The Road to Lisbon (5 page)

“Sit on your bags.”

“Sit on our bags? Are you fucking joking? I wonder how much of the journey you’ll be spending in the back!”

“Haud the bus, Tim. Remember, it’s my fucking car.”

“So it’s like that then is it?”

“Come on Tim, t-t-take it easy,” intervenes Mark.

“Well he just breezes on in and mentions it as if in passing, as though he was telling us he had forgotten to bring his fags or something.”

“Well shouting about it isn’t g-gonnae help.”

“Okay Mark – what do you suggest?”

Mark looks at his toes.

“Keep your drawers on, I’ve got an idea,” says Rocky. “I know where there’s a pile of auld railway sleepers.”

“Jesus Christ!”

So we jam a railway sleeper into the Hillman Imp, where the back seat should be. First we drag it into a back court and Eddie hacks at it with a saw he lifted from a demolition site. His wiry
brown hair moistens. His face becomes flushed. Ugly scar tissue from 50 gang rumbles and square goes divide it up into different zones. The skin might be discoloured purple or angry red in one
place from a rash. Another section might be marred by acne or pockmarked from old spots. Another part is shiny from his close shave. It’s funny, he and Rocky are both big-time tough guys in
the Cumbie yet I don’t think Rocky’s got a single mark on his pretty fizzer.

“It’s a surprisingly good fit.”

“Aye Rocky, you try telling that to whoever’s arse has been in close connection with it after 50 miles or so,” says Eddie, wiping the sweat from his brow.

“At least Iggy’s no being here will give us more room,” says Rocky.

I just glare at him.

“Come on boys. Let’s hit the Blarney for a couple. Get into the mood,” suggests Eddie.

The Blarney Stone is a total cowp. The bar is made out of chipped Formica and the constant fug of cheap tobacco smoke just about masks the smell coming from the lavvy.

“Here,” begins Eddie. “Did I tell yous I got bumped?”

“Naw!”

“Aye. That Hun bastard Christie says, ‘If you’re no here next week you needn’t bother turning up again.’ The tube knows fine I’m a Tim. He just can’t
stand the thought of us going away to Lisbon.”

I think for a moment of Eddie’s colleagues at the packing factory. Dour, self-assured, silent men.

“Dirty Orange bastard,” remarks Rocky.

“I had to go to MacFarlane for a sub to fund the trip,” says Eddie, before necking a whisky and chasing it with his pint. We are silent. Going to a money-lender is not generally
considered to be a prudent course of action.

“What about you, Mark? How did you get the dough together?” I ask.

“I’d to go to the p-p-pawn . . . D-D-Da’s stuff.”

His voice trails off and his eyes glaze over. He shakily reaches for his glass.

Coco Costello pops his head into the shop.

“You boys should get a swatch at your motor!”

We rush out.

Some kids have decorated the Imp with green-and-white bunting.

“Thank Christ for that, I thought it was something bad!” says Rocky.

Streamers are tied to the radio aerial and an Eire flag of a golden harp on an emerald background has been fastened to the bonnet. There are two other groups in the street due to leave that
evening, Mickey Zamoyski and his pals, and the Murphy brothers. Their vehicles have been similarly festooned in Celtic colours. It was the Murphys’ wee sisters who have done the decorating.
The Murphy boys must have supplied the gear. I nod at Big Dessie in appreciation. He nods back in acknowledgement.

My ma descends.

“Here, boys, I’ve got you a few messages. It’s just some pieces and some tea and things.”

“Thanks a lot Mrs Lynch.”

Then Rocky’s ma arrives.

“Here’s a few tins for yous.”

“Thanks a lot Mrs Devlin.”

Then Mark’s ma.

“I’ve got yous a bag of bagels from Fogell’s and some ginger. Now don’t get sunburned.”

“Thanks a lot Mrs Halfpenny.”

Eddie’s ma doesn’t come.

All the local characters assemble to watch us depart. Every window is occupied by wifies out for a hing. Scores of working men returning from their shifts spend a moment taking in the
proceedings before heading to the pub or up the stairs for their tea. My Uncle Joe and a wheen of my cousins are there. Father Breslin happens by and is commandeered by Mark.

“Hey F-F-Father – could you give the Imp a wee b-b-blessing please?”

We all bow our heads as the priest dubiously makes the sign of the cross over the car. “God bless this car and all who . . . drive in her. In nomine patris, et fili, et spiritus
santi.”

