Celtic 1 St.Mirren 0
7th April 2001
match report
Hail Hail gang
I have awoken with a head
that I swear is being attacked by a pneumatic drill. My bleary eyes
struggle to fight through the haze and for a second I am terrified by the
close presence of a huge golden globe, which I eventually realise is a
tiny bell that is hanging from a green and white jesters hat that I must
have recently bought. It must have been a special occasion indeed to merit
such a ridiculous purchase. With my sight steadily improving, my other
senses start to kick in. I haven’t a clue what I’ve been consuming but
my mouth feels like a cross between a children’s sandbox, a cat
litter-tray, and the griddle of an ancient hamburger van. Amongst the many
lurid and ever changing tastes, I suddenly sense rubber! My hand quickly
reacts and pulls a six inch piece of flat, red rubber from my mouth, that
seems to have been constructed as some sort of exaggerated impression of a
celebrity’s tongue. Looking past this object I view my attire, every
piece of which appears to be coloured green. The fragments and globules,
which are splattered across my clothes, could only have their origin
determined by some form of DNA analysis. My digestive system – or
what’s left of it – suddenly catches up and I lurch towards the
nearest toilet bowl. Peering into the ceramic expanse I try to grasp at
the events that have led me to my current condition. Flashbacks, swirling
memories, sounds and smells revolve in my head like a carnival ride as my
brain attempts to piece the jigsaw together. A jigsaw which has resulted
in me enduring the most intense physical, emotional and mental distress
and yet has also left me with a smile that will have to be surgically
removed. It all started………
It all started with a
secret knock on the back door of a local hostelry in the early hours of
Saturday morning. One by one Celtic comrades enter and quietly congregate
around the hushed bar. There seems to be something more than the legal
implications of our presence that is making for our silent gathering.
Instead of loud and animated greetings, simple head nods and silent
handshakes are exchanged. There is an excited tension surrounding all of
us. There is a huge feeling of anticipation that has been slowly building
for the entire season and it appears to have reached its peak today –
something will have to give. Grown men can hardly string sentences
together and we’ve only just started to drink. Bleary eyes betray hours
of lost sleep and everyone seems to be sharing the tired effects of a
child after a sleepless Christmas Eve. Tiny signs of nerves and excitement
can be seen everywhere: shaking hands; darting eyes; trembling smiles.
Piece by piece the unspoken excitement is eventually fleshed out: the club
is spoken of; the squad is guessed; O’Neill is immortal; Larsson ditto;
post-match plans are whispered for fear of fate-tempting; points and goals
are calculated – today the unthinkable, the unbelievable, the incredible
possibility of one man taking a buried Celtic team and resurrecting it
into a team of champions in the space of a season can actually be
realised. We tiredly jumped the Dundee hurdle during the week and if we
can just push past bottom placed St.Mirren – surely – then we can
break the tape on the finishing line and accept our prize.
