The Road to Lisbon (27 page)

I stop off briefly in the dressing room to add my congratulations to the players and head straight to the airport for my flight to Turin. Tomorrow I will take in the Juventus v
Inter match and have my own chance to assess the opposition’s strengths and weaknesses. Unsurprisingly, Herrera’s offer to fly back with him on his private jet has been withdrawn, but I
purposely never cancelled my original booking. Never try to kid a kidder, Helenio.

The next day Herrera is there to greet me, all smiles and backslaps. I, too, greet him like an old friend. He assures me that a car has been booked to take me to the stadium where
there is a ticket left in my name. Neither materialises so I have to swing a Press pass. The Scottish Press boys are livid but I order them not to report a word of it.

“Mind games, boys, it’s all mind games. You can’t let things like that upset you. That’s playing into his hands.”

The game is stale, Inter camped behind the ball and Juventus finally winning by a solitary goal. The league title, secured in three of the preceding four seasons, could yet move to
Turin if Inter lose to Mantova in their final game of the season, after Lisbon.

The home fans are in full voice, the same refrain filling the night air over and over.

‘Vecchia Inter, vecchia Inter, vecchia Inter.’

“What does ‘vecchia’ mean?” I ask someone.

“ ‘Old’. The Juve fans are singing ‘Old Inter’.”

I smile to myself. Is the most sophisticated defensive system in the world a smokescreen for an ageing team? Do Herrera’s players sit behind the ball so much because they
don’t have the legs to play the game in the opposition’s half?

“Vecchia Inter, vecchia Inter, vecchia Inter.”

The phone rings.

“Jock, it’s Bill Nicholson at Spurs here. I want to speak to you about buying Jimmy Johnstone.”

“Not interested, Bill. He’s part of my plans.”

“Oh, right, Jock . . . it was just that I heard on the grapevine a while back that you wanted him off your hands.”

“That was then, Bill, this is now. Thanks for phoning, but Jimmy is going nowhere.”

I put the phone down. Smile to myself. Poor Bill, six months too late. I have now accepted my fate.

Jock Stein and Jimmy Johnstone, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health.

A marriage made in heaven, but with frequent trips to hell and back. What the fuck have I taken on?

Just as well I like a punt. This is a player who I dropped from the Scottish Cup final victory over Dunfermline in April. On the day we ended the club’s trophy drought,
Jimmy did not even get a kick of the ball. I had proved then he was not indispensable. If Bill had phoned me the morning after that victory, the answer might have been different. I might have
packed his fuckin’ bags for him. I thought then he was a luxury, a player more content to do his own thing than be part of a team. Individuality is one thing, but greed another. He crossed
that line too often for my liking.

But he gets under your skin, the wee man, he burrows his way into your affections. There’s the child-like enthusiasm, the vulnerability. What could he become with a firm
hand and a shot of self-belief? Anything he wants, was the answer I arrived at. A manager is like a doctor. He is meant to make people better. It is impossible to change characters completely, but
you can craft them, sand off the rough edges, polish them to a shine. A good manager is able to do all that. What he can’t do is give people talents they don’t possess. I could coach
some players for a lifetime and they would never be able to lace Jimmy Johnstone’s boots. How to channel that talent into a team framework, that is the biggest challenge I face. It will not
be easy, it may not even be possible. But I know one thing: if I pull it off, it will be my greatest achievement in the game.

What makes a top player? Skill, vision, consistency. Determination, too, but something more. Courage. Moral and physical courage. The courage to show for
the ball when the chips are down, when it would be easier to drift out of the action, when the crowd are baying, ready to condemn, to abuse. Physical courage, too. The ability to absorb all kinds
of punishment. Then, get back up and take it all over again . . . I watch him bounce back to his feet like an inflatable punch-bag, gravel stuck to his cheeks where he has been sent spinning onto
the track. I watch him demand possession once more. I watch him make a beeline to beat the same player who has just kicked him. Courage.

But, lurking beneath that spirit, something else. A vulnerability, insecurity, an inferiority complex. He needs to feel valued, to feel loved. He needs attention. He needs the
ball.