Suddenly – and I mean in a single instant – a carnival atmosphere breaks out in the street, as a hubbub of laughter and excited voices wells up in the early evening air. Mr
Brannigan, who is one of the top men in the local Hibernians, brings his melodeon down and begins playing an impromptu version of
The Merry Ploughboy
. Some of the Tiny Cumbie provide the
lyrics with gusto.

And we’re all off to Dublin in the green,

Where the helmets glisten in the sun,

Where the bay’nets clash,

and rifles crash,

To the echo of the Thompson gun

We climb in. Mark is still saying goodbye to his mammy and his sisters. Rocky leans out.

“Get in the car.”

Mark obeys.

So here we are. One moment in time. Even an event of immense significance must occupy just its single, arbitrary split second in history. So live in that moment when it comes. Live in the now.
Breathe deeply and think:
here we go!
Keys in. Turn. Ignition. Accept fag from Eddie. We all do. A celebratory smoke. Camaraderie. Accept light from Rocky. Draw in the smooth blue smoke.
Hold it. Bliss. Exhale. Pump accelerator gently. Give her a little gas, get her ticking. Depress clutch. Shift gearlever. Release handbrake. Bring up clutch. Biting point. Almost there. Last glance
into rear-view. Eddie and Mark perched on the edge of the sleeper like excited kids. Look left. Rocky grinning, basking in the warm sun of history. The Imp vibrates, agonisingly occupying the brink
of two dimensions: stasis and adventure. The throng of well-wishers mob the vehicle but I’m in the zone; I can’t even hear their cheers and songs. Here it comes. Exhale tension.
Inhale.

“This is it fellas – LISBON HERE WE COME!”

“EEEEEASAAAAAY!”

Let clutch fully out. We are moving. The moment. The first imperial foot of the road to Lisbon.

The road to Lisbon. Seventeen-hundred miles of possibilities.

We’re lucky if we make it 17 yards before I have to stop. We get as far as the corner of – ironically – Portugal Street when an immense rattling sound makes me panic that the
exhaust is knackered. Then I am aware of the young team hooting and laughing at us and I stop – right in front of the local wags loitering by Lena’s chippy – get out and
unceremoniously sever the collection of old tin cans they have tied to the rear bumper. Everyone is pissing themselves. Christ, what a red neck! I climb back inside and this time I chew the
ignition and grind the gears and screech the tyres. Fuck the big meaningful exeunt – I’m offski, and pronto!

We drive towards the main road south, out towards the edge of the city. A bunch of jakeys, who are clustered round a wood fire, notice our Celtic bunting and wave towards us and toast us with
bottles of cheap wine. I sound the horn and we wave and raise our communal bottle of
Lanliq
in response. Then something a wee bit weird happens. One of the jakeys, a short man in his mid-50s
with jet-black hair and a Celtic scarf steps out into the road and stares straight at me. He has these piercing, sad, intelligent eyes and he raises his fist high in the air in salute. I swerve
round him.

“Hold the wheel for a wee minute Rocky.”

Keeping my toe on the gas I lean out of the window, right out, and raise my fist high in the air. I see him still there, smiling.

“What the fuck are you doing? Get back inside for Christ’s sake!”

As we travel through the Southern Uplands, glowing gold in the gloaming light, the sun sets in a gorgeous harmony of amber and purple and crimson. I take a moment to ponder the meaning behind my
gesture. It was as though I was saying, I, Timothy Mario Lynch, will root for the Celtic in Lisbon on behalf of all the millions of Tims back home and dispersed around the world. Especially my old
man and daft Iggy.

Christ, I can talk a good game when I put my mind to it . . .

Day Two

The tide lapping gently on the shore. The sea like a millpond. Not a breath of wind. The sun slowly rising over Arran. Dawn breaking.

The calm before the storm.

The players asleep. The coaches asleep. Everyone asleep. Apart from me. Another restless night spent staring at the ceiling. Playing the game over and over in my mind. Every
eventuality. The tactics. The team-talk. The players’ faces. The fans. The Celtic fans. The songs. The colour. The glory . . .

