Celtic 3 Benfica 0
17th October 2006
match report

Hail Hail Gang

As far as pre-match preparations went, it was undoubtedly the strangest I’ve ever ran through as a Celtic supporter: bubble bath - check; sudocream - check; new nappy - check; bottle of milk – check; bottle of bud – check.  Yes, for this European jaunt I would be well and truly, holding the baby!  I will spare you the long-winded details of shared seats, direct debit payments, and surprise tickets that led to the situation.  Suffice to say a single European Package of tickets had lots cast for it, with the outcome that I’ve got the Man Utd game, my future brother-in-law took in the delights of beating Copenhagen, and my good lady had the benefit of going to the Benfica game while yours truly was looking after our little Princess and watching the hooped disciples on television. 

Some other ticket-less mates were coming up to my house to share in the spectacle, so the timing of getting the wean in bed before kick-off was of paramount importance.  Bottles of Buds were placed in the fridge and a bottle of milk was sat 3 inches from the microwave.  The bath was ran and towels placed within hands-reach, while the radio was checked to see if the injury crisis had suddenly vanished and my nerves could be lessened.  Changing mat laid out and pyjamas sat on the bed; still no sign of Venegoor of Hesselink!  The entire house was laid out in military preparation by 6:30pm; one hour to the show starts on TV; my wee girl wore the most puzzled look, wondering why all these plans were being set without her involvement.  I’m not totally sure but I think her wee face changed from confusion to realisation when she spotted that Daddy had his casual Celtic top on and was muttering inanely to himself “It might not be so bad if we can keep it tight at the back…..I wonder if Venegoor is just a big stunt and he’ll appear in the tunnel…..we might be able to get a draw….oh, but they’re a good team.”

These nerves had slowly built up throughout the day.  I had faced Copenhagen with reasonable confidence.  Man Utd was always going to be Man Utd.  Those are the Juventus/Barcelona games you sometimes face – huge team, huge ask, form book predicting humpings but sometimes your wee team can pull together in adversity and show the Tic spirit to upset the odds.  But Benfica, this was the one I was seriously nervous about.  Benfica are a team; not a set of individuals like Ronaldhino’s, Rooneys and Schevchenkos but a solid, talented team.  Spoiling and diving yes, like most Portuguese outfits, but a team nonetheless more than capable of cruising through Champions League games with a German-like efficiency to push to quarter-finals level with ease.  Yes this was the kind of game that wouldn’t grab the Man Utd-type headlines and interest but would therefore be the very kind of game that we could easily slip up on.  Of course I walked the corridors at work and smiled bravely in the face of any known Huns trying to goad me in advance of the night’s tension – “Ach, it’s just another big night for the Champs lads, we’re well used to it, just you keep worrying about the mighty Invernesses and Kilmarnocks of this world.  Remember, we all have our levels” – all the while I was churning internally and quite prepared for a 2-0 defeat.

The last task before leaving work was to issue an email to some of my mates that would be on our supporters bus, just to ensure that they would wind up my good lady with the usual macho bravado “Oh aye, what’s this?  The bird’s at the fitba and the man’s in the hoose wae the wean?  That’s no right, fitba’s fur men, you know!”  That type of thing, just to keep her on her toes and remind her of the privileged situation she had found herself in.  I’m sure you understand.

The clock now struck seven; radio phone-ins were turned off; and with baby underarm I dived into a flurry of activities that saw her bathed, dried, clothed, fed, read to, and bedded by 7:19pm.  The first cold beer was grabbed from the fridge and the living-room was cleared of 2-year-old toys for the boys arriving.  I then saw the pathetic coverage on ITV that I normally thankfully miss by being at Paradise.  Some wide-boy with an unsettling ‘Jim White’ moniker flashed his smile at the screen, introduced John Collins and Gerry McNee, then went straight to adverts.  Unbelievable!  Countless ads flew by while we shared our tension and fear of facing Benfica with all of our absences; the likes of Venegoor and McGeady raising the highest concerns.  A quick glimpse of Paradise, about 5 seconds of “It’ll be tough.  They have to keep it tight.” football insights from the studio guests, and then straight back to adverts!  This was killing me!  We all made further trips to the fridge amidst these latest adverts that were being interrupted by a football game.  We were now involved in our own game of skillfully arranging and selecting the larger bud bottles from amongst the mini-buds, while making it look as though they just happened to be the nearest to hand.

The screen crackled back from a credit card advert or something; there was a brief glimpse of the Junglebhoys fantastic and huge banner being rolled up the Jock Stein lower stand; we caught the end of an inspiring You’ll Never Walk Alone from the fans; two splash screens of the teams appeared to bring back up the nerves; then before you knew it the ref was blowing for kick-off.  This breathless pace continued from there and hooped jerseys were whirring and buzzing around the Benfica box.  What a start.  Glimpses of Nakamura, Maloney, Zurawski and Miller were spotted flying by in all directions carrying the ball forward.  Paul Telfer, the much derided figure of Strachan’s reign so far, had yet another satisfactory performance in place of the much more talented Wilson at right-back, and it was his early long ball that was deflected into the path of Shaun Maloney.  With unsigned contracts on the sidelines and the pain of missing out on first team action burning in his belly, he launched at the ball with poorly disguised eagerness and his acrobatic swipe thrashed towards goal.  Luckily for the keeper it was straight in his line of sight and he reacted quickly to push it over the bar.  The frenetic pace reminded me of our start against Liverpool when Hartson hit the framework with only seconds on the clock.  We were out of the gates and running at this Benfica team as if the pace and the noise could scare them home.

