The Road to Lisbon (9 page)

We turn. She stops, takes off her shoes, and breaks into a run to catch up with us.

We amble onwards together, a merry band on the cusp of a golden age.

“Do you fellas realise that Camden is one of London’s auld Irish areas?” enquires Nicky.

“Naw, Nicky, I didn’t know that,” says Eddie.

“How about we drop into one of these boozers to mark the occasion?” I suggest.

“Sounds good to me!” declares Eddie.

The shop is pure rammed on account of it being a Saturday night. Smoke comes over the top of the snugs. A band jammed into the corner table. Sure enough the lion’s share of the punters are
Irish, young and old. It’s a rare wee community atmosphere in the joint.

“You boys fram Glasgow?” says an old timer whose ears and National Health specs are too big for his face. He is propped upon a bar stool and sips from a pint of stout.

“We are indeed,” I declare.

“Are yez Celtic?”

“We’re too good-looking to be the other mob!” says Eddie.

“Good lads. Will yez be watchin’ da game on da television on T’ursday?”

“Television – we’re going to it!”

“Sweet Mother of Mercy! Yez are goin’ te Lisbon? Pat! Pat!”

He tries to get the attention of the hard-looking barman who has a map of Eire for a face. “PADDY!”

About a dozen faces turn to him.

“Dese fellas are only goin’ te Lisbon – te see the Celtic!”

We are feted like returning sons. Pints of stout, wee whiskies, pats on the shoulder. The band even dedicate a song to us.

As down the glen came McAlpine’s men

With their shovels slung behind them

It was in the pub that they drank their sub

Or down in the spike ye’ll find them

We sweated blood and we washed down mud

With quarts and pints of beer

But now we’re on the road again with McAlpine’s Fusiliers.

“This is fucking brilliant!”

“Pure magic!”

“The berries!”

Delphine just looks at me, smiles.

I chat with the old fella. He’s a nice old guy.

“Where are you from Barney?”

“County Meat’. What about yersels?”

“The Gorbals.”

“The Gorbals! Jeezus and His Holy Mother. Pat! Pat! PADDY!”

Again about a dozen faces turn to him, including that of the barman.

“Dese fellas are only fram da Gorbals! God bless ye Tim. Da Gorbals indeed!”

“It’s the holy ground, so it is.”

“It is dat right enough. I’ve been der.”

“Have you now?”

My blarney detector rises to full-alert status.

“Aye. Stayed der one winter . . . not long after da war, da first one. I’d fallen foul o’ the wrong people in Dublin – those were troubled times in Ireland. I went along
te Celtic Park quite a few times. They had a smashin’ side then, so they did!”

“What players did you like?”

“Willie McStay, Alec McNair, Joe Cassidy, Jean McFarlane, Adam McLean . . .”

Christ, so much for Barney the Blarney!

“Tommy McInally was a great player, wonderfully gifted. He was fast as greased lightning, and had a fine pair o’ balls swingin’ between his legs. He hardly ever wasted a
chance. He had scored t’irty-nine goals da season before, including a fookin’ hat-trick on his debut. But he was a loony. He’d showboat, ye know, show off his skills te da fans.
Used to piss the manager off no end, an’ his team-mates. Maley couldn’t control ’im.”

“And last, but by no means least . . .”

“Patsy!”

“Patsy Gallacher.”

“Da greatest player who ever pulled on a pair o’ boots – and I mean dat son. Da Mighty Atom we called ’im, on account of ’im bein’ such a slip o’ a lad.
The genius of da wing. A fookin’ Irish poet – ’cept he used a ball instead o’ a pencil.”

“Tell me, Blarney – I mean Barney, what was your favourite-ever Celtic match?”

“Oh, let me tink now . . . Rangers 0 Celtic 2, January 1st, 1921. Cassidy scored about five minutes before half-time. Den he scored again midway through da second half. Big Willie Cringan
was magnificent at da back. He kept da Huns at bay. And McNair – the Icicle we used te call him, was steady as usual. He played more games for Celtic dan any other player, did Alec. But it
was Joe Cassidy who stole da show. We went on te win da title dat season.”

He puts his roll-up between his lips and begins rummaging with both hands in his jacket pockets for something, cursing under his breath. He lets out a little exclamation of triumph then fixes me
with his eyes, misty grey and glassy beneath the milk-bottle lenses.

“Der’s sometin’ here I want ye te have.”

