The Road to Lisbon (28 page)

“Alright Jock, I think I know what you are asking for, but it’s not something I can click my fingers and grant you. There are paths to be smoothed, as I’m sure you
understand. I can’t give you an answer just now because I don’t know what the answer will be. But I will do my best for you, Jock.”

Several days passed. The phone didn’t ring. I began to wonder if I had pushed it too far, if they were not yet ready to take such a major step. On the other hand, the team was
underperforming and crowds were falling. They had not won a major honour since 1957. I knew they needed me and now they knew the only way to get me. It was a gamble, but I calculated the odds were
slightly in my favour.

The phone eventually rang.

“Jock, we would like to offer you the job.”

“Bob, I would like to accept your offer, but I have one condition . . . I want full control of team matters. Anything less and I am not interested.”

The silence seemed to go on forever, then he finally spoke.

“Alright Jock. Alright.”

“You won’t regret this, Bob. Mark my words.”

In March 1965, I left Hibs near the top of the league to start my revolution at Celtic Park. I looked around the dressing room and saw a group of players who had been
underachieving. I knew the core of the team from my spell as reserve team coach, and I soon made it clear that I expected much more from them. Most of all I expected them to listen to me and follow
my orders. Anybody who didn’t would be out. It was a simple approach and most of the players embraced it from day one. But the club was mired in depression and change was needed. We won our
first game 6-0 v Airdrie but lost to St Johnstone, Partick Thistle, Hibs and Falkirk.

The place needed a lift and what better way to raise spirits and dispel the gloom than by winning a trophy. The Scottish Cup was our best chance and, after a replay against
Motherwell, we made the final against Dunfermline.

The signs were not encouraging when we lost to Thistle on the Saturday before the final and were booed off the field. In the programme that day, I had not held back.

“Consistency of performance must be the first priority. And several of the players are not providing that. They have had their chance and they should know that I have been in
England, looking.”

Before the game, I took the players to Largs instead of the usual Seamill retreat. The atmosphere was upbeat and I did everything possible to keep their minds off the visit to
Hampden.

Bertie Auld cancelled out Harry Melrose’s opener before John McLaughlin gave Dunfermline the lead again just before half-time. In the dressing room I told the players to keep
doing what they were doing and the breaks would come. Auld made it 2-2 then, nine minutes from the end, Billy McNeill met a Charlie Gallagher corner to win the cup. In the dressing room, I told the
players: “Remember this feeling. This is how success feels. Not many of you have felt it before, but if you stick with me, you will feel it again.”

In the close season, it was all change. I released 20 players, all of them youngsters, dumped the third team and told the coaching team to concentrate on the first 11 and the
reserves. I introduced two daily training sessions and an evening one to accommodate the part-timers.

I brought in Joe McBride from Motherwell as the rebuilding process continued. I quickly realised that I didn’t need a flood of new players.

Square pegs in round holes, everywhere I looked. John Hughes, a bulky, strong-running player was at centre-forward when I arrived. I moved him to right wing and it was like
releasing a greyhound from the traps.

“Watch the big bastard go,” I used to say to Sean as he bulldozed past full-backs.

I took Bobby Lennox aside after training one day. I lined up 10 balls a few yards out from the goal-line. I crashed the first one into the net.

Tssh.

“You hear that, Bobby?”

“No, boss. What?”

I hit another.
Tssh
. And another.
Tssh. Tssh. Tssh. Tssh. Tssh.

“That, son. The sound of the ball hitting the net. Get used to it because I want you doing that more and more. I want you playing through the middle more, getting on the ball
and streaking past defenders. Then, when you get to the goalkeeper, just have one thing on your mind. That sound. You do that for me, son, and you’ll be a fuckin’ legend.”

Then there was John Clark. Luggy. I knew him from the reserves. Understood his strengths and weaknesses. So did he. That’s what I liked about him. He kept it simple. Never did
anything out of the ordinary. Managers appreciate players like that. So do players. Fans don’t all see their value, but that’s okay. Luggy listened. He didn’t just nod his head at
you. He thought about what you said, analysed it and applied it. Every team needs players like that. But not at left-half. I watched him shuffling up and down the flank and shook my head.

I tried him beside big Billy in central defence. Before the game I told him straight: “Let Billy deal with all the headers. Just you concentrate on sweeping up on the deck.
Pick up any scraps. Keep it simple.”

