The Road to Lisbon (23 page)

One such day was the second leg of our semi-final Summer Cup tie against Kilmarnock. We were 4-3 down from the first game but Willie took the second leg by storm, inspiring us to a
3-0 victory. When we beat Aberdeen 3-1 in the final, after two legs that had finished all square, it marked the club’s first trophy in a decade.

The season started poorly. We lost to Hearts in our opening game, but recovered well to inch up the league. One day I spoke to the chairman.

“How would you like to get loads of good publicity for the club and entertain the fans in a way they’ve never been before?” I said.

“Sounds great, Jock, where do I sign?”

“Well, you’ll need to stump up £12,000 but it is a small price to pay for bringing the great Real Madrid to Edinburgh for a friendly.”

He looked at me as if I was mad, but I knew it could be done. And we did it. On October 7, 1964, the great Real, with Di Stefano, Puskás and Gento, brought their talents to
Scotland. Football gods descending from their heavenly realms. Thirty-two thousand turned up for the game and there was a carnival atmosphere. Before the game, I put the players in the picture.

“Listen to the fans outside. They are excited. They are about to witness some of the greatest players that ever pulled on a pair of boots. Not one of you can afford to treat
this game as a friendly. This is a chance for you to prove yourself against the very best. I’ll be watching you all closely, judging you. Don’t fuckin’ let me down.”

They didn’t. After 20 minutes, 17-year-old Peter Cormack signalled his talent with the opening goal. Then Willie Hamilton started unpicking the Real defence at will. I watched
him sway past Di Stefano and chuckled at the absurdity of it all. It taught me an important lesson, that wayward talents had the ability to perform at the highest level if harnessed in the right
way.

The Press were spot on the next day: “Hamilton, the man discarded by so many clubs, was worth six of Puskás.”

October 7, 1964.

The day Willie Hamilton taught the great Real Madrid a football lesson.

We sit at the bar inside a little cantina. Large cervezas are being set up tantalisingly in front of us. The foam froths over the edges of the frosted glasses. It seems right to
wait until all seven are served. Then we drink thirstily.

“I like these Spanish beers,” says Rocky.

“Sody I,” agrees Iggy.

“Soda water,” says Rocky.

“Eddie. Tell us the one about Iggy knocking the polis car,” I suggest. I’m not sure why I make this request; for some reason I want Eddie to be the centre of attention. Maybe
it’s something to do with Angelu.

“You mean ‘The Greatest Story Ever Told’?” says Eddie.

“Aye.”

“Or, alternatively, ‘The Miracle of Gorbals Cross’.”

“Aye. G-go on!” says Mark.

“Naw, no the now lads.”

“Go on,” says Rocky.

“Aye, go on Eddie,” I urge him.

“Aw, alright then. Iggy’s most famous dalliance with car theft was when he stole a polis car. This is a true story, gen up.

“It all started one night in the Smiddy public house in Plantation Street. There was a lock-in, a highly irregular affair, and one that soon came into the ken of the local cops. They
rapped the door and gained entry, but no before all the revellers had taken refuge in the cellar leaving just the landlord – a wily old Irishman – and a few choice patrons at the
bar.

“ ‘We’ve had reports of after-hours drinking here,’ said one of the polis.

“ ‘Just a private party officer. A few quiet drinks for friends.’

“ ‘No cash sales?’

“ ‘None at all.’

“The filth nosed around, their radars on full alert. One of them was top brass.

“ ‘The Inspector here, ahem, he’s – we’ve all had a bit of a rough time in the line of duty tonight. Could you provide him with a dram?’

“Not one to offend the local constabulary, the landlord poured the assembled coppers a large one each, on the house. Then another one. Then another. On the third dram the revellers, tired
of being cooped up underground with the rats, started to drift back into the bar. The polis couldn’t complain – they were all after-hours drinkers now.

“Meanwhile outside Fate played her mischievous hand in proceedings. Who should be passing by but the bold Iggy. He himself was full of the drink and happened to spy the parked-up squad car
had been left unlocked. To Iggy it would have been an effrontery to his very nature to have walked on by.

“Five minutes later and I’m speeding along Ballater Street, driving a van on the early morning breid run. I’m still half-jaked from the night before, hungover, late and have no
had too much in the way of kip. I know I am driving too fast but who’s on the road at this time of the morning?

