The Road to Lisbon (31 page)

“I hope this heat isn’t gonnae affect our boys too much,” says Eddie.

“Aye, and Inter will be u-u-used to it,” says Mark, his brow furrowed. He nervously fumbles with a cigarette. I reach over and light it for him.

“Mark. It’s gonnae be okay.”

He smiles thinly.

Iggy is wearing a kilt he scored out of Paddy’s Market. Christ alone knows what tartan it is. On his chest he wears a white T-shirt with the words JOCK STEIN scrawled in childish
lime-green crayon. Eddie wears his suit with collar and tie, and is draped in our Eire flag. Mark is wearing a green-and-white hooped jersey, onto which is pinned a giant Celtic rosette. Rocky is
wearing flannels and a green-trimmed tennis shirt he had saved for the occasion; his trilby and shades make him look like a movie star.

Iggy, Mark, Eddie, Rocky. I feel a wave of tenderness for them. Yet I feel a sense of sadness because our time together is passing. And then I remember what I had said to Eddie three days
earlier, about Celtic always being there for us, as a focus for our love no matter how well or badly they are playing, providing us with a sense of identity no matter what else changes in our
lives.

I think of the enormity of the task that faces us. Internazionale.
La Grande Inter
. The
Nerazzurri
. Their third final in four years. Twice winners.

But somewhere out of the darkness must come light. My generation coincided with Celtic’s worst period. Yet they still occupied a special place at the edge of my imagination, as a powerful,
strange force that always somehow held the promise of a sense of meaning. And now, incredibly, that promise finally threatens to be delivered. So savour this moment. Remember this place. Remember
the way it looks and sounds and smells. Remember the way the moment feels. Savour it when life gets tough. Because if this can happen – if a football team that contains Catholics and
Protestants, a set of players who all hail from the Glasgow area, a club set up to feed the hungry children of despised immigrants – if they can become champions of Europe, then anything is
possible.

I take out Barney’s St Anthony medal. Kiss it.

Estádio Nacional is downright odd. In fact, it is beautiful. An entire side of it is simply open space, but for a temporary stand erected for the occasion, making for a sense of the
surrounding forest encroaching in. Beautifully manicured hedges and shrubs are landscaped into the arena. The ends sweep away majestically from the main stand. It is constructed of pale stone and
marble, and is like a benign Roman amphitheatre. The pitch is like a bowling green, the turf looks lush. The precious match tickets, priceless at 10 shillings, so carefully stowed away, dog-eared
and grimy from being checked and double-checked a hundred times, are produced. 4.21pm. Just over an hour until kick off. In we go.

The Celtic fans inside have rediscovered their gallusness, aided no doubt by the sale of bottles of lager and carafes of cheap Portuguese
tinto
. We get a double round in, and Eddie, Iggy
and Mark also buy some of the paper sunhats scores of our fellow fans are wearing. They look like merry Glaswegians crossed with Chinamen. We walk round to take up our positions in the southern end
of the ground, about halfway up the terrace, slightly to the eastern side. As we climb the steps we meet more and more folk we know from back home. Everyone seems to have developed a skill for arts
and crafts. Novelty green-and-white stovepipe hats, replica trophies, club shields, giant rosettes – all fashioned from coloured foolscap and card, foil and crepe paper. There are all sorts
of flags. Some fans wear bunnets and woollen tammies, just like you would on a January trip to Dens Park – they must be roasting! The Inter fans have air horns and seem to occupy most of the
temporary stand, which they have draped with enormous black and blue banners covered in slogans. There are hundreds of dignitaries, occupying the temporary stand and the area round the plinth in
the main stand.

The vividly lined running track is a constant hubbub of activity. It is patrolled by stewards in berets and boiler suits, and policemen in peaked caps and smart, braided uniforms. Handicapped
guys putter in on little motor trikes and photographers grab the best positions behind the goals.

We are chatting nervously, singing, chanting. In front of us are a few boys from Duntocher who are wearing sombreros. They have palled up with a bunch of amiable Portuguese fellows who seem
totally taken with all things Celtic. Behind us is a church group – male and female – from Wyndford, led by a young curate. There are lads from Ireland to the left, and kilted boys from
Barra to the right, brandishing a beautiful big saltire. These are the strangers we will share the most significant 90 minutes of our lives with.