He did more than that. He read everything. Before it happened. I turned to Sean. “We’ve found Luggy’s position.”

We had a trophy behind us but other markers had to be laid down. We had to prove ourselves to be physically strong and able to cope with intimidation. The
League Cup final against Rangers in October 1965 was a brutal affair due, in no small part, to my insistence that we had to win every 50-50 and impose ourselves physically.

Before the game, the chairman came into the dressing room and spoke to the players about the importance of good behaviour. He said he did not want the club’s reputation
tainted by foul play and that the eyes of the world were upon them. As he turned and walked out, I keeked around the door, just to make sure he was gone.

“Right, don’t listen to any of that crap. Get stuck in. If anyone,
anyone
, jumps out of a tackle, shites themselves, that’s it. They’ll be finished at
this football club. You hear me? Fuckin’ finished. Don’t even come back into the dressing room. Just go right up the tunnel and straight home. ’Cause I will have seen what you did
and I’ll fuckin’ run you out of town. And I’ll make sure every manager who thinks about buying you knows you’re a fuckin’ shitebag, too.

“I want to see big tackles early in the game. I want to see Willie Johnston sorted out. We will stand tall. We will fight to the death. We will help out our team-mates and be
united. But, most of all, we will fuckin’ win.”

The 2-1 victory was not one for the purist – we kicked and scrapped our way to a win – but it sent out an important message that Celtic could mix it with the best of
them. It was a physical victory. The first League Cup final triumph in eight years. My first trophy in an Old Firm match.

On the final day of the season we only needed to avoid a 4-0 defeat by Motherwell at Fir Park to win the league. In the end, we won 1-0 to secure the title.

We approach the border crossing, Rocky at the wheel, the atmosphere pregnant with significance. A Portuguese official wearing a tall peaked hat flags at us to pull over.

“Look at us,” I say. “Driving through the sunshine on our way to Lisbon, to the European Cup final.”

“Anything to declare?” asks the customs officer in a heavy accent.

“Aye,” says Rocky. “We’re here to bring back the European Cup!”

We all laugh as Rocky puts on the indicator, pulls back onto the road.

The road to Lisbon. Its final stretch.

Those last miles to our destination are like a dream. We have reached a new level of consciousness, of heightened awareness. What we talk about no longer matters. All that matters now is the
experience. To drink deeply of it. To savour it. I glimpse the Tagus, I know we are almost there. Rising in the Albarracín mountains she flows ever westwards, filtered pure by the limestone
ravines of Guadalajara. Fortified by the Jarama and the Alagón she fires the hydroelectric schemes that power central Spain, irrigates the fertile plains of Iberia’s heartland, drains
the filth and silt from its vast alluvial basin; before cascading through Portugal and sculpting Lisbon’s majestic harbour.

The capital itself is sublime. Fine boulevards lined with handsome blond buildings link splendid squares. The city is teeming with Tims, adding a dash of Glesga style to the pavement café
culture. Wearing their suits they swelter in the evening heat. Polite and cheery, they seduce the Portuguese with easy Garngad charm. Evidently Herrera’s plea to locals to support their
fellow Latins has fallen on deaf ears.

We pull in at Praça do Comércio where King José I has a tricolour wedged into the crook of his bronze arm. We sound the horn, disembark, are mobbed by locals who want our
lapel badges and Celtic fans who place cigarillos and bottles of
tinto
to our lips. Some of the lads are Gorbals bhoys.

“There were 500 fans watching the training today!”

“Aye, and those Tally chancers stayed behind to watch us!”

“You’ll no believe this – we were drinking in this English pub yesterday, out beyond Estoril where the team is based, and guess who walks in? Tam Gemmell, Bertie and Wispy
– out for a sly pint!”

Rocky gets down on his knees and kisses the flagstone in papal style. Ten-dozen excited conversations at once. I turn to Mark. I raise the bottle to him, fix his eyes with mine.

“To my dear, dear pal Mark Halfpenny.”

I drink to his honour. The strain seems to dissolve from his face. I pass him the bottle and he takes a swig.

“Th-th-thanks, Tim.”

We install ourselves at a hotel in Belém. Escudos are converted from pesetas, which had been converted from francs, which had been converted from pounds and shillings. The arithmetic
leaves us weary. Two adjoining rooms, shaded, dusty and cool, the dark-varnished furniture ancient and imposing. The Eire flag is installed as the centrepiece of a shrine on the wall, necks are
washed, bottles of Super Bock opened, fags passed round.

