The Road to Lisbon (24 page)

“Then what does he do?” I ask bluntly.

“We are activists, inciters, aggravators, urban guerrillas. We exist to cause as much disruption to the fascist power as possible.”

As he says this I fancy that I notice him making a conspiratorial wink at Iggy.

“Where are you travelling from?”

“Over the border. Getting materials.”

“Materials?”

“Flags, literature. And something else.”

“Oh?”

Xalbador laughs condescendingly.

“Don’t worry Tim. Something far mightier than the gun.” He takes out a little vial and waves it slowly from side to side. “The drug of truth.”

“Is that . . . LSD?”

“Yes. You have tried it before?”

“No.”

“This drug expands the consciousness. Gives one perspective upon one’s condition. Sometimes I dream that the masses will imbibe this substance, and recognise how they are shackled by
the oppressor. Also, it breaks down the barriers of ego, allowing us powerful insight.”

“Insight into w-w-what?” asks Mark, who has joined us.

“Truth.”

“I don’t need to swally a chemical to know t-truth.”

“The brain is governed by chemicals. You are merely temporarily adjusting the balance.”

“What is y-y-your view of t-truth, Xalbador?”

“Truth has always been there, but we have been made to lose sight of it, in our imperialist age.”

“But what about the n-n-new truth that came into history at a specific t-time, 2,000 years ago?” argues Mark. “A new c-c-covenant.”

“Ah, I am afraid I take a differing view. My view is that truth exists eternally and pre-existed us. You see, the task of learning is actually a matter of recollecting. Because the really
important truths are ones we originally knew, in a previous life. So we must tune into Nature, in order that she can teach us.”

“And how do we do th-th-that?” asks Mark.

Xalbador lifts up the vial again and smiles.

“You have a spare day, after all.”

“Yeah, let’s, let’s!” exclaims Iggy.

“I must say, I am very curious,” I say, perhaps recalling Delphine’s acid experience with a dash of childish envy.

“Haud the bus, don’t forget me,” says Rocky, who has arrived with an armful of firewood.

“Aye, I’m gemme,” says Eddie, who has wandered over with Angelu.

“I’m no so s-s-s-sure . . .” says Mark.

“Perhaps you should not partake if you are not sure,” Xalbador says patronisingly. “It is powerful stuff.”

“I’ve heard the Mexican Indians do it for religious enlightenment,” says Eddie.

“Okay then,” says Mark. “Let’s give it a p-p-pop.”

“First I must go back to the village,” says Xalbador.

Iggy trots after him like a little dog.

“What for?” I shout after him.

“Sugar cubes!” he replies.

A Prague hotel room. 10.30pm. I glance at my notebook on the bedside table. Flick through its contents once more. That afternoon I had watched Dukla Prague,
our next opponents, take on Hradec FC.

Dukla had beaten Ajax in the previous round, the team fancied by many as the surprise package. The Dutch side may have played superior football but the Czechs had hung in there and
eventually got the winner through an own-goal.

Ivan Mraz, their leading scorer, had recently switched back to Sparta Prague but they did not lack firepower. Josef Nederost and Josef Vacenovsky showed enough to suggest they will
pose a threat to our defence, Ivo Viktor, the talented right-winger, also looked capable of scoring as did the excellent Stanislav Strunc. Then there was Masopust. Josef Masopust. The great
Masopust. European Football of the Year in 1962, the same year he scored for Czechoslovakia in the final of the World Cup, losing to Brazil. When Masopust played, Dukla played. He is the axis in
the revolving wheel. He is world-class. He is also 36.

As I watched him that afternoon, I noticed an edge missing. The spurt of speed that used to take him away from opponents had gone. Against Hradec, he was caught on the ankles a
couple of times by younger opponents, snapping around him, eager to make a name for themselves by leaving their mark on the great Josef Masopust.

He was not the only old head. Half of the Dukla team were 29 or over and it showed. They looked leaden-footed at times, particularly in defence. We could get at them. Our speed and
stamina could harass them, stop them building up rhythm.

I thought of Vojvodina and the titanic struggle in the previous round. I could not let go of the feeling that, in beating the Yugoslavs, we had overcome a better team.

I put my notes down and switched off the light. I dreamt about Lisbon.

“How you feeling Stevie? Any niggles or anything to be concerned about?”

“Nothing, boss. Fit as a fiddle.”

“Very good.”

