Hail Hail Gang
The doors of the ‘61’ bus creaked open on the Gallowgate and I leapt into the darkness; right into a filthy puddle that had swallowed both road and pavement in one gulp. After muttering some swear words, that my mother would have used the puddle water to clean from my mouth, I walked into Holywell Street and was suddenly hit by the eerie silence that was now apparent after the clunky diesel-engine bus had withdrawn behind me. I stopped dead in my tracks. No fast food vans stood in the road next to the ash park as they normally do; no flags, scarves and rebel tapes were being sold from car boots and hastily erected pasting tables; a line of street lights reflected in the huge, still puddles that swamped the street, forming a line towards the hallowed temple of Celtic Park. It was ten to six and no-one was around; I started to walk again into the night towards the warm glow of the amphitheatre that stood there like some huge spaceship that had broken down in the pitch black of Glasgow’s east end. Memories of historic victories and painful defeats hung around like ghostly mists. There was no-one around on these streets because this was Monday night, the night before our huge Champions League match against Man Utd, and I was on my way to join in the setup of the JungleBhoys latest Tifo display for the match the following night.
In contrast to the silent approach, both the car park at the stadium and the vast gate 2 in the southwest corner were a hub of activity. Security personnel were walking around with clipboards and rehearsing the procession of staff for the match; huge outside broadcast trucks were being emptied of cables; cameras and tripods were being fixed and cleaned; cars and vans of all descriptions were scurrying back and forth. Just inside the empty cavernous ground volunteers of the JungleBhoys were arriving in ones and twos, struggling under the weight of piles of flags, each handcrafted over the previous days. Quick introductions and knowing nods were given as all of the supplies were brought inside. Anonymity was secured with Internet monikers such as St Martin, MickeyBhoy, ProudToBeATim, TFW, TeeBhoy and the likes. All volunteers huddled around the seating plan of the Jock Stein stand in preparation, like Gordon Strachan and the first team would be doing with their own team plans in the dressing room the next evening, then we sprung into action. Seat after seat, row after row, tier after tier, were all conquered in the whistling wind and sporadic rain showers. The Everest temperatures were kept at bay with quick-witted banter flying back and forth all over the stand, with arguments about who had the best-cut flag canes. A conference was quickly arranged to decide if the “prawn sandwich munchers” should have flags left at their luxurious seats or not; we relented under the guarantee that each seat would be attacked if it was left empty with no flag flying just before kick-off for the sake of another sandwich and pint in the Club 67 shelter. After a few hours the mission was accomplished. I checked along the row I had been working on and pulled my collar up to fight off the bitter wind. My attention was drawn to the flags high above the north stand, flapping loudly in the breeze. There was the Irish tricolor, the object of recent xenophobic abuse from a certain media racist, innocently flapping away alongside many other nation flags. It stood only a few along from the red and white flag of England and I tried to recall if the ageing media hack had ever campaigned for the removal of “English Tosh” from Celtic; I couldn’t.
After some farewells and shared hopes for the game’s result, I took a quick look around the massive, empty temple. ITV men were still pulling cables all along the trackside; all of the advertising boards had been covered by eager Champions League sponsorship auditors; even the Nike-swipe white seats in the north stand had been covered by two-thirds to make them unrecognisable; and the giant screens flickered, tested with the logos of both teams. How different this silent cave would be tomorrow night.
How different indeed, I thought as I stood in the long, snaking queue outside turnstiles 4 to 5. Thousands milled around the outside of the stadium, most quickening as soon as they caught sight of how long their own queue was. I checked my watch; a good 25 minutes to kick-off; no problem. The posse from Carluke had left the Celtic Association club on London Road in plenty of time right enough, excellent. This was a game where every second should be savoured. That plan was soon scuppered by four stewards that would soon feel the wrath of the queue. After a good ten minutes wait, it became obvious that our line had barely moved and it was too busy to determine the reason. But the height advantage of a passing mounted policeman soon found the source. He shook his head in disgust and headed towards the stewards to inform them that they had set up a line that was crossing over and leading the fans into the next set of turnstiles by mistake. With a rollicking issued, the queue was then marshalled into the next formed line, making an even longer queue of irate fans. We were now further back than we were ten minutes before. The abuse supplied to the hapless four was not lessened when one of the turnstiles then proceeded to freeze for several minutes. And so it was that I missed the huddle, the CL tune, and the display of hooped flags that I had taken the time to help setting up. It was a good 15mins into the match when I finally gained entrance and climbed the many, many steps to my seat in the clouds of the ‘445’ section.