I have enjoyed some fantastic nights watching Celtic in Europe, especially under the rule of Mr O’Neill and his admittedly costly, big, strong, powerful, experienced, resolute, but still definitely talented squad.  There is now a new team and a new vision being built for our pleasure.  Not better, not worse, new.  Things are different now, we must move on, change is the only constant and all that.  Pace in both passing and movement has been requested in all areas.  There have been worrying stages where other attributes like solid and simple defending have appeared to have been lost in direct substitution for this much vaunted pace, but this has not been the case.  It’s just that these virtues, along with for example a need for experienced and deadly strikers, big-name midfielders, and a superb goalkeeper, have all been slowly built up alongside the main project plan of completely transforming the squad and implementing pace.  Quite a few of these areas are clicking into place and settling down now; a tangible example that can clearly be seen with the likes of Caldwell in defence.  And all this is being created at the same time as another project plan for completely transforming the finances and player expenses, under the excellent stewardship of Mr Lawell. 

The differences in the O’Neill and Strachan teams and philosophies are stark but the excitement appears to be just as heightened.  I could not contain myself on the couch as I witnessed Celtic so easily and comfortably constructing quick passes and overlaps around the slightly overcome Benfica opposition.  The passion was electric and this was just witnessing it from a TV perspective.  The second portion of the first half saw the normal ebb and flow rules of football dictate that Benfica would approach our goal and take over at least some of the possession.  A few mishaps from Naylor, Sno and Lennon reminded us of the apprehension felt and how quickly Benfica could counter with their own quick-passing football.  But the team steadfastly held their nerve and their game plan until the break.

Some beers and a quick nappy change soon saw us through to the second half, the nappy being for the well behaved child upstairs who otherwise slept like a log, and not for the rectum-tremblings of the gentlemen downstairs.  Benfica came out of the traps brightest but the defence was solid and limited them to long-range shots.  Celtic took the initiative and pushed forward again with more silky passing and nice link-up play through all areas of the pitch.  But we had silky play and passing in the first half, would we have a goal to follow in the second?  You bet!  Naylor crossed the ball in and Nakamura sclaffed at the ball with defenders in front of him.  Kenny Miller showed lightning reactions to jab out a foot and steer the ball just as quickly into the net.  The two couches were suddenly bereft of the bodies that had sat on them until this point.  On the way down from leaping in the air, my mates remembered about the sleeping child upstairs and began to celebrate in muted mime, until they realised how unchecked my roaring was and then took their own volume off mute.  Miller ran away thumping his heart and bedlam ensued in both stadium and living room alike.

Benfica thumped the ball off the crossbar almost immediately; the tension and atmosphere were guaranteed for the entire game.  I had a chat with my mate Vinnie at half-time where we talked about how disappointed we were with Zurawski’s performance and workrate, both tonight and for a while now, but how we felt his deadly awareness in front of goal would see him selected as the guy we’d like to have a chance fall to, if it was between him or Miller.  We were soon reviewing that decision with how Miller took his and Celtic’s second.  A Benfica corner was harried away and Maloney was pushing the ball quickly down the left, while Miller was running quickly as ever to support on the right.  A nice turn inside defenders and then a stunning pass from Maloney found the ball sliding through in front of Miller at the right of goal.  Advancing on the keeper, he coolly stroked the ball round him into the net before casually walking away to the adoring legions while thumping his heart yet again.  2-0!  Against Benfica!  With all those injuries and absences!  How good was this?

It soon got even better when Stephen Pearson arrived in place of the 19-year-old Evander Sno, who departed to warm applause.  The ball faced him after being blocked by the keeper from a stinging Nakamura shot.  With a busy penalty box around and in front of him, Pearson took it on the volley smashing it into the ground and then up over the keeper into the net; 3-0; job done.  I couldn’t believe the scoreline but more so I couldn’t believe the sophistication and polish of our performance in dealing with Benfica.  We now face them away from home but we have both the huge psychological edge over them from this victory and also a great points advantage.  Things are looking good.

My early misgivings about ITV coverage and missing the stadium atmosphere were gently smoothed by the on-hand beers and cosy living room.  To top it off, my good lady returned very late with sorry tales of a delayed supporters bus and standing head to toe in soaked clothes from the Glasgow rain.  I barely hid my amusement as she told of the reactions on board the bus when the driver tried to convince the soaked passengers that he had been held up by a mission of mercy helping a wheelchair-bound chap that had fell from his chair in front of the bus.  The bus had all of 3 nanoseconds of quiet reflection before completely dismissing the story as fiction and bursting into a swearword-laden attack of the driver.  As the bus trundled in the darkness, the last remaining breath of a radio call-in show fizzled out with a supporter from the Fort William area calling in about the game.  “Aye, see, even that boy’s hame from the game and he’s in flaming Fort William!” pointed out one of the dripping comrades.

Yours in Celtic,
Ricky Swan
carlukeshamrock.com

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