The Road to Lisbon (21 page)

“Tomorrow, Celtic will leave Glasgow for their much anticipated meeting with Inter Milan in the European Cup final. Many of their fans are, as you can see, here already,
regaling locals with their songs. Helenio Herrera, the Inter manager, has encouraged the Portuguese, as fellow Latins, to support his team, but it seems that the charm of the Celtic supporters has
won them over instead. It all adds up to a carnival atmosphere, but it will be nothing compared to the party if Jock Stein’s team can overcome the might of Inter Milan on
Thursday.”

I turn off the television and sit quietly in the darkness.

The road to Lisbon. The final stretch. The most important part. The most exciting part. The most terrifying part.

The pension is spartan but clean and welcoming. A hall lamp casts fantastic shadows on the staircase walls. I bunk up with Rocky. The sweet warm aroma of wood and dust greets
me. Part of me is already tired of the open road and longs for permanence. And this day has taken its toll. In an effort to help myself feel at home I booze and smoke as I place my few things in
one of the dresser’s musty drawers, which are lined with glossy patterned paper and contain the odd worthless coin or redundant key. But this night brings a feeling of sorrow that neither
whisky nor cigarettes can dispel. The darkness. Everything is altered; everything sits at a slightly different angle or has a peculiar hue to it.

“Mr Stein, did that poor fella die before his time?”

“Perhaps. Certainly it happens. I knew a lad of 16 who died in a pit accident. Suffocated, the poor sowel. All for the price of decent safety standards. Yet death is a part of life, and
sometimes folk dying young is a part of life.”

“Seems to me the older you get the more of your dreams about how life was meant to turn out get stripped away. And it’s the darkness – I mean your darker premonitions
– that come true instead.”

“Maybe. But it’s how we deal with that – the bad things, the defeats, the disappointments – that’s what makes us men. It’s easy to be strong when things
are looking up. When things are tough you still have to retain some belief, in yourself, but also in life. Good things can happen too. Your pal, Mark – you should pay heed to his words. He
knows how to give it up.”

“Give what up?”

“Uncertainty. Contradictions. He knows to give them up to God. Us humans, we’re no supposed to comprehend everything in this life. Aye, our brains are remarkable for solving
problems, for making things better for humanity. But there’s a whole realm of mystery out there that we can only wonder at. We can write songs and poems about it but no much else. If we think
on it too much it will drive us mad.”

Day Five

Jimmy Johnstone hates flying, detests it more than anything. The non-flying winger, that’s what we call him.

“Can I no get a boat to Lisbon, boss?” he says, only half-joking.

“Don’t worry Jimmy, if we hit the water you’ll be first in the lifeboat,” I reply. “Then big Billy . . . the rest of yous are good swimmers, so
I’ll see you in Lisbon. Kick-off is at half-five. And if you’re late, I’ll fuckin’ fine you.”

They all laugh. The tension broken. We walk across the tarmac to the waiting plane. I look back over my shoulder.

We’ll be running round Lisbon when we come,

We’ll be running round Lisbon when we come,

We’ll be running round Lisbon,

Running round Lisbon,

Running round Lisbon when we come!

Hundreds of fans, singing loudly, their banners draped over the front of the terminal building, have come to bid us farewell.

“I feel like one of the Beatles,” I say to Sean.

“The Beatles aren’t as popular as us, Jock. Not this week, anyway.”

Cabin crew in aeroplanes have seen it all – sick children, petrified adults . . . but they haven’t seen Jimmy Johnstone. We are all sitting on the plane ready for
take-off when I feel a splash on my head. I swing round. It is Jimmy, spraying holy water from a small plastic container in the shape of the Virgin Mary. I stand up, the water trickling down my
face.

“Sorry boss, but you can’t take any chances,” he says, flashing a nervous smile.

“Jimmy, if you don’t sit down I’ll fuckin’ sling you off this plane.”

“That might no be such a bad thing. I could still catch that boat,” he replies.

I frogmarch him back to his seat and the cabin crew breathe a sigh of relief. Another Jimmy drama over.

My father comes to me when I am asleep. I am amid a throng of people, then he appears, suddenly, briefly, only long enough to say: “Follow your dreams,” then he is
gone, disappeared into the crowd.

I awake, clammy with sweat in the muggy night.

Rocky is snoring. I take a slug of lemonade. Spark up a fag. The tobacco crackles as the flame jets from the lighter. It illuminates something, a piece of paper slotted into the dresser
mirror.

I finish my cigarette and sit there for a few minutes, rereading the letter. An initial wave of sorrow and guilt gives way to conflicting emotions and desires.

“She was crazy about you.”

Rocky’s voice gives me a start. He has woken and seen me reading the letter, put two and two together.

“Eh?”

“Delphine. She loved you.”

“Garbage. I only knew her for five minutes!”

“She telt me it was love at first sight. A once-in-a-lifetime experience.”

I read the letter for a last time. Then I purposefully fold it and put it away.

“You okay?”

“Aye. Go back to sleep, Rocky.”

I am okay. From somewhere in the desolate night comes a knowledge that things will work out for the best. I lie back and wait for exhaustion and the comfort of a real bed to coax me back to
sleep.

It is easy to tell when footballers are confident. They swagger, talk the talk. Start to think they are somebody. That’s when they start getting
ideas.