“At Gorbals Cross a polis car, blue light flashing, siren blaring, suddenly bursts into view to my left. I barely have time to touch the brake pedal before I’ve broadsided it. I have
right of way but it won’t matter. Not when the polis are involved. My heart sinks.

“Then it happens. The Miracle of Gorbals Cross. The driver of the squad car clambers out. Then bolts. Like an Olympic sprinter. My jaw is on the floor. I’m no sure what the bloke is
wearing but it sure isn’t the uniform of Glasgow’s finest. In fact, it has a passing resemblance to one of Iggy’s loud suits.

“The cops were so mortified by events that they covered it up, and no heat came my way. But they made sure the Smiddy was shut down after that, the bastards. They were convinced that one
of the patrons had knocked the car and they just hated the idea of the Gorbals finding out that night what a bunch of tubes they truly are.”

We laugh and sink our beers.

“So, Iggy. You stole the police car, even though you didn’t have any key?” enquires Xalbador.

“I certainly did,” says Iggy, proudly.

“He’s an expert,” says Rocky.

Xalbador looks thoughtful.

Celtic v Dundee, League Cup, August 1965

“He’ll get me the sack. I’m telling you, Sean. He’ll get me the fuckin’ sack. It’s players like that who do managers in . . .”

Two defeats in the first three games of the season. 2-0 down at home against a superb Dundee side and the wee fucker is trying to take the piss out of the full-back. Bobby
Murdoch shows for it, but the wee man turns away, tries to beat his man for the second time.

“Release it. Fuckin’ release it.”

This time, the full-back gets him. The wee man spins into the air, comes down with a crash, looks expectantly at the referee. Nothing. He trots past the dugout.

“Don’t fuckin’ dare moan at the ref. It wisnae a foul. Why the fuck didn’t you pass to Bobby?”

He looks at me as if I’m mad, like I’m talking Swahili. Did he even see Bobby? Maybe not. Maybe he’s so caught up with his parlour tricks that he can’t
even fuckin’ see what’s in front of him.

Soon after, he’s done his man again, the cross is on. But what does he do? Foot on the ball, waits for the defender to come back at him . . . just so he can beat him
again.

“Never a team player,” I say to Sean.

Next week in
The Celtic View
, a shot across his bows.

“Some of our forwards’ play against Dundee was just plain stupid. Some players had persisted in going their own way, not doing as they were told in the pre-match
planning. Steps will be taken to ensure that Celtic come first and individuals second . . . One change that will be made for the next game is at outside-right, where Steve Chalmers will be brought
in again.”

The phone starts ringing, the grapevine twitching. Bobby Howitt at Motherwell is interested in the wee man. Eddie Baily, Bill Nicholson’s assistant at Spurs, has been
watching him too, as a possible replacement for Cliff Jones.

“The wee man is sweating, Jock,” says Sean. “Thinks he’s on his way out. One of the boys was saying he was in tears the other day, talking about going
back to the Juniors.”

“Let the wee fucker sweat, Sean. I’ll decide on him in my own time.”

September 10th, 1965, a friendly match against Clydebank. I’m running the rule over a couple of Brazilian trialists. They’ve probably got no
chance of a deal, but it’s a nice wee titbit for the Press. Keeps us on the back pages. The crowd is big for a reserve game. Quite a few of the journalists are here, too.

The wee man’s at outside-right. Five minutes in, he picks it up. Bobs, weaves, drops the shoulder and he’s away. The centre-half races across to cover. Wee tap
through his legs and he moves up another gear. The crowd responds. A murmur sweeps round. Something’s happening. Now he’s in the box. There’s another defender in front of him. But
he’s got Yogi Hughes free inside him. What’s he going to do? He weighs it up. His instinct is to take on the defender. Every fibre of his being wants to drop that shoulder again, go
round the outside. I’m ready to blast him. But, suddenly, he stops. Foot on the ball. Square pass. Yogi meets it on the run. 1-0. My jaw drops. Sean swings round. Arches his eyebrow.

Midway through the half, he hits the byeline, sends over a first-time cross. 2-0.

“What about that?” says Sean.

“He’s been listening. I can’t believe the penny’s dropped!”

