The Road to Lisbon (30 page)

“And you are too. Except I never give you the credit. It’s just that . . .”

“What?”

“Things can’t be the same, between us. When you two are . . . together. We have to be realistic.”

His eyes well up.

“I understand,” he says, his voice breaking slightly.

He looks sad. I mean a lot to him. At this moment, finally, I realise that he does to me too. He gets up to leave.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

“It’s one visitor at a time. The boys are waiting outside.”

“Bugger that, I’m coming with you.”

“Are you kidding? You’re in no fit – ”

“Rocky. Celtic play in the European Cup final this afternoon. And I’ll drag myself there if it’s the last thing I do. We’re going to the gemme. All of us.
Together.”

He helps me up from the bed and I pull on my shoes.

Corpus Christi. The priests’ vestments are brilliant white, in honour of the feast. Standing room only. Packed with Portuguese families, Celtic fans, the odd Milanese.
Jack Palance, of all people, notices my bandage-swathed head, gives up his seat for me.

Raise my eyes up to the big cross. No need for the words now. He knows what I mean.

The road to Lisbon. It leads us to the altar. A wing and a prayer. I stand at the back of the room listening. To the silence. I look at the heads of my
players bowed in prayer. I gaze at Father Bertie O’Reagan holding the host aloft. Ten o’clock Mass in the Palacio Hotel in Estoril. The Feast of Corpus Christi. A Holy Day of
Obligation.

I may not be a religious man but there is something moving about the rituals and the ceremonies involved in religious practice. If there is a God, and he has the power to determine
something as insignificant as a football match, then surely he must be on our side! If there’s no deity, or he has bigger things on his mind than us beating Inter Milan, then there is still
something powerful happening in this room. This time spent by the players – the Catholic ones, anyway – collecting themselves, focusing their minds, is invaluable. What better way to
start the most important day of your life than with some moments of peace?

The battle for hearts and minds has been won in the chapels, they tell me. Herrera’s attempts to get the locals to support Inter have fallen on deaf
ears, swept away by a wave of piety. The Celtic supporters have all congregated in the plaza in the city centre, winning over the locals but it is their attendance at Mass which has further
endeared them. As a Catholic nation, the Portuguese locals have been impressed by the devotion of their Scottish visitors.

The boys all go for an afternoon nap. I don’t even bother trying. A knot is forming deep in my stomach and my mind is beginning to race. I am sweating
despite the cool, air-conditioned corridors of the Palacio. I go to the lobby and make the trunk call I had promised Jean. It is good to hear her voice. She can detect the strain in
mine.

“John, take care of yourself.”

“Ach, I’m fine love.”

I go up to my room and lay out my things. Suit, new for the occasion, crisp white shirt, polished shoes. Sunglasses, chewing gum, my faithful notebook.

I strip and take a shower, the powerful jet of water temporarily blasting away my anxiety. I think back to my Albion Rovers days, standing shivering under a temperamental spray
after a hard match. I think about how far I have come. I dry myself and dress, the nerves building again. I inspect myself in the mirror. Check my watch. Take a deep breath. Time to go
downstairs.

The players are feeling well rested when we all meet up before boarding the bus. I take Gemmell aside.

“Tommy, this is a big day for you. You are up against Domenghini. He’s good. Lovely tricks and flicks but he’s lazy. He’s not interested in chasing back. If
you push up the field, he’ll let you go. You’ll get more room today than you’ll have had against any team in the competition. Their system is all about snuffing out the threat
middle to front, but it’s not designed to stop rampaging full-backs. This is a big day for you, son.”

Gemmell beams from ear to ear.

“You know me, boss. I never need a second invitation to get forward.”

Jimmy is next for a quiet word.

“We need you today Jimmy, more than we’ve ever needed you. But you’ll not get the space to attack the way you like. They know about you. You’ll have been the
first name on Herrera’s chalkboard. ‘Stop Johnstone and we’ll stop Celtic,’ that’s what he will have told his players. I’m asking you to sacrifice yourself for
the team. Keep on the move, constantly twisting and turning, dragging them out of position. It’ll be so frustrating at times. You’ll feel like greetin’, but keep the head up.
Everything that you do will be making space for others. That’s the only way we can get through them, Jimmy.”

