The Road to Lisbon (14 page)

“Shite Paddy, again, again.”

But those boys were quick learners, open-minded too, and I watched them getting better and better. We would fire streams of crosses into the box for Billy, who would rise, higher
and higher, bulleting headers into the net.

Every evening, after training, we would walk to Parkhead Cross to get the bus home. “Mind Clarky and Billy, you two are going fuckin’ nowhere till my bus arrives,
doesnae matter if yours turns up first. I’m the boss.”

Then, when I got a car, I would drop them all off, telling stories on the way, them hanging on my every word.

I would look at them sometimes, their young faces flushed with enthusiasm, excited by the challenges they were being given, buzzing at their ability to rise to them. Then I would
glance over at the first team, trudging round the pitch like mourners in a funeral procession. I was doing something right. The results provided further proof. In the Reserve Cup final of 1958 we
thrashed Rangers 8-2 over two legs. Kelly’s Kids, some called them. Good boys, talented boys. They would go far . . .

The campsite we plump for that night is rough and ready, which is happily reflected in the price and the fact that the farmer is unconcerned by our recent deprivation of camping
equipment. He even lends us a tarpaulin which, by utilising the overhead boughs of two splendid lime trees and some lengths of tow rope, gives us an effective shelter. We buy some old French Army
blankets from the farmer. We still have the stove and borrow some pans from the French lassies, who set up their tents nearby.

Mark is rummaging around in the car.

“Here, has anybody seen my g-g-guide book?” he shouts over.

“Aye,” says Eddie. He winks over at me, grinning his alcoholic smile.

“W-w-where is it?”

“I used it to wipe my arse with earlier.”

“You are
j-j-joking,
right?”

“Naw. And I hope that the one you have for Spain is more absorbent – that French one was fucking glossy!”

The air is heavy with the smell of grass and clover pollen. The gorgeous, golden, sunny, confectionary smell of the lime blossom drifts downwards as our excited chatter floats up into the
branches and the songbirds begin their evening debate.

Mark, who is an experienced camper, is in his element organising all of this. Eddie is tickled by Mark’s rustic mode.

“Mark – you’re the camping expert, right enough,” observes Rocky.

“He’s the expert at being camp, more like!” says Eddie.

Mark gets a fire going, and we lounge around it, bevvying. Iggy canoodles with Céleste, a rather fetching little brunette with short hair like Joan of Arc, while in the river Rocky shows
off to Delphine and the other French lassies, swinging from a tyre swing and landing in the depths with an almighty splash.

Eddie is already half-jaked, topping up his day’s intake with some revolting homemade wine the farmer’s wife gave us. He is the only one who is able to stomach it.

For all Iggy isn’t, shall we say, classically handsome, a lot of birds seem to go for him, I think partly because he doesn’t chase after them too much. Maybe they like to mother him,
maybe they find his vulnerable quality irresistible. Céleste plays with his hair as he lies on the grass. Then she gets up and walks over to join her pals for a swim in the river.

Eddie is perplexed, ogling the frolicking females from afar.

“Christ help me, I can’t get that Josephine bird’s diddies out of my mind. I just can’t get over them. They are . . . perfection! What a size, as well – like ripe
melons!” He turns to face Iggy. “And that Céleste’s no bad neither. How come a wee monkey like you gets to pull a lovely big bird like that?”

Eddie’s monkey accusation is somewhat hypocritical. His own squat, strong body is ill-proportioned; the legs too short, the arms too long. His big chin adds to the simian impression.

“I have a magnetic personality.”

“You’re a spawny wee bastard more like.”

“Did I ever tell you how I got to be so wee?”

“Was your coal man a small fellow?”

“It was the Luftwaffe’s fault.”

“Shite.”

“Are you serious, Iggy?” I ask, intrigued.

“Gen up! They had a big air raid, when my family was staying in the Calton. Quite a few people were killed that night; my auld man had to pull bodies out of the rubble. Anyway, a bomb hit
our tenement – the same block Saint Alphonsus chapel is on, and brought on my mother’s labour six weeks early.”

“And that meant you turned out to be a short-arse?” asks Eddie, incredulously.

“Aye! Ever since I’ve been small but perfectly formed.”