He presses a little Saint Anthony medal into my palm.

“ ’Twas blessed by da Holy Father himsel’. Not his current Holiness, da prior incumbent, an’ one again.”

“I can’t take this Barney!”

“Yes ye can. Kiss it in Lisbon and offer up a prayer dat Celtic will prevail. Did ye know dat Saint Anthony was born in Lisbon?”

“Thank you Barney.”

We head out and get the suppers.

“Delphine, I’m sorry if I neglected you in there.”

“Not at all. In fact I was impressed you took the time to talk to that old man. It really made his night.”

We watch the others walk ahead, Nicky enjoying the company.

“Nicky seems better. Now he’s met Margaret-Mary.”

“How do you mean?”

“He was always quite . . . brooding. Melancholic. It kind of runs in our family.”

“And you think she’s cured him? Cured his melancholy?”

“I don’t mean cured exactly. It’s just that he seems better, that’s all. I reckon he’s in love with her.”

“Love! Everyone thinks they’re in love.”

“Well, they’re obviously very happy together.”

“No they’re not, it’s all the same, nobody is.”

“Why not?” I ask, quite taken aback.

“It’s not natural.”

I decide to eat a few chips.

November 25th, 1953. The day the scales fell from my eyes. I peered through the murk and witnessed football in its purest form. The most thrilling expression
of the game ever delivered. I was mesmerised, even before the first whistle blew. Ferenc Puskás, standing in the centre circle after the coin toss, casually juggling the ball with feet and
knees, then back-heeling it to a team-mate. Who were these men? They were the Magical Magyars and they were about to rout an England team containing Stanley Matthews and Alf Ramsey, 6-3. The trip
south had been organised by the chairman. Most of my Celtic team-mates treated it as a jolly. Not me. I stood there, amid the sea of humanity, and felt my life changing. I fished around in my
pocket and found a pencil and a scrap of paper. I kept writing down the same word: ‘Attack’.

At the end of our victorious 1954 season, the chairman announced that he was sending the entire playing staff to the World Cup finals in Switzerland. My heart leapt. It meant
another chance to see Hungary, who had just followed up their Wembley win with a 7-1 victory against England in Budapest. Just about every theory I ever had about football was taken to new extremes
by the Magical Magyars. They were unashamedly, gloriously different. Puskás’ juggling summed them up: ‘We are Hungary and we do things our own way.’

Coached by Gusztav Sebes, they were the first team to take tactics seriously. At Wembley, it had taken me until 10 minutes into the second half to work out their formation. By the
time I arrived in Switzerland it was clear in my mind. Three defenders, one sweeper and two full-backs that spent most of their time in the opposition’s half but were fit enough to get back
and defend. A defensive midfielder added another layer of protection but, otherwise, the whole team was set up to attack. In Jozsef Bozsik they had a talented playmaker. Nandor Hidegkuti played as
a deep-lying centre-forward and spent entire matches completely unmarked, wreaking merry havoc. Zoltan Czibor tore up and down the left wing like an Olympic sprinter. Then there were the front two:
Sandor Kocsis and the legendary Puskás. Hungary ran over the top of teams, overwhelming them in attacking waves. It was so exhilarating it almost did not seem real. In their group games they
destroyed South Korea 9-0 and West Germany 8-3. It was like watching a different sport. Their defeat to West Germany in the final robbed them of their destiny, but they had changed my life forever.
Wherever I went in football, the image of the Magical Magyars and their brand of attacking football was my touchstone.

Preparation is not all about tactics. It is not all about training fields and magnetic boards and team-talks. It is about creating a spirit, getting inside
the heads of players. Preparation is about being in the moment before it arrives.

We are in a small room at Seamill. The players are sitting on rows of plastic chairs. Usually, we would have a quiz, something light-hearted, but tonight I have chosen something
different.

“Gentlemen, watch and marvel,” I tell them. “Neilly, stick the lights off,” I say to Neil Mochan, club legend and now trainer.

The room plunges into darkness and Neilly turns on the cine projector. Grainy footage flashes up on the white wall where I have been standing. The European Cup final, 1960. Real
Madrid v Eintracht Frankfurt. Hampden Park. One of the greatest games ever. One of the greatest displays of attacking football ever witnessed on such a stage. A murmur of approval sweeps the room.
The players are sitting upright in their seats now.