I catch Sean looking at me. Tomorrow night we play Dukla Prague in the second leg of the European Cup semi-final. We have a 3-1 lead from the first match. Two goals from Wallace
– whose signing in December has turned into an inspired piece of business given McBride’s injury – and another from Johnstone gave us a two-goal cushion.

But it is a dangerous scoreline for any manager. At home, the Czechs will throw everything at us. How will we respond?

“You thinking about playing Stevie up front on his own, Jock?”

“I am, Sean. It’s a tall order, but if anyone can do it Stevie can. He has the stamina and the discipline. We need to make sure we have men behind the ball and
don’t lose this two-goal advantage.”

“I think it’s a sensible policy,” says Sean. “Ideally, we fight fire with fire, but imagine not being in Lisbon next month, Jock? Imagine coming this far,
achieving all that we have this season, and not being able to top it off by making the final?”

“That’s my biggest fear, Sean. I’ve said from the start that this could be a season to remember. It already is. So many things have gone in our favour. We have
made our own luck, but we can’t afford to leave anything to chance. You’re right, not being there would be a fuckin’ disaster. We can express ourselves in the final, but we need
to get there first. And let’s face it, those Czech bastards can hardly complain after trying to chop Jimmy in half at Parkhead.”

Sean nods quietly and silence hangs in the air. Neither of us have mentioned the ‘D’ word, but we both know that the way we will play tomorrow night is not the way we
have ever played before or will ever want to play again. It’s a fuckin’ dirty word. Makes my skin crawl. It goes against our own philosophies and those of the club. But it is a means to
an end. We have to be in Lisbon. We have had enough of moral victories and glorious defeats. We’ll have our critics. The snipers. Snidey fuckin’ snipers. Parasites. Fuck them. Fuck them
all.

Three years ago, Celtic were 3-0 up on MTK Budapest after the first leg of the Cup Winners’ Cup semi-final. They had already beaten Basle, Dinamo Zagreb and Slovan Bratislava
to get there. The final in Brussels seemed almost guaranteed. What happened? They only went to Budapest and lost 4-0. Most of my team played that night. McNeill, Gemmell, Johnstone, Murdoch,
Chalmers and Clark. Even now, mere mention of that game brings them out in a cold sweat. Not so much the night a team died as the night they committed
hara-kiri
. How much was it down to them
and how much was it down to the tactics, or lack of, they were sent out with? I’m not sure but I am sure about one thing: semi-finals are different beasts. You need to approach them with
extreme caution. You need to win them at all costs. You need to be in the final because that is when everyone is watching you.

I have to be careful how to pitch it to the players. I do not want them to change their mentalities, or feel that they have to play in a way that is unfamiliar to them. Most of all,
I do not want to mention the ‘D’ word. I spend two hours with them, spelling out their roles. Wallace is to shadow Masopust everywhere he goes.

“I want to see you inside his shirt,” I tell him.

Gemmell will provide cover in central defence, beside McNeill, to cope with the aerial threat. Chalmers will run his legs off, chasing and harrying their defenders, not allowing
them time on the ball. Johnstone and Lennox will retain possession as best as possible by taking the ball for a run into the corners. That’s the plan.

In the early stages, they flood forward and should be in front. After half an hour, I turn to Sean. “We’re going to be alright. They’ve resorted to chucking balls
into the box and big Billy will deal with them all day.”

But it is dire to watch. I watch as we get pushed further and further back. Lennox and Johnstone don’t even get across the halfway line. Sometimes, Chalmers is the only player
in their half. It is embarrassing.

“Never again, Sean. Never a-fuckin-gain.”

But then the final whistle goes and all the tension and the embarrassment ebbs away. I enter the jubilant dressing room and spot him sitting grinning in the corner.

“Stevie, you were immense tonight. Thanks for everything you did. I know it is not your game, but you played your part for the team and I really appreciate it.”

Just then, Masopust enters the dressing room. As the players had left the pitch, he had refused to shake hands such was his bitter disappointment at missing out on perhaps his last
chance to reach the final. After calming down, he has clearly had a change of heart.

“I just want to apologise for not shaking hands before,” he says. “You are a great team and deserve to win the cup.”

The players jump to their feet and offer him their hands.

After he leaves, I say to the players: “Let Masopust be an example to us all. ‘Humble in victory and gracious in defeat,’ that’s what true sportsmen should
be all about.”