Jimmy nods. “I’ll do it, boss.”

I have decided to give the team-talk before we leave for the stadium. I want their minds clear when we get there. I look at their faces and feel a surge of pride.

“I am going to keep this short because everyone in this room knows what this occasion is all about. Every achievement boils down to one key moment, one big occasion which
decides who is the winner and who is the loser. But let me just say this. It has been a wonderful season. We have won every competition we have entered. We are already winners. Now we have the
opportunity to make it an even better season. This can be a season that we can all look back on with great fondness. It can be the best season of our careers. We have a chance to make history. The
opportunity is there for each and every one of you to be remembered forever. We know about all the great players of the past. We don’t want to live with the legends, we want to become legends
ourselves. Just remember when you take that field that I am proud of you all and trust you to meet the challenges ahead.”

We walk to Rossio Square where the troops are congregating for a bevvy and a sing-song. A massed sidey breaks out. Twenty-five-a-side; Scots, Portuguese, some Inter fans. Yank
sailors and tourists – Jerries, Spaniards, French, English, Aussies, Japs – stop to watch. Today, Lisbon is the centre of the world. I take it easy and view proceedings from the shade
with a cheese baguette and a lemonade. It is hot. So hot.

I tell the boys I need to buy some fags but really I’m making a beeline for a post office I had noted earlier.

Inside I nod at a seated row of aged Portuguese women who smile pleasantly back at me, then chatter approvingly to one another, presumably about how impressive these northern interlopers to
their city have proved to be.

There is no queue for the telegram booth.

I take the blank form from the clerk. I pick up the little pencil and carefully copy my cousin Nicky’s London address in block capitals. Then I write:

I pay the requisite number of escudos, then leave and rejoin the boys.

It is time.

We decide to go to the ground on foot. My head hurts less now and the saltwater nausea has passed; just a wee bit weak-feeling.

“Mr Stein.”

“Aye, lad.”

“This is it.”

“It is that, aye.”

“What will you tell them?”

“To enjoy themselves.”

“Just that?”

“Only that. Everything else is in place. They have the belief; they know they can do it. It’s up to the players, now.”

“And for me?”

“Everyone reaches a point in their life when they have to stand up and be counted. A crossroads. A life-changing moment. When it comes along, seize it with both hands. Step into the
brave new world.”

“Mr Stein. Just one last thing.”

“What’s that, son?”

“Thanks.”

“What for?”

“For taking us to the stars. No matter what happens out there today, thank you for showing us the stars.”

“Tim! Tim! Tim!”

“Eh?”

“You’re away with the fairies.”

“Och, sorry Rocky. What’s up?”

“You’ve never told us.”

“Told you what?”

“What
your
favourite-ever Celtic game is.”

“Och, that’s easy. Scottish Cup final, April 25th 1965. Celtic 3 Dunfermline 2. The Big Man’s first trophy as Celtic manager – Celtic’s first trophy since
1957!”

A vivid image of Hampden on that glorious day comes into my mind.

“Stein had shown that he was a force to be reckoned with in the same fixture in ’61, when his Dunfermline side done us to win the cup after a replay.

“In ’65 they led from early on, but after about half an hour Charlie Gallagher cracked a pile-driver from outside the box. The baw hit the bar, spun up in the air, and wee Bertie was
waiting to head it in. But just before the break Dunfermline went ahead again, after some shite defending at a free-kick.

“The spirit in that second half was all about Big Jock. First, Auld got his second; a cracker after a one-two with Lennox. 2-2. There was something strange about the atmosphere now as the
game raged from end to end. We all roared the team forward; we sensed that something had changed, that something was different now.”

I suddenly feel self-conscious and look at the boys. They are hanging on my every word so I continue.