The jalopy that our local
hire company had the audacity to pronounce as a piece of transport pulls
up and supporters enter with mouths wide open and faces straining, as if
inspecting the site of a disaster. “Did they kick out the chickens and
clear the hay off the seats before they gave us it?” enquires one
comrade. The joke breaks the excited tension and it seems slightly easier
to communicate. Missing comrades are checked off and talks of different
plans and parties making their way to and from the emerald temple are
shared. A combined sigh leaps into the air as the bus/coach/box passes by
the spot on the M8 where Wednesday night’s bus to the Dundee game broke
down. A heated debate about whether or not to stop off at the supporters
association on London Road is quickly aborted at the sight of hundreds
queuing from the door to the roadside. We pull to a halt and groups of
comrades head off in search of favourite pubs. Each pub is passed by and
the sight of queues outside each doorway make it clear that today is going
to be busier than usual. The door to The Bowlers Rest is flung open and
the immediate wallpaper of huddled bodies confirms our fears. Pints are
captured at the bar and end up being an eighth full when they’re
delivered through the crowds. We eventually leave and march through the
streets which are thronged by the faithful. Flags are everywhere to be
seen and the sky starts to brighten and warm the flowing sea of green
humanity that now drowns the land. Voices raise and songs of praise fill
the air. As fever pitch grows, I can resist the temptation no longer and I
break off to buy a jesters hat and “Henrik’s tongue”. Middle-aged
men are taken by madness and fight with children for the last sales of
t-shirts, scarves and hats. In line with modern football, flag sticks
which have just been bought are removed by police order and now stand
against the stadium’s walls. Some supporters wise to the rules now start
to walk with a limp and the ends of canes can be seen protruding from
their trouser legs. The successful ones can then be seen inside the
stadium proudly twirling their flags. At tunnel ‘104’ I break into a
canter and enter the stadium with a traditional tap on the archway. It’s
a while to kick-off but the noise is deafening. I listen to surrounding
conversations as I make my way upstairs, head bowed, looking for row
‘v’. On arrival I then make my way to seat ‘009’ after passing
each compatriot and greeting them like a dignitary inspecting a line. I
spin round and my eyes drink in the vision placed before me. Tens of
thousands of faithful followers seem to occupy every inch of the heaving
structure; the huge screens blast out bright images of the season’s
goals; hanging speakers bulge with music; and down on the hallowed turf
the holy studs of our hooped centurions seem to float across the green
carpet. I take a few seconds to view each hero and silently pray that this
most excellently timed encounter can be taken advantage of. Time cruelly
robs me of my daydreams and suddenly the referee leads the two teams out
of the tunnel.
A smile creeps across my
face at the sight of our opposition – St.Mirren. The smile appears
unforced as my mind ponders what good talismans the Paisley team have been
for my beloved club. For a supporter of my age group one of the greatest
moments of Celtic success came at Love Street as we routed St.Mirren in
the 80’s and took the league by a quirk of fate from results at other
grounds. Two of my most favourite pieces of Celtic moments on video came
during that game. The first was ‘that goal’ which was started from the
back by Danny McGrain, seemed to be quickly touched and passed on by
almost every single Celtic player, before being tucked into the goal at
the other end to the cry of “absolutely magnificent” by then
commentator Jock Brown. My Gran taped this game for me at the time and the
fabric of the tape during this goal scoring section has been rewound so
often, that it’s defying all laws of physics to remain intact. The other
special moment was the hilarious sight of the buddies’ goalkeeper
(Campbell Money I believe?) collecting the ball and then getting the
fright of his life as the Celtic support exploded with joy as results from
other grounds were heard. He stood there like a terrified antelope
suddenly surrounded by thousands of roaring lions. I wished this terror
upon the present St.Mirren team as they walked out into the huge
amphitheatre. I was hoping that this was the walk of doomed Christians
being led to certain death by their accompanying Gladiators – hoping
even more that none of them would turn out to be Russell Crowe figures,
ready to wreck the party day of the Romans.
Again my thoughts were
quickly stolen at the sound of referee Underhill’s whistle starting the
match. The first period erupted into life and would take on the admirable
form of a cup-tie – sadly not repeated by the second half to come.
