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Excerpt 2... Celtic in Lisbon

(From Chapter 17 – Strangers in Paradise)

 

Whenever I think of the Lisbon Lions, which is fairly frequently considering the number of anniversaries and commemorations they go through, I think of Jonesy’s old next-door neighbour Danny Grant.

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‘Not one of the Grants.’ He would always smile and stress when first introducing himself, as if that should mean something to whoever his new acquaintance may be. Danny was a tremendously likeable man who stayed with his sister Bernadette on Delivery Crescent, Arthurston, in the small semi through the wall from the Milnes when they were still a family. Always quick with a line as he jumped out his green Austin Allegro and met us playing football out in the streets, he would tease us about our ‘training to play for The ‘Tic’.

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‘NEVER,’ we would shout appalled at the thought, ‘We’ll play for The Rovers!’

‘Good for you!’ Danny would laugh before producing mint imperials from his pocket, passing them round then skipping up his driveway with a heavy looking cardboard box from Fine-Fare containing what  he always explained were  ‘Our Bernadette’s messages’.

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Danny was Celtic through and through . From the day he saw his first match, Celtic beating Everton in The Empire Exhibition Cup at Hampden in 1939, he was hooked. And the day, some nineteen years later, when they beat Rangers 7-1 in the League Cup Final, well, as he tells it he was “as happy as a dog with a stick.’

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So when Dukla Prague were soundly dumped in the European Cup semi-final, amidst all the euphoria that caused, Danny knew that plans had to be made. Money was tight though and not only could Danny ill-afford to get to the final himself, there was Liam, his 22 year old son to think of. In student digs and training to be a doctor, Liam couldn’t buy a round let alone get himself to Portugal. But he would have to be there too. Danny knew it.

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So Danny sold his car. His trusty, slate grey Morris Minor. Bernadette shook her head as he set off that first morning to walk the two miles or so to work and swore under her breathe that he was ‘mad as a brush’. Danny made it to the Arthurston Public library for a quarter to nine where he duly commenced his assistant- librarian duties claiming to everyone that day that he ‘really felt the benefit of the fresh air’ and moreover ‘should have got rid of the car ages ago!’.

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On Monday the 22nd of May 1967, three days before the game, father and son, Danny and Liam, set forth for Lisbon. On what was to be a protracted trip of shaky bus, rolling ferry and trembling train, Danny, unused to foreign travel, was sick on three occasions. Twice in the foul smelling toilets of the claustrophobic, cross channel ferry and once over a small chatty man called Ardel from Leopardstown who refilled vending machines for a living , kept a worm farm in his garage and was also en-route to the final. For Danny had only been abroad once in his life - a trip to Lourdes with his wife some seven years before, but that was business not pleasure. Lisbon was different. His nausea was probably two parts excitement to one part travel-sickness and in spite of his wrenching gut, Danny was captivated by all that was going on around him. All roads to Portugal it seemed, were a flow of green and white. The banter was precious, anticipation was high, and by the time the first foreign beer was consumed, in a little café bar called ‘O Papagaio’ , Liam had a hero in his father and Danny saw a man in his boy. Together, like thousands more of the Celtic faithful, they had been drawn to the show like hypnotised children , pushed and buffeted on a wind of  hope and expectation. And in a matter of hours they knew that the world would be theirs and that they would be witnesses to its presentation.

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When Liam lost his ticket outside the stadium that world, their world stopped. Around them things seemed to speed up, crowds flashed by, snatches of singing skipped over them, but for the two statues from Arthurston, decked in rosettes and green and white scarves, the world just shuddered to a halt. Pockets were searched. Then the same pockets were searched again. Steps were retraced some way back along the five mile walk from centre of town, but amidst the grid-locked traffic chaos the hunt  soon proved hopeless. Other Celtic boys were asked. No joy.