I watch him in games when he is starved of possession. I watch his shoulders slump and frustration kick in. Some players hang about on the fringes for 89 minutes and then win the
game with a moment of magic. He is capable of that but it is not his character. He is impatient. He is irrepressible. He has the attention span of a goldfish. He wants to be central to everything.
He wants the ball. He needs the ball.

I could have sold him. I didn’t. Now, if I was going to use him, I had to make him the centrepiece of the team. I had to throw my weight behind him completely, cash in all
my chips, harness that talent in a way that had never been done before. It was all or nothing.

And so I tell the players: “Give it to Jimmy at every opportunity.”

Then I tell Jimmy: “You want the attention? You want the adoration? You want the glory? You want the ball? Well, son, now you’ve got it. Now you’ve got it all.
Don’t fuckin’ waste it.”

By early afternoon Iggy is at the wheel and the leather upholstery of the Zodiac is scalding hot. The Kinks’
Waterloo Sunset
gives way to a news report. I make out
from the occasional understood word that war is impending in the Middle East.

Iggy lights a Woodbine from the one he has just smoked.

“For a kid who spent a year in a TB sanatorium you sure smoke a lot,” I tell him.

“Sorry mother.”

We have already made headway into Castille and León; we are well on the way to Salamanca. The powerful Ford chews up the miles, leaving slower drivers in our wake. Increasingly we come
across members of the Celticade, and we pass them with much flag-waving and cheering.

Beetles, Imps, Minxes and Minis. Morris Minors, Morris Oxfords – even a rusty old Morris 10. An Austin Cambridge and a salmon-pink Somerset. Fords: Consuls, Zephyrs, Cortinas, Prefects and
Anglias. The Vauxhall Velox and Victor. The Humber Sceptre and Hawk. A portly Wolsley 1500 and a stately 1560. A Simca, a Citroën, a Volvo, a couple of little Fiats. A Rover 2000, two Rover
80s. A two-toned (green and white!) Triumph Herald. Vans: Commers, Bedfords and Ford Transits. Motorcycles, sidecars and an E-Type Jag. A Leyland double-decker and several motorcoaches: three
Albions, a Bristol, a Seddon – even an ancient Vulcan. Caravans and campervans – even an ice cream van!

“This has never happened before,” Eddie says wistfully.

“What?” I ask.

“This amount of folk going abroad to see a gemme.”

He’s right. Another first for Celtic. A sense of history. A sense that people will talk about this for years.

One convoy numbers at least 20 vehicles and pulls in at Valladolid, which allows us to pass. We overtake a VW camper van, custom-painted with peace signs and hippie imagery. The longhairs inside
give us the thumbs-up and one of them waves an Irish tricolour at us. The dry and dusty road, straight and true beneath the vast Iberian sky. The shimmering horizon, the relentless sun; the
purposefulness of our motion now, hurtling towards the edge of Europe, towards destiny, towards tomorrow.

Tomorrow. May 25th, 1967.

Mark is still quiet. I catch a glance of his dejected eyes in the rear-view. Poor boy; he must feel odd. Confused, maybe. I guess I feel a wee bit odd too, but nothing else. Need to cheer him
up.

“Rocky. Your favourite-ever Celtic match.”

He steers with one hand and uses the other to light five fags.

“Only one contender and I wasn’t even at it. Hampden. October 19th 1957. Scottish League Cup final. Celtic v Rangers. I mind listening to it on the wireless. Seven past Niven. 7-1.
Seven
-one. Celtic goalscorers: Wilson 23, Mochan 44, McPhail 53, 69, Mochan 74, McPhail 81, Fernie 90 – penalty. The BBC commentator fucking choking as he described the fifth and sixth
and seventh goals. Barely able to get the words out. The television division were worse. They tried to kid everyone on that they had – purely by accident of course – no recorded the
second-half footage. No visual record for posterity. Aye, right. Queen Margaret Drive – no Catholics need apply right enough. My big cousins were at the match. There to witness history.
Outside the cops whipped their legs with batons but the boys didn’t give a fuck. My big cousin Gerry – a poet of a man from County Sligo – told me how he just lay there on the
deck smiling up at the bastards with a look that said:
‘You can number every one of my bones but nothing will alter what has happened here today. Paddy has just fucked you
seven-one.’
”

We eat fine tapas in Salamanca, take a little time to browse the shops, to check out the spectacular Renaissance architecture. The locals eye us with fresh familiarity; our
species is known to them now. I buy a battered old top hat from a second-hand store, and two lengths of ribbon – one green, one white, from a haberdashery. One hardware shop is of particular
interest to the keen street-fighter. It is stocked with an assortment of awesome weaponry: airguns, swords, flick-knives, knuckledusters, machetes, truncheons, crossbows. The boys stand in silent
wonder, dreaming of the kudos such arms would give them back home. Me, I’m glad to have left all that shite behind.

