Celtic 4 Kilmarnock 1
29th July 2006
match report

Hail Hail Gang

I had initially grumbled at having to face yet more DIY work earlier in the week that meant missing the Man Utd game on TV but the result and post-match reports that followed, had soon tempered this.  My mate Tommy was providing further analysis of the game as we drove down the street for the early bus into the Killie game.  He had been unfortunate to be present at the match and was now using the gift of hindsight to retrospectively swap my paintbrush for his presence at the game, along with stacks of cash and unlimited use of his car just to exaggerate the point.  We both tried to dull the pain of the nationally televised sporting slaughter by justifying the team personnel and structure that surely wouldn’t remain for the season proper, and also the much-anticipated signings that would just as equally surely come to pass.  And yet the seemingly relentless critical pursuit of Celtic’s pre-season behaviours, appeared to be overwhelming.  Phone-ins, smug pundits, lazy tabloid headlines, non-tic work colleagues, web sites, and of course Monsieur Chick Allez-Le-Pen Young who must surely now be choosing names for the baby he obviously wishes to conceive with his Gallic Guru.

As our entourage later settled into the plastic seats, set in a makeshift beer garden at the rear of Belvidere Bowling Club, two distinctly different but complementary sights softened my trepidation for the game ahead.  Firstly, that of one of our comrades, Peter, strutting from the bowels of the club with beers in hand but more importantly, shorts on legs.  To those unaware of his ritual, Peter advised that his wearing of shorts always took place, rain or shine, on Celtic’s first home match of the season.  And there they were, the designated shorts straddled across a pair of legs that his wife assured him, were a fine specimen for a man of his age.  To his credit, our short-trousered hero never flinched as the darkening skies approached overhead with the threat of rain.  The second omen of good fortune came in the guise of “Jim’s socks”.  These now legendary garments were the infamous bumble-bee black and yellow socks that Jim had worn on the very turf of Parkhead when he played in Peter Grant’s “heartbeat of Celtic” testimonial.  Being the founding, and now only one of two living members of Mr Grant’s Carluke fan base, these socks had been seen over many seasons in many countries; sometimes they had even been washed.  They had then been archived for a long time and for some were now classed as an urban myth.  Yet here they were, unfurled afresh like the new Champions flag currently being unpacked at Celtic Park.  Rituals, omens and traditions were being carried from all corners of the kingdom by hooped knights and brought to the gates of our emerald castle, like a collection of charms to ward off the evil powers that had been attacking our optimism. 

Our posse’s conversation somehow turned to unusually heavy and scholarly debate as the merits and dangers of socialism were being fiercely contested back and forth.  As is typical with such a fun-loving, footballing crowd, the lofty topic was soon put to the sword by one humorous retort.  One of our debaters was in the process of a long and heart-felt description of the punishing poverty he had encountered whilst on holiday in socialist Cuba.  The silence of the listening audience was shattered by another contributor returning from the bar and boldly interrupting with the question, “Are you sure you were in Cuba, cause that sounds awfy like Possil!” 

A few of us headed for the ground earlier than normal; the anticipation of the flag unfurling being too much to bear.  My head was spinning as my ears were bombarded on the walk along London Road.  I weaved my way in and out of the sprawling masses; hues of green and white and gold merging with each other.  Different stages of different conversations drifted in and out as I passed each group.  “Aye but what about Telfer?!…..I’d sell Petrov for £7 million if O’Neill gets the Villa job….Thing is, Zurawski needs to be really match fit before he’s firing….Aye great, with who, bloody Virgo up front?…..Since when was Caldwell ever Sellik class?….Strachan hasnae a clue….Look at the first game last season against the Well, don’t tell me it cannae happen again!”  The waves of negativity on offer were a true reflection of the ocean of pessimism that had been welling up as opening day approached.  My head had started to drop a little as I climbed the many, many steps up inside the North stand.  As I finally turned another flight and took the stairs under the “445” sign, I climbed the concrete steps that would finally open out into the stadium’s interior.  It was there I experienced a short but magical moment.

