The Road to Lisbon (34 page)

McNeill’s up for it. Too high for the header, but a fierce shot at the back post!

“GOAL!”

“No – it’s the side-netting.”

Then Gemmell hits the bar with a 40-yard chip! We just stare at each other, our mouths open.

Now Cappellini takes a nasty little kick at Simpson, long after the goalie has gathered the ball.

“OFF! OFF! OFF! OFF! OFF! OFF! OFF! OFF!”

“How’s that no even a booking?” says Eddie.

“BOOO!”

The Celtic trainer is on, but Ronnie is okay.

Attack after attack.

The ball loops towards the Celtic bench. Stein, of all people, saves it, chucks it back on.

“Herrera – you’re no a genius, you’re a tumshie!” jeers Iggy.

“Away hame ya tube!” says Eddie.

Craig finds Johnstone. Burgnich fouls him.

“BOOO!”

The main stand and the flagpoles cast a longer shadow onto the pitch. It’s a little cooler now. But for Inter the heat is still on. Celtic are still running them ragged. Eleven heroes. The
greatest Celtic performance ever.

Anxiety is an almost permanent state when you are a manager. There is no escape. Even fans singing your name can seem like a burden. If I cared less, it would
be easier.

But something strange happens as the minutes tick towards the 90. As I sit watching my team – my wee team – pouring forward, I feel at peace. I relax the furrows in my
brow and I have a wee look around the stadium. Green and white everywhere. And opposite us, the main stand. I look at the huge Roman pillars and then I see it. The European Cup, just sitting there.
We are so close to it now; a big lump of metal with a significance which cannot be fully understood; I can see big Billy up there, holding that huge silver jug above his head. I have no doubts
now.

What happens next is further proof. John Clark crosses the halfway line.

There are 10 minutes to go when a defensive header lands midway inside the half. Suddenly, Clark appears, desperate for a piece of the action. He controls it. Auld comes up to him
but Luggy skips away from him. Auld looks bemused, as if to say: ‘Luggy, launching an attack?’

He shuffles down the inside-left channel. He points to the space he wants Chalmers to run into. His pass is measured but it is just cut out. The ball is shuttled to Domenghini who
races up the wing. Luggy is miles out of position but he is after him, running like the wind. Domenghini slips the ball inside and takes the return. Luggy is still after him. He is level with him
now. Domenghini cuts inside but the danger is cleared. Luggy is back at his station. Hands on hips, gazing straight ahead. Barely a bead of sweat on his brow.

Wallace wins it well, finds Johnstone. Then Craig, back towards Johnstone, crosses in to Lennox – but the referee blows for a foul on the goalie.

“NEVER!”

Chalmers, such speed and skill all the way to the edge of the area. Stopped.

“Surely that was a f-f-foul!”

“Referee, for fuck’s sake!”

Auld shimmies, finds Murdoch on his left, cuts inside, cuts outside, cracks one from the angle – beaten away by Sarti! But the ball finds Gemmell, he rolls it to Murdoch – another
angled blast – another marvellous reaction save by Sarti!

“We’ve played them off the fucking park!” groans Rocky.

Chalmers to Murdoch, to Gemmell. He rolls it across the six-yard line, Wallace tries to steal it from Sarti who takes his legs – actually grabs his legs with both hands and pulls him down,
as clear a penalty as you will ever witness – not given!

“THAT’S DISGRACEFUL!”

“A STONEWALLER!”

“CHRIST ALMIGHTY!”

“YOU’VE GOT TO BE FUCKING KIDDING REFEREE!” an unfamiliar voice yells out. We turn round to see the curate, red-faced at his outburst. We smile at each other.

Free-kick as Burgnich again fouls Jinky on the left side of Inter’s area as we look down. Auld takes it, headed on by Murdoch – what a save by Sarti – a one-handed catch from
point-blank range!

Auld rolls a diagonal ball into the danger area, Wallace is only inches away from connecting as a defender gets the vital touch. Then Auld pings it through to Johnstone but the flag is up.

CEL-TIC, CEL-TIC, CEL-TIC.

“How l-long, Tim?” asks Mark.

“Five minutes. There’s five minutes left.”

A free-kick for offside just inside the Celtic half is rolled forward to Murdoch, who finds Gemmell on the left-hand overlap as usual. Gemmell holds it up at the edge of the penalty box as the
Inter defenders stand off momentarily. He does a little shimmy, rolls it back into the path of Murdoch. Murdoch hits it cleanly with his left foot from outside the area – Stevie Chalmers, who
has run ceaselessly all game, is lurking on the six-yard line like a predator.

Chalmers stabs at it.