Missing the kick-off and the razzmatazz that surrounds it on these magical nights, soon had the superstitious part of me wondering if it was all an omen of ill-fortune to come. Gaping holes in the midfield and then an excellent Boruc save quickly down to his left to deny a Man Utd opener did little to quell those nerves. The save had been demanded after Bobo had his “Balde Moment”, a regular one-a-game-feature where the big man decides he’s Bobby Moore. This apart though, the defender had a superb game when deploying his no-nonsense clearances, and after only playing two CIS cup games this season of course. The first half was a nervy encounter to sit through. Nakamura and Gravesen seemed to be either getting dragged out of position by wandering red shirts, or would take it upon themselves to stand marking nothing but empty space. Scholes and Rooney delighted in the vacant channels but thankfully were eventually met by a backline that stood up to them for the most part, either making clearances or forcing shots wide or over the bar. Celtic had a few moves that inspired the crowd in small part but were also being caught in an endless line of long-balls to Hesselink that couldn’t find an outlet to feed off, or even worse, would easily lose possession by playing in far too tight groups against opponents, or selecting the most insane of passes while much easier alternatives were available. Frustrating calls for offsides and what seemed to be immediate and unquestioned protection by the ref’s whistle any time a red shirt tumbled or just slumped to the ground only increased the angst being felt.
High in our corner of the stadium, we were distracted from the sluggish and intermittent play of the game, by a collection of incidents that demonstrated a new and strange influx of inebriated and quarrelsome few that had somehow obtained tickets. “Check that space cadet” motioned Paul next to me, as he pointed to a wide-eyed chap all in casual clothing, making his way continuously up and down the steps at the left edge of the tier, wavering and swaying in all directions. After noising up many fans trying to watch the game, our new acquaintance then took a mad turn and decided to invade the last two rows. I turned to see him, or at least his feet, upended and having the matter of his attack discussed intently by some fans, before eventually being removed by some stewards. We were shaking our head in disbelief as we then looked below at another lumbering fool who had decided to take up position hanging over the edging fence that runs along the exit tunnels. He seemed oblivious to what planet he was on, never mind oblivious to the many fans whose view he was now obscuring. After many shouts for his removal, one fan attempted to personally move him along and a scuffle quickly ensued before more stewards became involved. A further disturbance was spotted far below in the Jock Stein Lower. Paul and I then attempted to explain that we had never seen anything like this in the stadium, to Richard the Bradford City fan that had got a ticket for the seat beside us. Our visitor explained to us at half-time that as well as watching Bradford, he also took in several Man Utd games and had travelled in Europe. His friend Dean Wyndas, he of Aberdeen fame and who is now at Bradford, had got him two tickets for him and a mate and simply passed them over and whispered “Celtic Park, you won’t believe it, enjoy.” So we asked for his fresh opinion. “I’ve been to Old Trafford for quite a few big games and I’ve been in Europe. I’ve never seen anything like this.”
Celtic had managed to gain a little more possession as the first half came to a close. Lennon had shot wide and Tommy Gravesen had headed an inviting ball back across the United penalty area but no-one took up the invite. Half time would require changes and Strachan duly delivered; on came Jiri Jarosik and Shaun Maloney, in what would prove to be the turning point of the match.
The hoops looked in much better fettle in the second half and proper link-ups and forward play started to form. The noise increased even higher with each glimmer of light that the team created. However, United were still present and their stars were trying to shine themselves. Free kicks around the box made for anxious times. Ronaldo would show his trickery but thankfully ultimately fail with the final pass or shot; Scholes would try and push on his midfield but thankfully Celtic’s own midfield were now properly reassembled. Maloney started to cause some fear in United’s defence with runs down the left but the giant van der Sar was up to the task of saving from Hesselink, Gravesen and Nakamura. Songs continued unabated as the faithful truly played their part. The 0-0 scoreline was very welcome at half-time and it was looking likely the more of those minutes ticked by on the big screens.
Jarosik was very lively and looks to have taken the proper reaction from being dropped earlier in the season. He went down in 81mins on the right side of the box about 30-odd yards from goal. Young Eddie pointed out later that it was also a fouled Jarosik that led to a Naka free kick for the Old Trafford goal. The Japanese star placed the ball on the holy turf and stepped back. The distance was too much surely; let’s look for some strikers’ heads or a tall defender advancing into the box. The gigantic Edwin van der Sar patrolled his line, already having felt the sting from Naka’s boot in the earlier encounter. Shunsuke ran forward; he struck the ball; it lifted and drifted over the wall of players on the 18-yard line; the keeper spotted it going to his high left corner and dived with fingers outstretched greedily reaching for the white sphere; the ball entered a patch of space between fingers, bar and post barely bigger than its own circumference; it touched the netting at the back of the goal; the world stopped.