The main stand is to our left, the tunnel opens in the ground behind the faraway goal, the benches are to our right, in front of the temporary stand. The team comes out briefly. A roar of
approval. John Clark points as he chats to Tommy Gemmell. They seem truly stunned by the number of us who have made the journey. They wave at us as they return to the dressing room. They love us.
We love them.

I think of my cousin Nicky watching the television pictures, probably with Barney and the other Irishmen at the pub in Camden. Maybe Albie, Austin, Barbara and Margaret-Mary will be with him. I
think of Scots and the Irish diaspora all over the world tuned in on televisions and wirelesses. I think of Da back home. Of everyone back home, but especially Da. He’ll be sitting there in
his favourite chair, his eyes sparkling, a wee dram in his hand, a grandchild on his knee. He’ll be delighted by the novelty of the television set, quietly thrilled at the magnitude of the
event. He’ll be fussing, making sure everyone is comfortable, has a drink, can see the screen. He’ll have read the bit about Lisbon in his tattered old encyclopaedia. He’ll be
looking out for me. He’ll pretend to himself and the assembled that he caught a glimpse of me, shout my mother through from the kitchen.

“Teresa! Teresa! I’m sure I just saw our Timothy! I’m sure it was him!”

Everyone will play along, just to keep him happy.

I’ll see you soon, Da.

It is 4.40pm when we arrive. Fifty minutes till kick-off. The diversion has worked in our favour. It has given the players less time to think. They stroll
into the stadium, up the tunnel and onto the pitch. A quick wave to the Celtic fans then back into the changing room. I leave them to their own devices, let them relax and enjoy each other’s
company in these crucial moments. As they change, I slip outside and hand the referee our team-lines.

“Where’s Inter’s?” I ask.

He shrugs.

“It’s your job to get them,” I shout. “We are not taking the field until we have seen their team-lines.”

He scuttles off. Five minutes later, he arrives clutching a sheet of paper. I scan the names. My heart leaps. Suarez is out.

Suarez is oot, Suarez is oot, Suarez is oot.

Luis Suarez. A £124,000 signing from Barcelona in 1961. A world-record transfer: signing-on fee said to be around £60,000, annual wage around £7,000; arguably the
greatest playmaker in the world. A superstar, but a superstar with a thigh strain. A thigh strain that I suspected was a ruse by Herrera. “He’ll play, he’ll play,” I kept
telling the boys. I called that one wrong.

I hand the sheet back to the referee.

“Thank you for doing your job. And I hope you have taken notice of what just happened here. The game’s not even started and they are trying to bend the rules. You need
to watch them closely; because, be sure of this, I’ll be watching you just as closely.”

I turn away. Smile. Suddenly, I feel the tension ebbing away. I take a moment and listen to the Celtic fans in the stadium singing their hearts out. I feel the warm sun on my neck
and, for the first time in days, weeks even, I relax properly. Tactics sorted. Players ready. The stage is ours. I glance at my watch. 5.10pm. I walk into the dressing room. I casually swing my
foot at a bit of mud on the floor. Then I stand in front of them. The room goes silent. Then I speak. No fist-pumping, no battle cries, just simple words spoken from the heart.

“Right, lads. You’ve made history. Go out and enjoy yourselves.”

The players leap to their feet, more ready than they will ever be.

The darkness. The darkness of the mines. The darkness that envelopes everything, that seeps into your soul and claims a part of you forever. The hand goes out. Taps the man next
to you. Comradeship.

The tunnel stretches before us. The air is cooler down here. It is dark but there is light ahead. Glorious sunlight. I watch the shafts pouring in, illuminating the concrete steps.
I look down the line. Impatience. Jimmy is hopping excitedly from one foot to another. Big Billy twists his neck, loosening up. Bertie looks like a caged animal. Then they appear, gliding past like
prize thoroughbreds entering the paddock. They do not so much as look at us. Do not acknowledge our presence. The strip. That famous strip. Blue and black vertical stripes. Football royalty. Hair
slicked back, muscles oiled. Slow and purposeful movements. The battle lines drawn.

