Excerpt from Chapter 17 ‘Strangers in Paradise ’
Whenever I think of the Lisbon Lions, which is fairly frequently
considering the number of anniversaries and commemorations
they go through, I think of Jonesy’s old next door neighbour
Danny Grant.
‘Not one of the Grants.’ He would always smile and stress when
first introducing himself, as if that should mean something to
whoever his new acquaintance may be. Danny was a tremendously
likeable man who stayed with his sister Bernadette on Delivery
Crescent, Arthurston, in the small semi through the wall from
the Milnes when they were still a family. Always quick with a line
as he jumped out his green Austin Allegro and met us playing
football out in the streets, he would tease us about our ‘training
to play for The ‘Tic’.
‘NEVER,’ we would shout appalled at the thought, ‘We’ll
play for The Rovers!’
‘Good for you!’ Danny would laugh before producing mint
imperials from his pocket, passing them round then skipping up
his driveway with a heavy looking cardboard box from Fine-Fare
containing what he always explained were ‘Our Bernadette’s
messages’.
Danny was Celtic through and through . From the day he saw
his first match, Celtic beating Everton in The Empire Exhibition
Cup at Hampden in 1939, he was hooked. And the day, some
nineteen years later, when they beat Rangers 7-1 in the League
Cup Final, well, as he tells it he was “as happy as a dog with a
stick.’
So when Dukla Prague were soundly dumped in the European
Cup semi-final, amidst all the euphoria that caused, Danny knew
that plans had to be made. Money was tight though and not only
could Danny ill-afford to get to the final himself, there was Liam,
his 22 year old son to think of. In student digs and training to
be a doctor, Liam couldn’t buy a round let alone get himself to
So Danny sold his car. His trusty, slate grey Morris Minor.
Bernadette shook her head as he set off that first morning to
walk the two miles or so to work and swore under her breathe
that he was ‘mad as a brush’. Danny made it to the Arthurston
Public library for a quarter to nine where he duly commenced his
assistant- librarian duties claiming to everyone that day that he
‘really felt the benefit of the fresh air’ and moreover ‘should have
got rid of the car ages ago!’.
On Monday the 22nd of May 1967, three days before the
game, father and son, Danny and Liam, set forth for Lisbon
what was to be a protracted trip of shaky bus, rolling ferry and
trembling train, Danny, unused to foreign travel, was sick on three
occasions. Twice in the foul smelling toilets of the claustrophobic,
cross channel ferry and once over a small chatty man called
Ardel from Leopardstown who refilled vending machines for a
living , kept a worm farm in his garage and was also en-route to
the final. For Danny had only been abroad once in his life - a
trip to Lourdes
was business not pleasure. Lisbon
probably two parts excitement to one part travel-sickness and
in spite of his wrenching gut, Danny was captivated by all that
was going on around him. All roads to Portugal
a flow of green and white. The banter was precious, anticipation
was high, and by the time the first foreign beer was consumed,
in a little café bar called ‘O Papagaio’ , Liam had a hero in his
father and Danny saw a man in his boy. Together, like thousands
more of the Celtic faithful, they had been drawn to the show like
hypnotised children , pushed and buffeted on a wind of hope
and expectation. And in a matter of hours they knew that the
world would be theirs and that they would be witnesses to its
presentation
When Liam lost his ticket outside the stadium that world,
their world stopped. Around them things seemed to speed up,
crowds flashed by, snatches of singing skipped over them, but for
the two statues from Arthurston, decked in rosettes and green
and white scarves, the world just shuddered to a halt. Pockets
were searched. Then the same pockets were searched again. Steps
were retraced some way back along the five mile walk from centre
of town, but amidst the grid-locked traffic chaos the hunt soon
proved hopeless. Other Celtic boys were asked. No joy.
Pockets were searched again. Sympathetic smiles came from
those recognising their fix, those with purpose, those heading
excited and carefree for the turnstiles. One old boy with a ginger
beard and matted hair that looked like the comb had just pointblank
refused, offered to vouch for them at the gate. He didn’t have
a ticket himself he admitted casually but he was ‘ok with that’,
wasn’t this, after all, ‘a great way to spend yer 70th Birthday?’So
he said in a very serious tone .