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Pockets were searched again. Sympathetic smiles came from those recognising their fix, those with purpose, those heading excited and carefree for the turnstiles. One old boy with a ginger beard and matted hair that looked like the comb had just point-blank refused, offered to vouch for them at the gate. He didn’t have a ticket himself he admitted casually but he was ‘ok with that’, wasn’t this, after all, ‘a great way to spend yer 70th Birthday?’ So he claimed in a very serious tone.

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A few painful goose-chases for imaginary spare tickets ensued and as it turned out, the bearded fellow held no sway on the turnstile. As kick off approached the dawning realisation was one of hopelessness. Five minutes before kick-off Danny shook his head and smiled at Liam. There were no recriminations to speak of as Danny sauntered over to old Beardy and gave his ticket away. Gave it away mind,  no charge. Old Beardy looked set to cry as he and Danny gripped each others’ right hand and looked into each other’s eyes. As the old man headed for the gate he looked round every few steps fully expecting for the joke to be played but he finally disappeared into the stadium with a final wave, out of sight. Danny and Liam sat down on the concrete ground and waited.

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They found out the game was on the TV in a café just down the way but they decided to sit on the pavement where they could be closer. Where they could hear the cheers. And when the final whistle blew they knew Celtic had won. It was everywhere, it was the biggest thing, too big to grasp.

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When Danny told us all this, Jonesy had laughed a wee boy’s laugh and said something like ‘All that way to sit on the street’. Danny though didn’t chortle his usual cheery response and I felt bad for him. ‘That’s terrible’ I quickly said, clearing my throat self-consciously.

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‘Oh no son, not at all.” He replied gently, ‘Just being there was the thing.’ Danny’s gaze drifted off beyond the horizon.

‘To think we were so close that night...’ he went on,” ... closer , probably, where we were sat, to the goalposts the boys scored into than some of the folks in the ground if you think on it. We breathed the same air as the players, and we saw the same sky. That was enough….. '

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‘And it wasn’t about us anyway, Liam and I. We were just one sentence of one page in a big book, it was ….more…. much more, it was for all of us. A true success story for everyone down through the times, that we did all by ourselves and …. ' he stopped and thought for a second or two and looked confused, ‘But maybe it was all about us, you know. People still comment how awful it must have been for us but it wasn’t. It was the best. Like payback for the bad times.’

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‘The truth is, sitting there, looking up at all those trees around the ground against the clear foreign sky, I never felt more at peace than I did that night. Aye…’ he said thoughtfully, ‘…payback.”

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And with that Danny picked up the box at his feet and slowly straightened up. We thought he was going to say something about getting old, or the nuisance contents of his big box but instead he slightly narrowed his eyes and started speaking in a low, measured lilt;

 

Where were you when the Lions walked out

Onto warm, dark Portuguese soil

Where were you sat when the Lord paid us back

 For our honest and hard working toil.

 

Where were you when we fell a goal down

And the candle-light flickered in fear

From Lisbon to Glasgow and roads in between

 As we pulled for the things we held dear.

 

Did you let yer chin drop when we twice hit the bar

Thinkin fate was forever our foe,

Did yer heart hit the clouds when Tommy’s shot flew

Past the keeper so hard and so low.

 

Where did you dance when the winner went in

 With the men from Milan on the rack.

Who did you hug as the ball hit the net

Defence being slayed by attack.

 

So where were you Friend when Big Jock held the cup

With more pride than a grown man could bare

In the pub, on a shift, Whether home or away

 The truth is that we were all there.

 

Does the distance between take away from the love

Do your eyes need to witness to see

Is it yours to behold when it’s not there to touch

 Can we grasp it or must it fly free

 

Danny opened his mouth to continue then stopped and looked at us both equally. And then he smiled and awkwardly negotiated the ever-present paper bag of mint imperials out his pocket. We took one each and said thank you politely as we always did.

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“Damn Bernadette’s messages!” Danny said as he wrestled his box to a more comfortable place in his arms.  As he walked sedately up his driveway I remember Danny, still with that contented smile on his face although I’m not sure how I know this as we were already haring back to our positions shouting ‘You be Sarti and I’ll be Gemmell!’ as Jonesy aimed and lamped the ball past me into the gatepost goals.