“Jesus Christ, they look like film stars!” says Jimmy.

“Is that big yin there no married to Sophia Loren?” chips in Bertie.

The players laugh. Nervously.

The wait continues. The tension building. Then it starts. Bertie leads it off.

Hail! Hail! The Celts are here . . .

The Celtic song.

What the hell do we care now?

Jimmy joins in, then Billy, then Stevie. Suddenly they are all at it.

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

And if, you know, your history

Inter are looking at us now.

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

The walls are shaking now. My spine shivering, heart swollen, feet tapping.

For we only know that there’s gonnae be a show, and the GLASGOW CELTIC will be there!

Then at last we are off. The click-clack of studs on concrete. Up the stairs.

Out of the darkness and into the light.

As we get to the top of the stairs I shout to John Fallon.

“John – claim the bench nearest the halfway line before them.”

John sprints off down the touchline and plants himself on the bench. Inter are raging and tell John to move. John is not for moving. Quite right; we have been allocated the home
bench. But Herrera and his back-room team are not letting it lie. They drag over the Portuguese police and demand that they move us but the local constabulary have clearly been converted to the
green side.

“No. This is Celtic!” they tell them, as myself, Sean and Neilly stroll up and take our seats, grinning broadly.

I take in the vast arena. The pitch is lush and green, flatter than a bowling green. If we can’t play on this then we should give up. The sun is beating down but starting to
lose the worst of its heat. Green and white as far as the eye can see. I think of the supporters who have travelled across land and sea; the sacrifices they have made, the friendships they have
formed. This is a defining moment in their lives. This is their team. They feel a part of it. They are a part of it. We knew they would come but we didn’t know they would come in these
numbers. This is an invasion. How can anyone not be inspired by this sight? The running track separates them from the action but, even before kick-off, it still feels like they are right on top of
us, inspiring us, driving us on. The strips look different, incandescent in the sunlight, in contrast to Inter’s dark attire. Light versus dark; attack versus defence.

Before we know it it’s 5.20. Some figures emerge from the tunnel, then the teams, the green and white of the Celtic strips brilliant in the late-afternoon sun. The black
and blue of Inter is impressive, intimidating.

“Look fellas – the flags!” says Iggy. All around the ground the Celtic fans have raised their colours above their heads as they welcome the players with a spine-tingling
cheer.

The teams slowly walk in two files into the centre of the pitch, led by the match officials. The gait of the Celtic players betrays strain, but determination, as though they can’t wait to
get started. All except Jimmy Johnstone, who is fooling around, grinning and nattering as he gestures manically to the Inter players.

“What’s Jinky giving it?” asks Eddie.

“He’s taking the pish out of the Inter guys!” says Iggy. “Showing he’s no scared.”

Jimmy is already noising up Giacinto Facchetti. I can’t hear what he’s saying but he’s tugging at his top and pointing at him. Maybe
he’s saying,
Take a good look because this is as close as you’ll get.
Or,
Does your mammy know you’re no coming home for yer tea tonight?

He’s like me, is Jimmy. Itching to get started, for the phoney war to be over.

The teams line up in a long single row.

“Check all the photographers!” says Rocky.

Billy McNeill and Armando Picchi take care of the formalities with the referee, Kurt Tschenscher.

“Big Billy will command everything in the air, the Brush will deal with everything on the deck,” says Eddie.

“Celtic are going to sh-sh-shoot away from us in the first half,” says Mark. “What time is it, Tim?”

“It’s . . . 5.29.”

The players begin to take up their positions. Inter will kick off.

“Well boys, this, as they say, is it,” says Rocky.

We all look at each other for a moment, rather at a loss at what to do. Then I shake Mark’s hand, then Eddie’s, then Iggy’s, then Rocky’s, saying, “Fellas, it has
been a pleasure.”

The boys respond likewise with warm handshakes all round. We turn towards the pitch. One moment in time. The whistle sounds.

We are off.

“Go on Jinky!” says Iggy. “Who’s the Inter number 2?”

“Burgnich,” I say. “He’s going to shadow Jinky everywhere.”