A few painful goose-chases for imaginary spare tickets ensued
and as it turned out, the bearded fellow held no sway on the
turnstile. As kick off approached the dawning realisation was
one of hopelessness. Five minutes before kick-off Danny shook
his head and smiled at Liam. There were no recriminations to
speak of as Danny sauntered over to old Beardy and gave his
ticket away. Gave it away mind, no charge. Old Beardy looked
set to cry as he and Danny gripped each others’ right hand and
looked into each other’s eyes. As the old man headed for the gate
he looked round every few steps fully expecting for the joke to be
played but he finally disappeared into the stadium with a final
wave, out of sight. Danny and Liam sat down on the concrete
ground and waited.
They found out the game was on the TV in a café just down
the way but they decided to sit on the pavement where they could
be closer. Where they could hear the cheers. And when the final
whistle blew they knew Celtic had won. It was everywhere, it was
the biggest thing, too big to grasp.
When Danny told us all this, Jonesy had laughed a wee boy’s
laugh and said something like ‘All that way to sit on the street’.
Danny though didn’t chortle his usual cheery response and I
felt bad for him.
‘That’s terrible’ I quickly said clearing my throat selfconsciously.
‘Oh no son, not at all.” He said gently, ‘Just being there was
the thing.’ Danny’s gaze drifted off beyond the horizon.
‘To think we were so close that night...’ he went on,” ... closer
, probably, where we were sat, to the goalposts the boys scored
into than some of the folks in the ground if you think on it. We
breathed the same air as the players, and we saw the same sky.
That was enough….. ‘
‘And it wasn’t about us anyway, Liam and I. We were just one
sentence of one page in a big book, it was ….more…. much more,
it was for all of us. A true success story for everyone down through
the times, that we did all by ourselves and …. ” he stopped and
thought for a second or two and looked confused,
‘ But maybe it was all about us, you know. People still comment
how awful it must have been for us but it wasn’t. It was the best.
Like payback for the bad times.’
‘The truth is, sitting there, looking up at all those trees around
the ground against the clear foreign sky, I never felt more at peace
than I did that night. Aye…’ he said thoughtfully, ‘…payback.”
And with that Danny picked up the box at his feet and slowly
straightened up. We thought he was going to say something
about getting old, or the nuisance contents of his big box but
instead he slightly narrowed his eyes and started speaking in a
low, measured lilt;
Where were you when the Lions walked out
Onto warm, dark Portuguese soil
Where were you sat when the Lord paid us back
For our honest and hard working toil.
Where were you when we fell a goal down
And the candle-light flickered in fear
From Lisbon to Glasgow
As we pulled for the things we held dear.
Did you let yer chin drop when we twice hit the bar
Thinkin fate was forever our foe,
Did yer heart hit the clouds when Tommy’s shot flew
Past the keeper so hard and so low
Where did you dance when the winner went in
With the men from Milan
Who did you hug as the ball hit the net
Defence being slayed by attack
So where were you Friend when Big Jock held the cup
With more pride than a grown man could bare
In the pub, on a shift, Whether home or away
The truth is that we were all there
Does the distance between take away from the love
Do your eyes need to witness to see
Is it yours to behold when its not there to touch
Can we grasp it or must it fly free ….
Danny opened his mouth to continue then stopped and looked
at us both equally. And then he smiled and awkwardly negotiated
the ever-present paper bag of mint imperials out his pocket. We
took one each and said thank you politely as we always did.
“Damn Bernadette’s messages!” Danny said as he wrestled
his box to a more comfortable place in his arms. As he walked
sedately up his driveway I remember Danny still with that
contented smile on his face although I’m not sure how I know
this as we were already haring back to our positions shouting ‘You
be Sarti and I’ll be Gemmell!’ as Jonesy aimed and lamped the
ball past me into the gatepost goals.