It starts as a few whispers. Rumblings. When you walk into a dressing room and the conversation dies, that’s when you know something is afoot. And there’s only one thing
that players talk in hushed tones about. Money.

“Must think I’m fuckin stupid, Sean. I know they’re plotting. Fuckin’ cheek. Don’t know they were born, these boys. They need to spend a day down the
mines.” I am sitting at my desk. I can hear the rumble of voices from the dressing room. When I passed earlier, the door was shut.

“Oh aye,” I thought.

I am waiting for the knock. When it finally arrives, it is a timid one, almost apologetic. I ignore it. Another knock.

“What?”

Billy McNeill pops his head in. I don’t even look up.

“Boss?”

I carry on writing my imaginary note. I finish it. Look up.

“What?”

“Boss, it’s just that the boys have elected me to come and chat to you about our European bonuses.”

I stare at him. Fuckin’ glare at him.

“So, er, can I have a word?”

“Here’s two for you. FUCK OFF.”

He turns on his heels. The boys will be waiting for him to come back with some news. But Billy can’t go back. Not yet.

I put my head round the door 15 minutes later. Down the corridor, I see the toilet door opening and Billy skulking out. He’s been killing time. Kidding on he’s been
fighting their case for the last quarter of an hour and not sitting in the lavvy counting the bits of toilet paper.

I chuckle heartily, maybe even loud enough for the players to hear . . .

. . . The Palacio Hotel, Estoril, Portugal. Marble tiles, gleaming paintwork. Tropical gardens, Mercs and Rollers parked at the entrance, the crystal-blue
ocean a stone’s throw away. Luxury. Opulence. Nothing but the best, and what are this team and these players, if not the best?

The Palacio Hotel. A playground for the wealthy, but also an important statement. The players troop off the bus.

“Boss, I think we’ve stopped at the wrong place. The youth hostel is down the road,” quips Bertie.

“The Kings of Europe do not live like beggars,” I fire back. “Bags in the rooms and then meet me in the lobby in 20 minutes.”

The first battle lines must be drawn. Limits set, rules laid down. I have identified the first enemy in the camp – that burning sphere in the sky. Stein versus the sun. There
is only going to be one winner. The players return to the lobby and gather round.

“Gentlemen, you stand on the brink of greatness. Everything you ever dreamed of is now within touching distance. Nothing can be allowed to compromise that. So I will tell you
once and I will not tell you again. Stay out of the fuckin’ sun. You know what happened in America last summer. A certain little red-haired gentleman came down with sun-stroke. Twice. If I
see so much as a freckle on those peely wally faces of yours, I’ll fuckin’ kill you. Then I’ll drop you and send you on the first plane back to Scotland. In that order. Every
moment spent in the sun saps your energy, affects your ability to fulfil your destiny. This is not a holiday. This is not about sunbathing. This is not about sightseeing. This is about making
history.”

The road to Lisbon. Spain suggests herself from behind the curtain of the Pyrenees.

We are entranced by the vista of the mountains sweeping down towards the Côte Basque. We plunge into a pleasantly wooded gorge before crossing the border. After we have stopped in San
Sebastian to change our money and stock up on cartons of fags and a crate of Rioja, I notice that our conversation has become distracted. We share jokes and stories but now that we are in Spain
there’s a tense rattle in our voices. We all know that we are ignoring the elephant in the room: two days until the match.

The Basque countryside is beautiful. Naturally terraced hills wooded with pines give way to a dramatic coastline. I close my eyes to commit the scene to memory; I will try to
sketch it later.

Eddie shatters the idyll and we all join in on the second line.

Hail! Hail! The Celts are here,

What the hell do we care, what the hell do we care,

Hail! Hail! The Celts are here,

What the hell do we care now.

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

It’s a grand old team to see,

And if, you know, your history,

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

We don’t care if we win, lose or draw,

What the hell do we care,

For we only know that there’s gonnae be a show,

And the Glasgow Celtic will be there!

As the song goes into its final flourish our singing startles a peasant farmer, who we overtake as he chugs along on an ancient tractor. He looks at us as though we have just arrived from Mars.
We all laugh. The song has cleared the air, relieved the tension, refocused us from yesterday’s trials to our love for Celtic, the entire purpose of our trip. Plus we are all glad to have
enjoyed the comforts of the pension – we are well slept and fed, washed and shaved; bright as new pins.

“Bar’s open!” announces Iggy cheerfully, passing the bottle. I get tore in. Man, that’s the gemme; makes you feel alive. Makes yesterday’s anguish drain away.
Unravel it later. Now there is only the road. The road to Lisbon.

It is nice taking the byways for a while, and apart from the tractor we don’t see a single other vehicle. We are off the Celticade’s beaten track, off on our own thrilling, private,
comradely adventure.

But a little further on I notice Rocky’s brow has furrowed. I can feel the power drain from the Zodiac. Rocky is pumping the accelerator but we are slowing.

“What are you slowing down for Rocky?” asks Iggy.

“The car . . . it’s losing power.”

He glides us to a halt at the side of the road. We all get out. A staccato
phut phut phut phut
rises in pitch and then falls away as the tractor passes by.

“Hauw, auld yin!” says Iggy. “Gonnae give us a ride on your tractor?”

The rubbernecked farmer simply regards us with the same astonished expression, as though we belong to a different species.