The dark, echoing chamber of the internal flights of stairs now opened ahead in a tunnel of sunlight.  I froze as my eyes took in the ever expanding vision of fellow hooped brethren that stood and sat in various poses and positions in their seats, dotted around the north, west, and south stands in front of me.  Above the smaller south stand, a group of gulls gently swooped in front of the backdrop of the towering high-rise flats in the distance.  At this distance the vista opened beyond the south stand’s roof and edged out to the horizon.  I could make out many trees, houses, businesses and cars all in different colours and detail in a world that may just sit beyond the boundary of this huge, wonderful place, but a world totally forgotten and disconnected to the awaiting worshippers inside.  Then I realised the certainty of it all – I would always long for this view.  Michelangelo may not have dreamt of the image now in my vision.  The portrait picture of a small tunnel revealing so many irrelevant and unremarkable pieces – flats, trees, clouds may not have inspired most.  If the image could be captured there wouldn’t be queues outside the McLellan Galleries to view it.  However, this was my image, my world.  And the importance of it, the place, the setting, the format, the reason, was all too powerful and important in my life.  I would always be coming here.  Whether pessimistic pre-season or inspiring signings; whether Artmedia or Seville; whether title success or relegation; whether Stein or Strachan; whether Juventus or Caley Thistle; whether good or bad.  This was home and always would be.  I seemed to be frozen in time for days but my moment of enlightenment was cruelly disturbed by a fellow brother barging down the stairs and past me “C’mon wee man, am burstin for a pish!”

I climbed further still and took my seat in the clouds after briefly chatting with my cousin Stephen, who one row in front of me, sits just above the 12,000 feet mark.  The air was charged with much more emotion than the Everton game.  Huge green and white flags were being heaved around on long poles, trackside in front of the Jock Stein stand.  “Hail Hail” was sung to a much higher volume, while all around small polythene pockets were being ripped open to reveal the small green champions flags that had been left on every seat in the ground.  I did the same with my own flag, which much later in the day would find itself stuck to my car’s roof aerial by a fellow fan.  I had forgotten that Brian had done this, when I was trying to work out how a group of Rangers fans were swearing and chasing my car as I drove through Lanark at night.  Way over in the south-east corner, the Ayrshire visitors put the previous incumbents of Everton fans to shame with typical SPL prowess.  Ok, so the Merseysiders may have filled the section completely with a heaving mass of thousands for a meaningless friendly fixture, but the Killie support ensured that they limited their numbers for the opening competitive match of the season to a level where they could mingle and introduce themselves to each other on a personal level.  I couldn’t be sure and some may accuse me of sarcasm, but I thought that the PA announcer actually read out both the playing squad for the day and also the full names of all Killie fans present.  The away end was a stunning example of the limitations and failings in place that Celtic have to struggle against financially, competitively and prestige-wise in the current domestic league structure.

After a rousing roar for the break-up of the huddle, the ref Iain Brines blew for the game to get underway.  The first 10 or 15 minutes were the customary poking and prodding that both opponents participate in, to feel each other out and search for available gaps.  I spent most of this time open-mouthed and pointing at the pitch with a huge smile, mumbling “No Telfer….Wilson…on the right….right back….Wilson.”  Had Santa really read my list?  It was a joy seeing Wilson perform so comfortably and reliably, save for a later poor pass that missed Nakamura completely and the easy interception by Di Giacomo lead immediately to a deadly situation that was squashed by both McManus and Wilson himself getting back.  This joy was matched with the sheer shock at the sight of Mo Camara’s twin brother at left back.  For twin brother it surely was; it couldn’t have been Mo himself playing so composed in small triangular passing situations with McGeady and Jarosik.  And as for the five or six deadly crosses into the box that were either narrowly missed by Maciej or met by Petrov and lashed just wide, or those cutting crosses inside picked up by McGeady and Nakamura, come on, get Mo’s brother fixed on a contract! 