“Is th-th-that true, Iggy? Did an air raid really bring on your b-b-birth?” asks Mark.

“Aye. I emerged kicking and screaming into a world of explosions and fumes.”

“And it’s been full of explosions and fumes ever since,” grins Rocky, who has returned from the river.

“Honest to Christ, Iggy, you don’t half come out with some shite,” says Eddie.

I steal a look at him, try to gauge how bad his drinker face is. Then I look at Iggy, his expression totally benign. He’s like that, is Iggy. Never gets that pissed off with folk. Always
sees the best in them. A real mellow fellow. Wish I could be a bit more like that.

“Iggy. Your favourite-ever gemme,” I interject.

Iggy ponders this for a moment.

“Can I have three – no, four!”

“Away you go!” says Eddie. “You only get one ya tube.”

“Aye, Iggy. Just the one.”

“To be honest I’d have to say the quarter-final against Vojvodina, in March.”

“Are you joking? That was the worst experience of my entire life!” says Eddie. “The
tension
.”

“I know, I know. I know it was tense. But I just had this wee feeling.”

“You
always
say that!”

“No, really Eddie, I did! And all that tension was worth it, for the way it ended. They were a great side, big and strong, and of course we were a goal down from the away leg. After nearly
an hour, we finally scored.”

“Stevie Chalmers!” chips in Eddie.

“One singer one song,” chides Rocky.

“Aye, Stevie Chalmers, after their keeper Pantelic had flapped at the cross,” continued Iggy. “Then, attack after attack after attack. But Vojvodina were well-organised, hard
to break down.” Iggy’s voice has lowered to little more than a whisper. He has captivated his audience, even though we all know the ending. “Then, in a last-gasp attempt, we force
a corner. Charlie Gallagher sends over a peach and big Billy is there to banjo it into the net with his head. Oh what
joy!
That was worth it. That was worth all the tension. In fact, that
made all the shite we’ve had to put up with over the years worthwhile.”

“Well telt Iggy,” says Rocky. “What a night.”

“What a bevvy afterwards!” recalls Eddie.

“It was th-th-then, after that match, that we knew we’d make L-L-Lisbon,” says Mark. “Dukla in the semi were tough, we knew they had M-M-Masopust, but once we had beaten
V-V-V-Vojvodina I knew we’d be okay.”

“You know what boys,” I say. “That was another glimpse of the genius of Big Jock. He organised a friendly with Dinamo Zagreb, just so that we could get a feel for Yugoslavian
football. We lost it 1-0 but that didn’t matter. Big Jock had gained knowledge and insight.”

“Mind Real v Eintracht?” says Iggy.

“Mind it!” exclaims Eddie. “It was the greatest game ever played on British soil.”

We Glaswegians have revered the European Cup ever since Real Madrid came to town in 1960. Me and the boys – all of us – were there. It was truly an honour to watch Alfredo di
Stefano, Ferenc Puskás and José Santamaria destroy Eintracht Frankfurt 7-3, and lift the trophy for the fifth time in succession.

“To emulate that mighty Real,” says Iggy. “Just think!”

We all nod in sombre agreement. It feels great being together. The five of us.

I watch Delphine come out of the river, dry herself, head into one of the tents and emerge a minute later, wearing a dress now. The other boys can’t see her from where they are seated.
Barefooted she walks across the meadow, never so much as glancing over at me but I can feel the signal, like telepathy. I drain my can of heavy and make a show of being casual.

“ ’Scuse me lads, I can feel the call of nature.”

The evening sun has bathed a thicket of pine trees in gorgeous amber. Every fragment of bark, every needle is exulted by the weird light. The trees cast fantastic shadows into a secluded glade,
where I sit down on a soft bed of moss. I can smell the sweet hint of wild strawberries, the cool odour of mint and the freshness of nettles.

I reach up for her, as a kite whirls above in the thermals. She takes my hand.

“Do you ever wonder about life, Sean?”

“What do you mean, Jock?”

“I mean what it’s all about? Do you ever wonder about the world and your place within it? When you question if where you are is where you are meant to be? I do. I wonder
about all those things. I wonder if it is right to be so obsessed with one thing. I went out for dinner with Jean last week. We went to a lovely restaurant, just the two of us. God knows we
don’t spend enough time together. I sat there looking into her eyes. Into the eyes of the woman I loved, the mother of my children, and you know what I was thinking, Sean?”