Credit to St.Mirren, they took on the sturdiness of an Arsenal team that
their away kit mimicked. Collecting loose balls, they bravely made
attempting runs through the middle, thankfully thwarted by the stalwarts
of Lennon and Lambert who truly excelled yet again. These midfield
generals proudly guarded their territory, put in crunching tackles,
predicted avenues of approach, guarded balls, ushered passes and delivered
calm all around them. Time and again, Lennon would swap with one of our
huge defenders and allow them to go forward for set pieces. Time and
again, Lambert would cosset the ball and then slide it to a winger when
his team mate had the best advantage of space. They carried out their
functions perfectly and every now and then would try and also assist in
attack. Their duties mean that this is not too often and we sorely miss
the presence of Stilian Petrov strongly rushing through from the middle. A
midfielder who tried to fill this attacking gap, in an admittedly
different fashion, was the Slovakian genius that is Lubomir Moravcik. He
twisted and turned every which way and slinked his way past opponents to
either take a shot on goal or deliver a weighted pass. Indeed he had many
attempts himself in this half and seemed determined to make his mark in
this hugely important game. A strong diving header from an Agathe cross
just went wide; a sharp-angled shot skewed across the front of goal; a
chip went not too far over the bar. Supporting Moravcik’s forays from
the flanks, were Thompson and Agathe. Many times Didier ran past his
marker and cut crosses for heads to attack. Thompson sadly, had a
nightmare of a game compared to his usual standard of cross balls. He did
manage some nice link-ups with Lubo and Henrik but his crossing is his
typical mode of threat. Ricky Gillies put a rather hopeful chip over the
bar from far outside the box, before Celtic took over the predicted
pattern of camping inside the enemy’s terrain. Celtic endlessly won
corners and free kicks but sadly the ball would pass just above the
towering heads of Mjalleby, Valgaeran and Vega, or would be prodded just
wide of the post. Moravcik would tease the ball through to Larsson and
Johnson, who would see their shots saved by the excellent Ludovic Roy in
goal. King Henrik would take up many great positions and would produce
some lovely flicks and tricks but the absence of Sutton was obviously
crippling for the super Swede. Too many long, high balls would miss the
attention of the absence Sutton and Larsson could do nothing but struggle
to collect the ball while under the scrutiny of three or four defenders
who would follow his every move like star-struck fans seeking an
autograph. As well as the absence of Sutton, Larsson was also penalised by
the presence of Tommy Johnson. The Geordie works his socks off throughout
every game but the harsh truth is that Harald Brattback provided a better
decoy partner. Johnson shows nowhere near the same positional sense or
anticipation as our tragic Norwegian figure did. “You couldnae trap
wind!” encouraged a nearby supporter as Johnson saw yet another of his
first touches repel the ball from his feet. In Tommy’s defence, he did
make three good shots in this period, two saved excellently by the keeper
and one that just grazed past the post. And after many trips and stutters,
it could only have been the honest but hapless Johnson who would
eventually take the ironic honour of grabbing the game winning goal.
Henrik squirmed through several defenders from the left wing and sweetly
stroked the ball over to Johnson who stood in acres of space in front of
the goal, which had been momentarily left empty by the keeper. With the
gaping goal teasing for an easy strike, Johnson decided to trip over the
ball with his left foot, struggle to collect it with his right as the
keeper regained his position, and then eventually belted it excitedly
under the keeper, off a defender and up into the roof of the net. A more
slapstick conclusion has surely never decided a league title. The half
time replays made the goal seem even worse than initially thought but as
would be repeated throughout the partying night – it didn’t matter and
we didn’t care. The holy temple erupted as every single evangelist leapt
into the air and began to give praise. The door had been opened and every
pent up tension, hope, fear, desire and anxiety flooded through. The
relief was all the more exultant as not long before, a Quitongo pass had
released Fenton who left his marker and pounded down on goal. After an eon
of being held hostage in the opposition’s half, the ball had suddenly
been released over the line and now threatened every single Celtic fan’s
heart with being swallowed. Fortunately, the rush of blood and the
surprise had proved too much for Fenton and with a team mate waiting
patiently in the middle to tuck the ball away, he skied the ball high over
the bar.