“And so it proved. In the 82nd minute, Cesar rose majestically to meet a Gallagher corner. He seemed to hang in the air for an eternity, just waiting to connect with that baw and send it
crashing into the net. We all celebrated like crazy, not just because we had scored a goal that would win a cup, but because we knew the significance of that goal. After years in the shadow we had
finally stepped into the light again.”

There is a reverent silence, only the sound of our marching.

“Well telt Lynchy,” says Rocky. “Here, have a daud of this fizzy wine.”

I get torn in, sickly sweet, my first bevvy of the day. Hope the bubbles aren’t premature.

“You know the queerest thing of all?” says Eddie.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“The team that played then – in ’65, and even before then. Most of them will play today.”

“Aye,” says Iggy. “We had the players but we were shite. Except we weren’t shite, no really.”

“Aye, everyone knew we had potential,” says Rocky. “Maybe no how much, but we knew we had potential.”

“All it took was Big Jock to unlock it,” I say.

The road to Lisbon. It rarely runs straight. The greyness of the morning has given way to glorious sunshine. The atmosphere is buzzing as we board the bus at
3pm.

Hail, Hail the Celts are here . . .

The boys are in fine voice. Myself and Sean sit at the front of the bus. Time passes and then someone points out that the traffic is moving in the opposite direction.

“I think we might be going the wrong way,” says Sean.

I grab the driver by the shoulder.

“Estádio Nacional,” I say, pointing in the opposite direction.

He looks at me blankly.

“Estádio Nacional, that way,” I shout, gesturing to the hundreds of cars travelling the opposite way.

The driver looks sheepish as he pulls over and prepares to cut back on himself.

“The biggest day of our lives and this fuckin’ idiot is driving us in the opposite direction,” I say to Sean.

The players have noticed.

“Boss, what’s up? Are we lost?” shouts Jimmy, stopping mid-chorus.

“Lost? Are you joking? This kindly fellow has just taken us the scenic route. He wanted to show off his fine city to us visitors. In fact, why don’t we all give him a
cheer.”

The players stamp their feet and burst into another chorus of
The Celtic Song.
Sean looks at me and laughs.

“Nice one.”

“Aye, well let’s hope we make it in time, Sean. This traffic is murder.”

The minutes tick past. Four o’clock comes and goes. The singing is louder up the back of the bus. My heart is pounding. I ask Sean the time again.

“It’s two minutes later than the last time you asked me.”

“Christ, Sean, it’s less than 90 minutes to kick-off.”

“I don’t think the boys are particularly worried, Jock.”

“Boss,” shouts Bobby Murdoch. “Put it this way, they can’t exactly start without us, can they!”

Another deafening cheer and a chorus rises up as I sit down in my seat and try to disguise my anxiety with a smile.

The stadium is a reassuring and inspiring sight. I feel the hairs on my neck rise as the concrete giant looms into view. The Celtic fans, strung along the main drag to the ground,
part like the Red Sea when they see us approaching. Their songs fill the late afternoon air.

We’re gonna win the cup, We’re gonna win the cup.

Jimmy bangs the window in recognition as we speed past. Not a shred of tension. Apart from me. I straighten my back against the seat, feel the dampness on my shirt and become aware
of a slight feeling of nausea. I fix my gaze straight ahead.
Please, please, let’s get this game started.

The approach to the Estádio Nacional is wooded with eucalyptus trees. A pleasant mini-forest walk. The air is fresh here, strange for inside a city. I am wearing a crisp,
white short-sleeved shirt I saved for the day, a fake-silk Celtic scarf, and I have a bottle-green V-necked jersey tied round my waist. I must look a sight; my bandages are crowned by the top hat I
bought in Salamanca, replete with green-and-white ribbons. As we climb the slight ascent I look over my shoulder to witness the tide of humanity behind me, making the last leg of this great
pilgrimage. The fans are too nervous to sing. But I feel kind of at peace.

“Do yous realise it’s a new cup?” asks Rocky. “I mean, the actual trophy itself. They let Real keep the original one last year.”

“Aye,” says Iggy. “It’s a new shape and everything. It’s ginormous.”