Apparently,
even though I'd attended the semi-final against Dundee, dad wasn’t allowed to take me to Rangers games because of the level of drink
and violence that accompanied the fixture. And with dad being an alcoholic, mum
feared I’d get lost in the crowd or hit on the head with a flying bottle whilst
on the front line of any carnage.
So Dad and I
settled down in the living room; he on his chair by the fireplace with a bottle
of J&B whisky and lucky scarf, and me, hair cut like Kenny Dalglish,
wearing that year’s Celtic top, drinking a glass of limeade. The TV was black
and white but that didn’t matter, I never knew anything different, and the
hoops were instantly recognisable. It was working and the picture was steady.
You’ll find
more detailed reports of the actual game elsewhere but here is a six year old’s
memories of how the drama played out.
Kenny
Dalglish ran through and slotted the opener past Peter McCloy to put Celtic one
up as Archie McPherson shouted, “Must be!”. Dad and I jumped around the living
room. I’ll always remember Kenny’s face as he ran away arms aloft, looking like
it was the first goal he’d ever scored in his life.
Many years
later I saw him score his last goal for Scotland against Spain. That same smile
filled his face as much as the dust covered everyone on the terraces as they
too jumped for joy at what was, even by Kenny’s standards, a special goal. For
me, Dalglish’s face whenever he scored a goal was what football was all about.
Sheer unadulterated joy.
But I
digress.
Back in 1973
Rangers scored twice to give themselves a 2-1 lead. Dad assured me all was not
lost, we were the best team in the country and one of the best in Europe. And
when George Connelly equalised from the spot we both knew there was only going
to be one winner.
Unfortunately,
we were wrong.
Tom Forsyth
scored one of his only two goals ever for Rangers that day. It was a goal remembered
by all who witnessed it and many more who will have seen replays through the
years. He didn’t beat several men and chip the goalkeeper. He didn’t lash out
and thunder a thirty five yarder into the top corner. He didn’t rise above the
Celtic defence to bullet a header past Ally Hunter.
The ball hit
one post, rolled along the line and hit the other post. Tom Forsyth swung a leg
at it, almost missed the ball and just caught it with the studs on the bottom of
his boot. Three-two Rangers. It was one of those goals you don’t need YouTube
to refresh your memory.
Dad was
gutted. I was gutted. He went all quiet. I went all quiet. He switched the TV
off. I grabbed my ball and headed down to the patch of green at the bottom of
my street.
I dribbled
up and down the thin layer of grass, commentating like Archie McPherson, and
screaming, “Dalglish…Must be!” as I slotted the ball past the imaginary Peter
McCloy. As I turned to receive the adulation from the imaginary thousands watching
from the imaginary terraces I noticed a man crossing the road towards me.
The first
thing I noticed was how his football top seemed to be at least one size too
small. I wasn’t an expert but was pretty sure belly buttons were usually
covered up. As he neared he tripped on the kerb but, although stumbling,
managed to stay upright.
I gathered
my ball and stood with my left foot on top of it.
“Awright,
wee man,” he said when he reached me. “Whit wiz the score th-day?”
I found it
surprising that someone wearing a Rangers top wouldn’t have watched the game
live on TV like I did, but maybe he had been working and missed the game. I
answered politely, “Rangers won 3-2.”
“Really?” He
sounded genuinely surprised.
“Aye, it wiz
a great game. Ye should’ve seen it. It wiz on the telly.”
“Ah’m sure
it wiz. Geez a hit ay yir baw.”
I rolled my
ball over to him.
“Did ye see
Tam Forsyth’s goal?” he asked as he tried to keep the ball up but couldn’t get
past three before losing control.
“Aye. Ah
seen it. The baw rolled alang the line and…” I wondered how he knew Forsyth had
scored a goal if he hadn’t seen the game or knew the score.
“Wiz it as
good as this?” he asked, before chipping my ball up and blootering it miles
away.
“Whit did ye
dae that fur? That’s no fair.”
He started
laughing. “Fuck off, ya wee Fenian bastard. Get back tae yir ain country if ye
don’t like it here. We arra peepil!””
I just looked
and wondered what he could possibly mean. I was born in and had only ever lived
in Scotland.
He turned
and walked away, bursting into song. “Hullo…hullo…we are The Billy Boys…hullo…hullo…you’ll
tell us by our noise…we’re up to our knees in Fenian blood…surrender or you’ll
die…”
In tears, I
ran for my ball in the opposite direction, fearing for my life.
That day
sticks in my memory as the day I discovered Rangers the football team and their
supporters. My age of innocence was at
an end. I had discovered what my being a Catholic in the West of Scotland meant
to those who considered themselves to be the natives and rightful heirs to the mountains,
glens and lochs of Scotland.
That bigoted
sense of entitlement and superiority has never been far from the surface of
Scottish society over the decades of my life. It was reinforced during the
David Murray years at Ibrox as he used the bank and taxpayer's money to buy success in the
domestic game. They were a big fish in a small pond and weren’t shy about
letting the small fish know that they needed the big fish or the small fish would
die.
Now the
people who run that small pond have been backed into a corner.
Tuesday the
29th May 2012 will be remembered as the day the big fish finally got
too big for their own good.
An SFA panel opted to conjure a twelve month
transfer ban from thin air instead of handing Rangers a tougher punishment, but
Rangers didn’t appreciate the SFA were actually doing them a favour by not
expelling them in the first place. They claimed they were hard done to.
The SFA’s
rule that a disciplinary panel can punish clubs with any punishment they deem
fit proved too ambiguous for the Court of Session in Edinburgh. They are
probably correct. The SFA have been caught with their pants down.
So now FIFA
are getting involved.
Do the SFA now
bow to Rangers or FIFA?
There can
only be one answer, especially if the SFA want to keep their independence and
not become part of a British FA.
At least one
year’s suspension of SFA membership has to be considered. Don’t be surprised if
the SFA again bend over backwards to help Rangers and end up handing down a
suspended one year’s suspension…even though it’s not in their list of
punishments.
But what if
FIFA pushes for more?
What if
Rangers get expelled?
No doubt
Rangers fans will see this as the perfect opportunity to apply to join
elsewhere: i.e. England. Unfortunately for them they have a better chance of
starting their own league in the British Virgin Islands than being accepted
into England. At least they can still wave their Union Jacks there and not have
to pay any tax.
So, there
you have it. My first full memory of a game will live with me forever, even
though it ended in defeat. My last memory of an Old Firm game will also live
with me forever and, thankfully, it ended with a victory.
Did I seek
out any six year olds wearing Rangers tops, blooter their ball away and shout
sectarian abuse at them? No, of course not. I haven't led the life of a saint but I have more dignity and respect for
others regardless of their race, socio-economic status, health issues or religion in my little
finger than Rangers and their imperialist supporters ever had, or will ever
have.
Maybe, just maybe, when they rise like a phoenix from the ashes they will be shed of their 'we are the people' sense of entitlement and show a degree of humility and respect to all corners of Scottish society. But don't hold your breath.
Maybe, just maybe, when they rise like a phoenix from the ashes they will be shed of their 'we are the people' sense of entitlement and show a degree of humility and respect to all corners of Scottish society. But don't hold your breath.