The second half started
and after Thompson had headed just over the bar, St.Mirren were again
trying to show that they wanted to rip up the afternoon’s script. McPhee
raced away down the left and chased for the ball which hung just inside
the box. Douglas quickly spotted the threat, ran out and dived to smother
the danger. Up to the final ten minutes or so, this period was pretty
uneventful and I seemed to be spending most of my time reminiscing on each
of the heroes that had played their part throughout the season. Record
buys such as Sutton; bargain buys like Agathe; inspired buys like
Valgaeran, Lennon and Vega; miraculous transformations like Petta; huge
advances in skill and contribution from the likes of Mjalleby and Petrov;
the seemingly eternal omnipotence of Larsson and Lambert; steady and solid
ingredients from Thompson and Boyd…they all flashed through my thoughts,
alongside memories of goals and adventurous journeys to games throughout
the season. Down on the pitch Larsson clipped the ball just wide of the
post, Jackie came on for Johnson and Boyd came on for Joos. Lubo put
through Jackie and his thundering shot was well stopped by Roy. More
corners, more headers, more scrambles in the box eventually picked up by
the busy French keeper. Lennon whacked the ball of the stanchion behind
the goal, Healy replaced Moravcik who enjoyed a standing ovation. As we
searched and searched for that killer second goal, some nerves started to
fill the stands. Besides a good shot well saved by Douglas and a free kick
that just whistled past the post, St.Mirren were not posing us any real
danger but that does nothing to relax a Celtic support that is pessimistic
to the core. The “what ifs” began to be whispered and dreaded. A huge
line of yellow-jacketed stewards and police then filed in from the sides
and took up position around the pitch. This visual announcement that the
end was drawing near made the heart beat faster and the blood race on its
course. Every single timid touch of the ball by a St.Mirren player seemed
to hold a potent threat. All eyes were on the referee and more importantly
his whistle as each second lasted a year. Every Celtic clearance allowed
for the intake of breath before it was quickly halted again. This made it
very difficult to sing the endless songs that had been sung throughout the
game. Martin O’Neill tore a ditch in the trackside by walking back and
forth like an expectant father in a waiting room, while his eleven wives
huffed and puffed their way through the birth of his first-born Scottish
title.
Finally it arrived. Never
has a shrill whistle sounded so soothing and lovely. 120,000 feet left the
cold concrete and floated in the air. Hugs, kisses and cuddles were
exchanged. Possessions were dropped, hats were thrown, scarves almost
strangled their convulsive owners. Tears flowed like wine, down past
beaming smiles. Every conceivable emotion fought to escape from their
imprisoning bodies and blurted out in confused and unintelligible animal
tones. Majestic scenes of humanity abounded everywhere. The entire Celtic
family united and embraced. Delirious players jumped and danced and
ushered family members down to be at their sides. Idiotic preparations and
music selections tried vainly to spoil the party but never stood a chance.
The three ‘Celtic tenors’ were brought onto the pitch and howled their
way through entire chromatic scales to the alleged tunes of “we are the
champions” and “walk on”. After the entire stadium struggled to
determine that the first warblings was a verse of Queen’s “we are the
champions”, everyone cottoned on and joined in regardless. These three
maestros undoubtedly have superb voices and in their place they must be
truly awesome but this football environment was not their place and I
began to wonder if the event’s organisers were also responsible for
organising the flight plans of American spy planes over China. Or as a
fellow supporter more eloquently put it: “we’d huv been better oaf wie
the three fivers!”. More warblings threatened to murder the hallowed
words of “walk on” but thankfully the entire stadium intervened and
saved the day. All of the players and staff walked around the pitch like
dumbstruck visitors to an impressive art gallery. Suddenly the gallery’s
masterpiece was displayed. A massive tapestry of green and white scarves
was abruptly draped from every stand of the stadium and hung down the
slopes in an impressive wall of devotion. Mr O’Neill then gave a
humorous speech where he pleaded for the fans to let him do the worrying
during games. The team gave a lap of honour, treated us to group dives on
the turf and collected scarves and hats that were thrown their way. They
assembled again in the centre of the field as the man of the moment took a
solitary walk of the ground. This was indeed his day, even if his modesty
disables him from agreeing. By his will, every path of the universe had
converged upon this day, his inauguration as the second Messiah. Bathed in
champagne and crowned with emerald possessions.
After the exit from the
ground, it all gets a bit hazy. I remember triumphal marches through
Glasgow streets. I remember good-natured celebrations and the making of
many new friends. I remember many pubs and many drinks. I remember much,
much champagne. Then I can remember hardly anything. Eventually, somehow,
I made my way home. Walks, taxis, trains, pubs, pakora shops, Chinese
restaurants, the company of fellow comrades, somehow my front door was
delivered out of the darkness. My head was spinning, my ears were buzzing,
my throat burned. It felt as if I had been singing the Martin O’Neill
hymn constantly over a 48-hour stretch, and yet somehow this didn’t seem
anywhere near long enough………
Yours in Celtic,
Ricky Swan
carlukeshamrock.com
Return
to the History Books |