Scarves hung in the air as if suspended on wires; feet hung motionless several feet from the ground; arms lengthened like statues in silent, flailing actions; the world started again. Absolute bedlam ensued; fans jumped on each other; roars leapt from lungs into the night sky; thrown scarves fell to the ground; stewards pushed back groups of entwined bodies from the edges of seat rows and tiers; ears popped with the volcanic noise that erupted from every corner of the ground and slid like lava to the grass below where players ran to the Japanese King’s praise. I felt a tap on my shoulder and our Bradford acquaintance apologised and said “Sorry. But NOW I’ve never seen anything like this!” Welcome to Paradise pal; it has enthralled the spirit of many a football fan and swallowed some whole for life.
Dancing, crying and shouting continued as play raged on far below. Minute after minute ticked by as the 90 minute mark came closer. Surely this wasn’t real. I had came to the conclusion a while back that we would never, ever get to those last stages of this competition. It was just not to happen. While the Forces of Darkness could stumble into those last 16 places from a meagre group with a paltry 7 points, Celtic had been cheated and pushed from the brink time and again with 9 points on two occasions and a host of missed chances, dodgy penalties, and groups of death. With only a few minutes left United were awarded a free kick just outside the box. The pessimist in me tried to suggest that this would be the undoing of all the magic; prepare for the equaliser. But the hooped heroes stood tall and the ball was deflected. This relief was transformed to rage at the sight of the referee having the audacity to point at the spot for a penalty. A mixture of outrage, shock, disbelief and anger bubbled inside every hooped fan in the ground. The ref had judged that the hand of Maloney had intentionally played the ball that had been blasted at high speed against a defending wall of players. The conspiracy theory of protection and red carpet treatment of G16 teams had been supplied another contribution. Saha waited for his chance to strike the penalty; Boruc took his place on the line after joining in the berating of the referee; every Celtic fan used every ounce of energy to bawl, whistle and scream at both the decision and the impending kick, all the while feeling a dark blob of despair in the stomach. The ball was struck and Artur dived to his right and blocked its path. Let’s return to bedlam shall we? The absolute disbelief that we had finally escaped one of these moments of pain in such a huge game overtook the simple joy of viewing a saved penalty.
The final whistle was finally provided and ecstatic joy emptied from drained spirits in a welcome flow of relieved emotion. Scarves were then raised high; fists clenched ever tighter around the cotton fabric, for a rousing version of You’ll Never Walk Alone. I finally left the exit door to the outside world some time later and spilled into the happy multitudes that washed around the stadium’s edges like an ocean of joy. This was the greatest moment I had ever experienced at Parkhead. Was that true? Was I just deluded in the moment? Surely as a Celtic fan the decades-old hatred of Rangers meant that games such as the 6-2 O’Neill game had been sweeter? Surely the emotional rollercoaster of the 4-3 Juventus game had felt stronger? Historic memories of games in the Jungle? Nope, this was it, this was the best. My smile had never been stronger; my heart never beat faster. Neil Lennon would explain to me later, in a TV interview, that the reason was “the context of the game.” It was the full package. Our first two competitive games against Man Utd after so many meaningless friendlies – we had won over the two legs; our first reach into the last 16; an enormous night of passion and joy at Paradise; the sensational goal; the incredible penalty escape after so much similar heartache; the TV audience; the strongest Man Utd side sitting atop their over hyped Premiership league; English journalists and commentators that would now be choking on their predictions; Strachan’s and Celtic’s rise from the ashes of Artmedia; it was all there. This was the greatest night for a fan too young to view 1967 and old enough to realise the holiday-nature and lesser stature of the still wonderful trip to Seville.
I made my way to the bus as fans all around still sang and roared with delight; men grabbed each other’s shoulders and shook themselves dizzy; tears ran from happy eyes; young boys bounced on their fathers’ shoulders; young girls skipped with programmes clenched tightly in their palms. The trip home was a noisy affair of song and personal stories. Final clarification of our qualifying status on the radio was cheered, as was the trembling voice of Derek Johnstone forced to read our scoreline over and over again. We poured into one of Carluke’s hostelries and settled down for the 11pm highlights. I finally got to see the fantastic hooped flag display and was delighted with its appearance. We relived every moment of the highlights with both joy and mockery. “It’s too far out” joked one viewer as Naka approached the free kick; “I’m telling you, he’ll score” replied another; “Don’t be daft, how good do you think he is?” added a third.
Yours in Celtic
Ricky Swan