“Okay lads,” begins Rocky, drawing numbers from his trilby. “Sweep time. Eddie. You’re up first.”

“2-0 Celtic. Chalmers and Wallace will score.”

“Mark?”

“3-1 Celtic. S-S-Stevie, Wispy and J-Jinky.”

“Iggy?”

“5-0 to the Celts! With a Wispy hat-trick!”

“Get to fuck!”

“Away you go ya tube – against the meanest defence in the world?”

“No chance!”

“Me,” says Rocky, “I’m gonnae plump for 1-0. We’ll struggle to break them down, but I believe we will score, maybe from a less usual source. Now Tim, there’s
just you.”

I take a draught of the strong beer, chew the matter over in my head.

“Nobody’s got 2-1 Celtic yet?”

“No.”

“Okay, 2-1 Celtic. We’ll go down early. Inter will resort to form: they’ll dig in, try and frustrate us. But then Celtic will batter them, again and again. Eventually we will
breach them in the second half. Twice. Inter will be exhausted. They’ll be pleased to hear the final whistle.”

“You seem to have a lot of detail.”

“I should do. Big Jock himself told me it in a dream!”

When we arrive at the Estádio Nacional, Inter are training.

“What the hell is this? We are supposed to be training at this time,” says Sean.

“Stay calm, Sean. It’s just another attempt to unsettle us.”

They eventually spot us and scurry off like mice into holes in the wall. Then, as we emerge from the darkened tunnel for our session, I look around and there they are again. Freshly
showered, sitting cross-legged on the perimeter wall, waiting for us. I feel a wave of irritation at this breach of etiquette. Herrera. Sneaky fuckin’ bastard. Then, I brush it aside, or
rather absorb it with all the other pressure.

“Would you believe it, Jock,” Sean says. “They’ve come to learn a thing or two about attacking football.”

“It’s too late for that, Sean,” I reply.

But the challenge is there. I look over at the bronzed figures, half-smiling as they huddle together in the afternoon sun. Then, I call the players together.

“Let’s make this a good session, boys.”

That is all I say. The players know. We begin with a passing drill in which the players line up in two rows 15 yards apart. The player at the front of one row pings the ball to the
man at the front of the opposite one, then runs to the back. It requires concentration and discipline. It is easy to get it wrong. If one player fails to control a pass then the momentum is broken.
Shuttle runs would have been a less risky policy with 13 of the greatest defenders in the world watching us, but this is our chance to win the mental battle. The players respond. Every pass zips
across the lush turf with laser accuracy. Their control is instant, their movements purposeful. I walk up and down, saying nothing, just watching it happen. I look over at Inter and smile.

The players never let up; every pass, every flick, every header that reaches its destination making another little dent in the confidence of our audience.

“Well done, lads. Very well done indeed.”

I look at my watch. We have trained for half an hour longer than I intended, but the players don’t want to stop. Drenched in sweat, their faces flushed with enthusiasm, they
know what this means. The Inter players start to drift away.

“Is it just me or do they look worried?” I ask Sean.

“It’s not just you, Jock.”

I call an end to the session with the players still buzzing from the thrill of their mini-victory. Twenty-four hours to kick off. Inter 0 Celtic 1.

We walk through the city at night, shaking hands with Portuguese well-wishers and our Celtic compadres gathered in throngs in plazas and parks. Coco Costello and his pals,
Mickey Zamoyski and Co., the Murphy brothers and their entourage, even Jack Palance and his Tongs buddies; dozens of others. We exchange travel stories, pass the bottle, join in the odd song or
chant, take in the sights of pre-match festivity. Iggy bungs a wee guy from back home who is broke. Some of the tales are priceless. A fellow who lost his job a month ago then sold his house
without telling his wife so that he could use the deposit to fund the trip. Folk who came directly by yacht all the way from Fairlie. Guys who hitchhiked the entire distance. A contingent from
Sligo whose ancient car gave up the ghost near Burgos but who were rescued by an Austrian coach party on a pilgrimage to Fatima. For some reason we don’t relate our adventures. We just kind
of smile knowingly at each other or gaze absently up at the moonlit Castelo de São Jorge; perhaps our memories are too precious to be bandied around as banter. We ease ourselves into a
relatively quiet bar near the waterside, local to our hotel. There is tomorrow for more socialising with the rest of the support. For now it’s just about us.