Forty minutes gone, he gets the ball, outfoxes the full-back and cuts inside. A nutmeg, sidestep and suddenly it all opens up for him. But then he does a funny thing. He lifts
his head, looks for a team-mate. Then, he realises that he’s on his own. This is his moment. It’s time to be selfish, to take the glory. And he hits it low and sweet, watches it fizz
into the corner. 3-0. Half-time.

I’ve seen enough. I take the stairs three at a time, burst into the dressing room.

“Jimmy, get those boots off, you’re not going out for the second half.”

He looks up at me in horror.

“And wipe that soppy look off your face. It’s to keep you fresh for Saturday. You’re staying. But always remember one thing: you play for the team, or you play
in the reserves.”

Xalbador and Angelu don’t seem to be in any hurry and convey our things in their car to where we will camp. We follow them on foot, through a pleasant forest. We see the
ocean, which is about a mile away from the village, brilliant blue though the trees. The coast here is formed as a bight that stretches considerably to the east, but less so, yet more steeply, to
the west, where it gives way to the sea in dramatic slate cliffs below which lies a wrecked fishing vessel, stripped bare like a whale’s ribcage. The deserted beach itself is rocky and
primeval, but interspersed with swathes of comfortable sand. It is upon this sand, and against where the red earth of the pine forest drops away abruptly, that we set up camp. I listen to the
crackle and spit of the fire and the surf crashing in the middle distance. I can smell kelp and smoking driftwood. Eddie and Angelu, who are sitting nearby, begin chatting.

“Is Xalbador angry with you?” asks Eddie.

“I embarrassed him. With the flag. I was supposed to keep watch. He cannot tolerate mistakes . . . he wants all of us to be professional guerrillas. He says there is a war coming. Not just
in Spain, but the world over. The fight for justice.”

If Xalbador’s voice is peculiarly high-pitched, Angelu’s is unexpectedly low in tenor. That, and the way she carries her frame, are at odds with her otherwise delicate, feminine
demeanour. She holds her shoulders in a hunched fashion that conveys a sense of being uncomfortable in her own skin, like a permanent self-effacing shrug, and her big hazel eyes roll in mock
despair of herself as she talks. Her shyness is all the more becoming because she is, in fact, utterly beautiful.

“You seem to think a lot of him, his ideals. I hope he doesn’t get you into trouble.”

“I guess all little sisters worship their older brothers.”

“Oh, you are . . . brother and sister.”

She smiles at him coyly.

“Earlier . . . you knew that slogan, ‘Gora Euskadi Askatuta’.”

“Well, I know a little about revolutionary politics myself. In fact, my uncle served here on the Republican side.”

“Your uncle fought in the Civil War?”

“Yes, for the International Brigades. He was a member of the Communist Party. He was wounded at Ebro.”

“He sounds like a courageous man.”

“He was the finest man I ever knew.” He steals a look at her. “No Pasaran!”

“No Pasaran!” she smiles.

“Angelu, Franco . . . the state. They’ll come down hard upon you.”

“We will be prepared. We will be ready for the next phase. No more just sabotage, painting pointless slogans.”

“So it will be bullets and bombs instead?”

“It is inevitable. Unavoidable.”

I open my eyes and watch them from behind. He offers her a cigarette, takes one himself, lights hers, then his. I am struck by how cool he seems. He is lost in thought, then speaks again.

“It’s a hell of a thing to see a person die of violence. It stays with you. Nothing can ever erase it from your mind.”

“We have no choice . . . your uncle knew that the only way to defeat fascism was with armed struggle.”

“Aye, perhaps. As long as you realise where it all ends. With innocents being killed.”

“So be it.”

“I hope you have enough steel within you.” He takes a draw from his fag and exhales. “ ’Cause violence, doling it out . . . it gets you.”

I begin to feel as though I am intruding by listening in, so I go for a wander a little further along the way where Xalbador and Iggy are chatting in lowered tones.

“Alright lads?”

“Tim! I was just instructing Iggy here about our struggle for a Basque homeland.”

“How interesting. I must say Xalbador, your English is excellent.”

“A good education my friend. That is the primary means of fighting back. I learned English and German in the UK, at LSE, alongside political studies. The first thing a revolutionary must
be able to do is read Marx in the original text.”