Iggy acts furtively, leaves suddenly; he’s up to something. I follow him outside.

“What’s the score?”

“Nuthin’.”

“What the hell are you up to Iggy?”

“I’m up to fuck all!”

He walks off in the cream puff to the next corner, lights a fag. I light one too. Gaze up at the cathedral. Feel bad.

“How are the preparations going Mr Stein?”

“Fine, lad. Our hotel in Estoril is right swanky. The players love it.”

“Mr Stein.”

“Aye, lad.”

“Sometimes I think I’m too hard on folk.”

“Nobody’s perfect, lad.”

“But I even think the worst of my pals, and they are very dear to me. I never seem to give them the benefit of the doubt. Then they do something great. Prove you wrong. Make you feel
rotten to the core.”

“I’ll wager you have done some fairly great things yourself. You spoke about your father – are you a good son to him?”

“I think I am, now.”

“There you are then. We’ve all got our faults, lad. We need to work at them, aye, but in the grand scheme of things are they really that serious?”

“No . . . I suppose not.”

“We’re all wired in different ways. All we can do is to try our best lad, to overcome that. But sometimes we will fail. And when we do we must be gentle with
ourselves.”

The vultures had begun to circle. It was to be expected. If my work at Dunfermline had commanded attention then bringing success to Hibs had taken things to
another level. My name was now known, not just in Scotland but further afield. The sacking of Stan Cullis from Wolves in September led to that club making contact. They wanted me badly and while
the attention was flattering, I had my eyes on a prize closer to home. “You’ll be back at Celtic Park some day,” people used to say to me. I dismissed it with a hearty laugh, but
I still had a strong connection with the club and a close relationship with the chairman Bob Kelly. It was to Bob I turned during Wolves’ courtship. I wanted his advice but, deep down, I
wanted something more. There was an inevitability to my departure from the club before, but much had changed. I was now a successful manager in my own right with a proven track record. Success is a
powerful drug. It can force people to look beyond their prejudices, open their minds. Bob asked me if I really wanted to move to Wolves. I said I was flattered, but was still some way from
accepting their offer.

“Would you consider returning to Celtic?” asked Bob.

“I would . . . but it depends what was on offer.”

A couple of days later, we spoke again.

“How would you like to be assistant to Sean Fallon?” asked Bob.

Sean was a close friend and an admirable man but had no serious managerial experience, certainly in comparison to what I had built up with Dunfermline and Hibs. Taking on such a
role would have been totally unworkable. My disappointment ran deep, but it was no time to wallow. With Wolves still interested, I was in a perfect position to negotiate.

“Bob, thanks for the opportunity. I appreciate it. Wolves are still very keen, and it is tempting, but my preferred option would be to work alongside you again. However, as I
said, it all depends what is on offer. And I don’t feel I can accept this proposition.”

“Alright Jock, leave it with me,” said Bob.

A couple of days later, the phone rang again.

“Jock, I have another proposal. How about becoming co-manager with Sean?”

My mind drifted back to the trip to Italy and the image of Herrera, striding around the training field like a martinet, laying down the law . . . the all-seeing eye, the judge and
jury, the lord of the manor. Instinctively, I knew then that I wanted to achieve that degree of independence, which would be considered revolutionary in British football. I knew it would not be
easy. It would require a foundation of success, and equal measures of courage and diplomacy. It would also require the right platform. When the moment arrived, I hoped I would be able to seize
it.

“Bob, thanks for the offer but, again, I’ll have to politely decline. I’ve got my own vision, and it’s a big, exciting one. It can’t be achieved by
committee.”