Other pleasant surprises came in the form of Zurawski and Nakamura who in the space of one week completely reversed the world cup rustiness on show against Everton.  Shunsuke was deadly through the middle with a few nice interchanges with both Jarosik and Petrov, or insightful through balls for the ever-searching Miller.  Miller would have been my own man-of-the-match for his hunger, effort, constant shifting and searching, and intelligent side-swaps he made throughout the day with Zurawski – Greer and Hay didn’t know where to look.  He received arguably the loudest applause when he made way for Riordan late on.  Even by that late hour, the poor chap to my right couldn’t decide if he should clap him or not.  “It’s just, he was a hun….I mean he’s ours now but….I mean, 3 years ago he was kissing their badge” - his internal strife was painful to observe.  If not Miller, then I would have edged Zurawski for the award, as his overall great play was also tinted with two fine goals.  The first of these combined the talents of both mentioned players.  Miller had collected the ball far out on Celtic’s left side.  He played a fast, long, low ball across field that lay in front of Maciej on the right.  The sudden opening prompted all in the stadium to stand as one and breathe in.  Maciej pulled back the trigger and sliced the ball hard back across goal into the net just in front of two desperate Killie players who could only guide the globe over the line.  Maciej’s second came right at the death and instead of an inspiring pass-on, it was born of a McGeady miss-kick.  The ball however was welcomed with similar favour by Zurawski and despatched with a similar result.

Two of the new bhoys enjoyed mixed fortunes.  Jarosik looked cool and comfortable in the middle with some nice touches and passing and also a delightful headed goal, again coming from the partnership of Miller and Zurawski in the build-up.  Caldwell at the back however didn’t enjoy the day so much.  Under zero pressure in the first half, he decided to walk the ball out from the 18-yard line and continued to stroke it straight into the path of a shocked but pleased Killie forward, who had to be smothered by Boruc to save blushes.  He was also involved in the visitors’ consolation goal near the end in bizarre circumstances.  Boruc made a hash of faintly punching a cross ball barely clear.  When confusion reigned in the box the ball came to Caldwell who instead of clearing with brutish muster, simply headed into the air for Naismith to punish.  These examples would no doubt be added to the ongoing debate of whether Caldwell is, or ever will be, Celtic class.  I personally will abstain from this court for a while longer, still bearing the scars for criticising a certain Swede on his debut after he set up a Chic Charnley goal.

Crisp passing and cute interplays were on show for most of a pleasant day for us.  The scoreline could have been much higher.  Indeed it may have been so, if any of McGeady’s clever dribbles but greedy shots had been more fortunate.  Before heading to Japan, Naka put his own imprint on the game.  A free-kick was set up in the second half just outside the Killie box.  Debate immediately started in the seats around me, “Aye, that’s his range”, “Is Petrov lining up?”, “Naka can pop this in.”  Before the final judgement was decided Naka had sped the ball over the wall and just past the despairing fingers of the outstretched Smith.  As sublime and certain as a certain Dutchman’s free-kicks had become for us.  The Killie consolation goal and Boruc booking brought the atmosphere down a bit, before Maciej’s second elevated us again.  A “Still Game - Jack and Victor” sketch began behind me, when two comrades loudly spoke about the weather.  “It’s great being at the football these day’s eh?”, “What do you mean?”, “Well it’s nice with short sleeves”, “Aye, so?”, “Well before long it’ll be snowing and these seats will be cold.”  This old-age talk went back and forth in a bemusing fashion before a dozen or so of us in the row in front, turned as one and stared in disbelief at the two young thirty-somethings, who quickly realised their Horlicks-before-bed talk and excused themselves. 

The trip back down stairs, round the edge of the stadium, and along London Road carried much more optimistic conversations.  Smiles were on view and talk was lighter, “Aye Miller was magic….What about Naka’s goal?….That Jarosik’s going to be some player.”  I reflected on the stark change in tone that the strolling masses displayed both before and after the match.  Moody mutterings were now replaced by cheerful chatterings.  A week may well be a long time in the sphere of politics but in the world that is Celtic, 90 minutes can be life changing.

Yours in Celtic,
Ricky Swan
carlukeshamrock.com

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