Sends the ball into the back of the net.

We celebrate as a group, the five of us in a ragged huddle, the odd Portuguese or Celtic fan reaching in to hug us. Every fibre of my being burning with euphoria. I look upwards, into the
splendid blue sky.

“Yes!” I say quite quietly to myself. “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!”

I grab Sean, whisper in his ear.

“What did I tell you, Sean? I told you we would score. I told you we would fuckin’ score.”

“Let’s get down!” commands Rocky hoarsely. “So we can get onto the pitch at full-time.”

We begin descending the slope, along with hundreds of others. Grown men are weeping. An elderly man wearing a Celtic scarf grabs me and babbles in Portuguese, clearly delighted. The Celtic fans
are already celebrating victory, brandishing their flags and singing:

We shall not, we shall not be moved!

The match has become an irrelevance. Once at ground-level we file along to the south-east corner where Celtic are letting the final minute tick away.

“How long now?” says Iggy, quietly.

“Seconds,” I gasp.

I glance at my watch. Not nervously. We could play here for another hour-and-a-half and Inter would never score. In fact, they would struggle to get out of
their own half. All tension is gone. All that is left is the scale of the achievement.

What is a man meant to do when he achieves his destiny?

I start walking.

“Where you going?” asks Sean, as I stand up.

I do not reply. I walk slowly. I’m not sure why. Maybe it has all become too much for me. Maybe the pride I feel in the players is beyond expression; beyond excitement and
joy. This is everything I ever wished for. This is my life’s work. Maybe I am scared of breaking down. Big Jock, greetin’ like a bairn. It could happen. If I let myself get caught up in
it all; hugging the players, hailing the fans. No, I need to get away. I quicken my pace. And then I hear it. The final whistle.

Part of me wants to catch my breath but Eddie and Rocky are already clambering over the barricade and the rest of us follow suit. I stumble clear of the moat. The others race
ahead, intent on celebrating with the players. But I slow to walking pace, and watch the four of them dash onwards. More and more fans are pouring onto the field, going berserk. I fall to my knees,
weak with emotion, tear up a piece of the lush turf with my bare hands, kiss it, stuff it inside my shirt.

I look to the heavens and say it out loud: “Da. You said Celtic were anointed. You were right.”

A figure catches my eye. It is him. Stein. The Big Man. I make a beeline for him, run on a burst of adrenalin I didn’t know I had. I fight my way through the throng, am confronted with his
broad back and shoulders.

“Mr Stein!”

He turns round. For a single moment in time there is calm within the storm. I reach forward, tentatively. He looks down, extends a giant paw and envelopes my outstretched hand.

“We’ve done it, Mr Stein. We’re the first.”

He fixes me right in the eye.

“Aye lad. We are that.”

He smiles, lets go of my hand.

I am at the entrance to the tunnel. I turn and take in the scene. The players fall into each others’ arms. Then the fans come on, pouring off the
terracing, jumping over the moat. I hear someone call my name. I turn round. A young man.

“We’ve done it, Mr Stein. We’re the first.”

I look him in the eye and I see it all there; all the hopes and dreams of every man and woman who has sacrificed so much to be here.

I search in vain for something profound to say.

“Aye lad. We are that.”

I turn and slip into the tunnel. I start to jog, but it is chasing me; tidal waves of emotion. I am running now but they pursue me, crashing at my heels. I push open the dressing
room door and rush to the toilet. I place my forehead against the cold porcelain wall and let them wash over me. Thoughts race through my mind.

Burnbank. Pope’s corner. The Cross. Turncoat. Jump the dyke. Bigotry. Hate. Jean. Love. Blantyre Victoria. Albion Rovers. The mines. The darkness. Death. Greed.
Exploitation. Comradeship. Wales. Jimmy Gribben. Celtic. Friends lost. Friends found. Sean. Success. Captaincy. Kelly’s Kids. Dunfermline. Hibs. Willie Hamilton. Celtic. The Scottish Cup. The
league. Success. Europe. Simpson, Craig, Gemmell, Murdoch, McNeill, Clark, Johnstone, Wallace, Chalmers, Auld and Lennox.

I raise my head from the wall. Dab my eyes with a tissue. Three deeps breaths. Open the door. Bill Shankly is standing there.

“John, you’re immortal now.”

I stand by myself on the pitch as Billy McNeill climbs up to the podium like a gladiator. He is presented with the massive silver trophy, which glints in the evening light. He
grips it with both hands. He turns to face the world as he raises it aloft.

I wipe a film of tears from my eyes. I look at the treetops, to where the sun is making its way over the Atlantic.

And I know that nothing will ever be the same again.