“No, Jock, what were you thinking?”

“I was thinking about Jimmy Johnstone and what the wee bastard was up to at that precise moment. Then I wondered how Bobby Lennox’s hamstring was doing and if big Billy
was in his bed yet. I mean, that’s not right, Sean, to be that consumed by something. I spend more time with my players than I do with my own children. I see more of your ugly mug than I do
my wife. That bothers me. Football is my life, but surely there’s more?”

“Aye, there is more to life, but do you not sometimes think that your choice has been made for you?”

“Aye, Sean, I know what you are saying. I’m not a religious man, but I feel, somehow, that what I am doing is like a calling. There’s the parable in the Bible
about the three servants who are given talents by their master. Two of them invest their talents wisely and multiply them. The other one buries his talent in a hole in the ground. When the master
returns, he looks favourably on the ones who have invested them, and punishes the servant who buried his. That story always stuck with me. Everybody has their own unique talents. Some men build
bridges, some build ships. Me, I build football teams. Then there is the realisation that I build them better than most. So what do you do? I’ve asked myself that question at every point in
my career. I could have stayed at Dunfermline. I had turned the club around, taken them to new heights, even had some success in Europe. The club was buzzing again. I had a cosy life. I could have
picked the kids up from school every day and spent lots of time with the wife. But what about the talent? So I went to Hibs and I was successful again. Bigger club, better players, more fans, more
pressure. I handled it all. I flourished, and so the same question comes round again. Is this enough for me, or should I be taking it to another level? Am I burying my talent in that hole in the
ground? So I take it even further, push the boundaries again. I join Celtic and it’s the same again, a bigger stage and more success. Then, Europe, and I have the chance to really make a
mark, to write my name into football history, to do something that no British team has ever done before. And so here I am, sitting in a hotel on the west coast of Scotland, on the edge of something
memorable, something truly historic. And I’m sitting here thinking that this is my destiny, everything which has gone before has led to this moment. And I love that feeling, I cherish it, I
let it fill my senses and course through my veins. Then I think of Jean, and the kids. I think of the birthdays I’ve missed, the thousands of moments that I will never get back. I look in the
mirror sometimes and I see an absent father, a neglectful husband . . . then I wonder, ‘Has it all been worth it?’ It’s a fuckin’ terrible price to pay, Sean.”

“Aye, Jock, but remember, this is not all about you. There’s more to it than that.”

“That’s the one thing that consoles me, Sean. Football is my life, but it is also my passion. Not many men are privileged enough to find their passion in life. And
mine’s is not a private passion. It is the most public of passions. My actions impact on people’s lives. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy basking in the glory. The old ego likes a
stroke from time to time. People see you as a god-like figure. They worship you, but that’s not why I do it. I do it because I know what football means to people. I appreciate its place in
society. Football is the centre of people’s lives. It gives it meaning. Life is hard, particularly for the working classes, and football is their game, it is a light in their lives. To play a
part in that is something special.”

“And it’s about Celtic, too, Jock . . .”

“Aye, Sean, it is. It’s about Celtic, too. More than anything, maybe, it is about Celtic. Life is strange. You find acceptance in the strangest of places. I never
thought it was possible that a Burnbank man like me could have ended up on this journey. But here I am. It teaches you a lot about life, about what acceptance really means. It is easy to accept
someone who is the same colour or religion as yourself. That’s not real acceptance. It’s when you are forced to deal with difference, asked to think different thoughts, that’s
when the process of acceptance starts. I fuckin’ love beating the Rangers. That feeling will never leave me, but it’s about more than that now. I don’t feel the need to prove
points any more. Those days are gone. That’s why it all comes back to this moment in time. This is us, taking on the cream of Europe. You think anyone in France, or Yugoslavia or Italy cares
about religious differences in the West of Scotland? They would laugh in our faces. This journey is bigger than all of that. It is not about ‘them’ and ‘us’. It is only
about us. Maybe one day there will be no ‘them’ and ‘us’. That’s some thought, eh, Sean?”