The excitement has died down a bit by the time I meet the Press men. They expect me to be over the moon, but there is something nagging at me, dampening my enthusiasm.

“Jock, were you pleased that the players managed to perform well in an unfamiliar system?” one of them asks.

The question hangs in the air like an unexploded bomb. The ‘D’ word. Bastards. Why did they have to bring it up? It brings it all back to the surface. I didn’t set
my team out to sit as far back as we did tonight, but neither did we intend on attacking in the way we usually do. I curbed my players’ instincts and the result was that we spent most of the
game with our backs to the wall. The outcome was successful but that was all there was to be said on the matter.

“I am delighted with my players tonight. I asked them to perform as a team and every one of them stood up to be counted. But I’ll never resort to tactics like these
again – never.”

I stare out of the window of the coach and into the Prague night as we journey back to the airport.

“Cheer up, Jock,” says Sean. “We’re where we want to be. Now, we can show what we are about.”

I smile. The road to Lisbon. A season to remember.

I am drawn through the searing heat by the sonorous tolling of the iron bell, the meadow seething with insects. Time is elastic now, or else the intervals between each peal are
truly long, to signify the particular importance of the forthcoming sacrament. Important for me, anyway, as I intend on taking the opportunity to pray for Celtic’s victory. I stop to turn 360
degrees, and I am flooded with a wave of joy as I regard the cheerful beauty that surrounds me. I unscrew the cap on the bottle of cola I am carrying and flick some of the contents into the air.
Cartoon globules of black liquid rush upwards and explode ecstatically in the sunshine like an oil gusher. I gaze up into a vast sky, the perfect blue blemished only by the odd wisp of playful
cloud, and by something else: vapour trails, slashed in glorious arcs across the stratosphere by jet planes purposefully, majestically negotiating the way westwards to Lisbon. The passengers will
be merry with drink, enthralled by the novelty of the transportation, thrilled by the prospect of the match. Winking at the hostesses and singing.

We’ll be running round Lisbon when we come!

Here I stand in an obscure pasture in Spain, alone and mildly insane. Yet I feel as though I am momentarily occupying the kernel of the universe.

The Mass unfolds in its sacred poetry. It is in Latin, or perhaps it is Spanish. It seems to alternate between the two languages, depending on which one I am pondering at a particular moment,
even though I have only a rudimentary knowledge of the latter.

The priest wears a chasuble that is of a most vivid jade, its silken patterns shifting and mutating, in rapture at their very greenness. This contrasts with the brilliant white of the
deacon’s surplice. The vestments are billowing, alive. The altar screen is the colour of ivory, above which the ceiling is painted in gorgeous sky blue, with deep-crimson lettering:
AΩ.

For a minute the flow seems to go awry; one old woman’s face contorts and lengthens into that of a gargoyle, then melts back into its original form before mutating again into a new ghastly
grotesque. The darkness. So I focus instead on the priest’s face; raven black, arched eyebrows; olive, weathered skin. His countenance is profoundly solemn as he focuses utterly upon the
sublime rituals. The visual effects are phenomenal, all obeying a slow, rhythmic pulse. The crucifix expands, then retracts, then rotates slightly to the right, slightly to the left, then centres,
then throbs majestically. The monstrance stretches into a golden ellipse, first vertically, then horizontally. The priest moves in and out of focus. The flames on the candles grow and grow into
vast infernos, then instantly retract to pinpoints. My feet are swallowed up by the liquid floor. Every movement leaves a rainbow of tracers.

The priest and congregants make the ancient petitions in perfect unison. There is total precision to the narrative; symmetry, ceremony, focus. There is also communion; with one another, with the
Almighty. We are unified in a single consciousness, bolted together in deep mystical contemplation.

Who is ‘we’? The priest, deacon, server, sacristan, a dozen Basque peasants, mostly elderly women . . . and Mark. Hadn’t noticed him. After the Eucharist he gazes heavenwards
as though in ecstasy. Me, I only watch, yet I can barely dare to think. I close my eyes and see an image of Billy McNeill, standing against a marble colonnade, like a gladiator in the Coliseum, his
sweat-streaked face serious, etched with the magnitude of the moment, focused as he lifts up the greatest prize in club football. Savour this moment. Then a picture of my father’s face,
smiling kindly, worn but handsome, his Donegal eyes still sparkling. I open my eyes and the tears are streaming down my cheeks. I can’t stop them. I’m not sobbing, it’s just a
constant uncontrollable flow of water.