Goal after goal. Wave after wave of attack. Thrilling attacking football. Puskás, Gento, Di Stefano. Football raised to an art form. Every goal greeted with a cheer. I look
at Sean and wink. Sean smiles.

The game finishes, the footage flickers out, the room goes dark. The players clap and cheer.

I stand up. “Gentlemen, it is not what you achieve, it is how you achieve it. Now, get to your beds you fuckin’ miserable bunch.”

We approach Nicky’s house, mellowed by the stout and the evening sunshine, the fragrance of fried cod whetting our appetites. I consider how differently I feel about this
house now that it has gained some familiarity with me. Now it represents warmth and possibilities.

Inside there is little conversation amid the satisfied chomping and Rocky, to be fair to him, doesn’t take long to get over being pissed off at our being delayed by the boozer. Nonetheless
I can tell he wants Delphine. But he’s not getting her. Not this time, buddy. Christ, he fancies himself. I don’t blame him. Got those dark-Irish looks and no shortage of patter. I
think back to the only time I got a click he wanted. These recruiters were over from Ireland. One of them was a sexy colleen, Mairead. Very intelligent woman. Very feisty. I reckon my knowledge of
international socialist struggle trumped Rocky’s Plaza dance-floor chat-up lines and I ended up pulling her. His face the next day! Anyway, it all turned a bit sour when next thing I hear
they had got Iggy all set to take the IRA oath. There’s me running round the Gorbals like a blue-arsed fly, pulling in every favour I am owed – and quite a few others – to get him
off the hook. Mairead wasn’t too keen on me after that. Said I didn’t have the stomach for the fight. She was probably right. I suggested to her that maybe it would be better if there
wasn’t a fight.

“Would you like to come to a party? It’s quite nearby.”

“Sounds good, Albie.”

“Shall we get a few bottles of plonk out of the car?” Eddie winks at me when he says this and we get set, armed with some of the worst red wine available to humanity, Lanliq and
Eldorado
.

“At lease no-one else will half-inch it,” reasons Eddie.

The party is one helluva do. It’s in this grand, beautifully furnished house in Swiss Cottage.

We walk in, into another dimension. All of our senses are assaulted. The fug of hashish smoke, the hypnotic throb of psychedelic music. A huge white sheet is suspended from a balcony. Weird,
abstract images are being cast onto it by a projector slide filled with coloured oils. Other striking images are being superimposed on top of this: a naked woman, her skin covered in tattoos, a
bloom of jellyfish, an Easter Island statue, a close-up of a beehive, a Rothko, an iguana, Fred Astaire in a set piece from
Top Hat
, the Milky Way, Lenin, a mushroom cloud, a hundred
shaven-headed Buddhist novices in brilliant orange robes, an orchid blossom, an extreme close-up of a gastropod shell, a scene from
The Wizard of Oz,
a troupe of dancing circus horses.

“Haud the bus!” exclaims Rocky.

“Beats the Blarney Stone,” I observe.

The revellers are a sight to behold. Men and women dressed in all manner of strange attire mill around chatting or dance almost imperceptibly to the driving bass-line of the Beatles’
Tomorrow Never Knows
. Nobody – apart from us – seems remotely fazed by the proceedings.

There is a man dressed as a wizard, a woman as Boadicea, a Georgian gentleman – complete with blusher and powdered wig, and several pixies.

“Fucking hell. Nobody telt me we were going out guising!” says Eddie.

Two homosexuals mince by, holding hands.

Eddie turns to Mark. “At least you’ll feel right at home, Olive.”

My peaked corduroy cap, Paisley shirt and leather coat give me a slight air of bohemianism and I find it mildly amusing that for once it’s Rocky and Eddie who don’t fit in. They are
attired like mods from the planet 1964. They talk sharply to one another, but I can tell they are huddling together for safety. I feel a wave of tender love for them, for this moment, for this
trip.

A beautiful mulatto girl approaches me. She is wearing a headdress and face-paint that make her look like Cleopatra, and her naked breasts are incongruously pointed. She is holding a tray of
joints out to me and I take one. She kisses me, full on the mouth, then regards me for a moment, quite deadpan.

“It’s going to be quite a summer, darling.”

I notice Delphine is chatting intensely with an older guy, who is incredibly tall, perhaps six foot five, and has gentle, intelligent features. He’s aged about 30 and his black polo-neck
jersey lends him an even more elongated impression. Delphine is holding a sheet of paper in front of him, which he is examining carefully. I notice they are glancing over at me.