The curve in the road is approaching. He’s not slowing. I glance at him. He has a maniacal expression on his face. The needle reaches 70 and falters there. Back into fourth
gear. The engine complains as we go in, but the Imp is holding the road. It’s not until we are coming out of the bend that I start to feel the rear wheels go. I glance at Rocky; I can tell by
the look on his face that he is losing control. In an attempt to hold the road he has straddled the left-hand lane. In the middle distance a lorry is approaching, its horn already moaning. The rear
of the car suddenly lurches forward.

“H-h-holy Mother of G-G-God,” exclaims Mark.

The car starts to spin. It is horrible, sickening. In a panic, Rocky slams on the brakes, which only makes things worse. There are a series of sharp collisions as the car leaves the road and is
punched upwards by the uneven ground. I hear the oil pan fracture violently. The lorry roars by, its horn a long descending blast. The flat French landscape whirls around us as the screech of
asbestos against steel ebbs and flows from the brakes. Had we met a tree or a drop or a bank or even a ditch at the side of that road I believe we would all have been killed. Instead we come to
rest relatively unharmed amid a cloud of dust. All of us have banged our heads on the roof; Eddie, Mark and Delphine have caught the worst of it in the rear and blood is already trickling down
their faces. I feel a wave of sickness for Delphine. She’s my guest, I’m responsible. A protective instinct kicks in.

“Delphine, are you alright? Christ Jesus tell me you’re okay!”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” she says, wiping blood from her face. She is sheet white.

We clamber out to survey the damage. All of the tyres have blown and both the driver’s side wheels are at a funny angle. The windscreen has spider-webbed, much of the lower bodywork is
crumpled and the boot has sprung.

The shocked silence is broken by a
whumpf
as the engine catches fire.

“FUCKING RUN FOR IT!”

But Rocky leaps over to the open boot and begins flinging our luggage as far as he can into the brush. Then he dashes round and scoops all the precious items from the glove compartment.

“FUCKING LEAVE IT ROCKY!”

“I CANNY – THE MATCH TICKETS!”

He races away, spilling the odd wallet or passport as the petrol tank explodes in a long, rapidly loudening
whoosh
, like someone turning up the heat on a giant primus stove.

We stand aghast, watching the funeral pyre of our Lisbon dream burn away.

“Fellas, I’m really sorry. I just misjudged it.”

Hush, now
. There will be time for words, recriminations, later. Let the fire burn. Let the dream be reduced to ashes. Let the windows pop, let the tyres melt, let the acrid poison rise
from what were once the seats into the forget-me-not-blue sky. Listen as the camping gear crackles on the roof-rack barbecue and wonder where you will sleep tonight. Breathe in the carbon and
petroleum as the glorious sun shines down mockingly and muse upon what might have been.

And most of all, try not to scream at the top of your voice: “ROCKY! YOU ARE A BLOODY EEJIT!”

A bit of the Celticade jolts us back into reality. It is the Murphy brothers from Eglinton Street.

“You boys alright?”

“Just about, Dessie.”

“What the fuck happened?”

“I think a tyre must have gone or something. I – ”

“Don’t fucking do it, Rocky.”

For once Rocky shuts up. The Murphy brothers sense the tension abroad.

“Could yous shuttle us into the next village lads?”

“Aye, if you like. Or you could just wait for your pal.”

“What pal?”

“Daft Iggy. He’s about two minutes behind us.”

“What are you talking about? Iggy’s in jai – ”

At that moment – that precise instant – there is the blast of a car horn from the highway. We turn,
en masse
, to witness a 1966 Mark III Ford Zodiac cruise to a halt. Its
metallic sonic-blue paintjob and gleaming chrome radiator grille sparkle in the sunshine as
Nowhere to Run
by Martha & the Vandellas stomps from a French radio station. It is a truly
beautiful sight. The driver emerges. Four jaws drop. Iggy. The man himself. The unlikely messiah.

As if the situation couldn’t become any more incongruous, the passenger door and one of the rear doors open and two stunning young French women emerge. Then a car pulls up behind – a
2CV, and two other French beauties get out. The four lovelies mob the bold Iggy with a barrage of questions and French exclamations.

“
Mon Dieu!
Iggy – what is all this – are these your friends? – Are they alright?”

Iggy removes his green-tinted sunglasses, the expression of concern on his face giving way to a smile once he counts us all as present and correct. I notice a peace symbol is pinned to his
collar. The Murphy brothers leave.

“I take it that’s . . . that was the Imp?” he asks, in his rather squeaky, raspy voice which is reminiscent of Private Doberman’s from
The Phil Silvers Show
.

“Aye.”

“What happened?”

Rocky goes to open his mouth, then thinks the better of it.

“Rocky decided to see how long it would stay airborne.”

Iggy gazes sombrely at the burning wreck.

“I’ll tell you one thing Rocky, it’s gonnae take something to get it through its MOT.”

“Your car, on the other hand, will come through with flying colours,” I say accusingly. “Did you win the Pools?”

“I borrowed it . . . from a bloke in Dover. Just as well for you lot.”

“And your court case?”

“The guy whose motor the cops pinched me in . . . he came forward and said he had lent me it.”

“Why did he do that?”

“Big Vinnie made it worth his while.”

“I bet he did. Come on, let’s get the wagon loaded,” I order. My tone is scolding, but in fact I’ve never been so delighted to set eyes upon anyone in my life.

Eddie and Rocky playfully assault Iggy. It’s their indirect way of expressing their pleasure at seeing him. Rocky looks doubly delighted, having been delivered in the most extraordinary
fashion. As usual he has come up with the proverbial salmon in his mouth.

“Looks like we’ve swapped one Imp for another imp!” muses Eddie.

“But this is a Zephyr Eddie, no an Imp.”

“I didn’t mean the car ya tube, I mean you. One Imp for another imp. And it’s a Zodiac, by the way.”

“So it is.”

Mark is crouched sulkily on his haunches away from the group, dabbing the blood from his face.

“I don’t give a fiddler’s if it’s an E-Type J-J-Jag. I’m no going in it,” he shouts over.

I walk over to speak with him.

“What’s up?”

“I-I-I’ll hitch a lift from here on in.”

“How?”

“I-I-I made myself a vow. I’m having nothing more to do with Iggy’s th-th-thieving.”