Inter Milan. Helenio Herrera. How to unlock an eight-man defence? How to draw out the greatest defenders in the world? How to get in behind them? How to destroy them? How to crush
their spirits and trample their negativity into the turf? Herrera will be ready. His team drilled to perfection. We have the ability to break them down but I’d be lying if I said I had no
doubts. The creativity that surges through my team is matched by their ability to stamp it out. Like a boa constrictor Inter squeeze the life out of teams. It is dull and monotonous, a crime
against football; thrilling unpredictability reduced to a tactical numbers exercise. But it works, and they have the trophies to prove it. European Cup winners twice in the last three years. We, on
the other hand, are novices. Fitter, stronger, but novices all the same. Our day in the sun hinges on more than our own abilities. What if we lose an early goal? What about the Portuguese heat?
Will it all conspire against us?

The doubts. More than doubts. Fears. Huge fuckin’ tidal waves of fear. What if it all goes wrong? What if the wheels come off? I could be a laughing stock. All those bastards
that want to see me fail. They would crawl out from under their stones. Laughing. Laughing at Big Jock. I can hear them. I can see the fuckin’ sneers on their faces. But I cling on. I try to
trust the other voices in my head. The good ones. The ones that sustain me, give me hope. My team. My wee team.

Whatever happens, they will keep at it, keep driving forward, searching out new ways to break them down. They will be relentless, dogged, their heads will never go down, shoulders
never slump. Inter will have to concentrate for every second of the 90 minutes. And Herrera will have his own concerns. There is a suspicion that his team’s best days are behind them. That is
why the last half hour will be so important. I will tell the players before the game, again at half-time, ‘The game lasts 90 minutes, keep going forward, keep at them, don’t let them
off the hook.’ Then, on the hour mark I will be out on the touchline driving them forward again. When the sun starts to lose its heat and Inter begin to relax, when the thought of a third
European Cup starts to creep into their thoughts, that is when we must keep at them. That is when Auld’s tackles must be crisper, Murdoch’s passes slicker. That is when Gemmell and
Craig must start to stretch their legs, and Johnstone’s dribbles crush their spirits.

I want to win it. God knows I want to win it. But more than anything I want to win it with style. I want to win it by attacking. I want people everywhere – neutrals – to
want us to win it. To be inspired, to remember it. Forever.

Today, a beach on the west coast of Scotland. Tomorrow, Portugal. Lisbon.

The road to Lisbon.

We arrive on the rain-slicked streets of London with Rocky at the wheel. A city brimming with the confidence of the age, sure of itself in its vastness, in its moment in time.
In the brutal dawn, embryonic hangovers and sleep deprivation have put paid to last night’s boisterousness. Eddie breaks the silence.

“Give us that bottle over ya bandit.”

“I-I-I’ll give you it if you address me properly,” replies Mark.

“I-I-I’ll give you it if you address me properly,”
mimics Eddie.

“Eddie,” I say.

“What?”

“Favourite-ever match.”

“Easy. Celtic v Aberdeen, Scottish Cup final, April 24th 1954. We had just won the league title for the first time since before the war. We had some fine players back in they days: Tully,
Peacock, Mochan, Fernie; but something had arrived that had been missing previously – leadership.”

“You’re right there Eddie,” I say. “Without Jock Stein as captain we would never have won that league.”

“Aye. Anyway, the final had sold out – 130,000-odd tickets – but I managed to sneak in with wee Peachy Callaghan.”

“Sadly missed!”

“G-G-God rest his soul!”

“You did him proud, Eddie. Gave that Orange bastard what he had coming.”

“So did you, Rocky.”

“Aye, but you did the time.”

“What’s right is right,” Eddie says matter-of-factly. “Anyway, what a match it was. Celtic played great from the kick-off, attack after attack, but the Aberdeen keeper
was on great form. Then, no long after half-time we scored with an own-goal. But Paddy Buckley equalised straight away for Aberdeen. Apart from that, Big Jock had Buckley in his back pocket. Then
Willie Fernie hit the byeline and jinked his way inside before rolling the baw back. Sean Fallon was there to knock in the winner with his left foot. The crowd roared with joy but there were so
many folk crammed together you could hardly get your arms up to celebrate. When the Big Man lifted up the cup it felt like heaven had come to Earth!”

The joint is in Chalk Farm. It is a shabby Victorian terraced house, innocuous in the grey morning light. Yet I feel a wave of melancholy – the darkness – wash over
me at the banality of this place, the meaninglessness of it as a single address set against the indifferent and infinitely complex flux of time, amid such a vast ocean of people. I feel sick for
home, for my mother, my father. I look around me. Thank God I have my pals with me. Just wish Iggy was here too. And that Da was okay. And that Debbie was waiting for me. Wish I could curl up with
her right now. Turn my face away from it all. Please, Celtic, win this thing.