MAYBE
it was the realisation that there won’t be many more such evenings. Most likely
it was being in the presence of the recipient of the tribute dinner.
Whatever
the reason for the lump in my throat, I found being in the company of so many
football icons an almost overwhelming experience.
What
was this, the aging cynic with a rapidly developing dislike of so many of the
modern trends in our national game feeling emotional? Surely not!
But,
yes, there I was surrounded by an Aladdin’s Cave of personalities from the past
and it felt like a nostalgic trip down memory lane, one that I wanted to
continue unabated.
BertieAuld, Tommy Gemmell, Jim Craig, John Clark, Kenny Dalglish, Danny McGrain,
David Hay, Peter Latchford, Pat Stanton, Pat Bonner, Billy Stark, FrankMcGarvey, Peter Grant, Murdo MacLeod, Charlie Nicholas, Neil Lennon et al.
The
list of celebrities gathered at the Glasgow hotel hosting the event is too long
to list here. Suffice to say that everywhere you turned there was a famous face
smiling back.
I
hadn’t realised until then that all of them to a man were prepared to
acknowledge me, not with a grunt at the memory of a headline accompanying my by
line that may have caused offence but with a warm handshake that said any past
differences were dead and long buried.
And
when Kenny Dalglish made his way through the throng of tables to offer his hand
to Rodger Baillie and me, in turn, I was “pure made up,” as they say in
Glasgow.
It
was as if the King had stepped down from his throne to greet his subjects!
Suddenly
my faith in footballers and the game that has been a large part of my life
since I wore short trousers was largely restored.
There
were nearly 800 guests in total but one man stood out above the rest, the
person we had gathered together to honour: Billy McNeill – the most iconic of
them all.
It
was on a warm May evening in Lisbon in 1967 that Billy’s name was forever
enshrined in Celtic folklore when he hoisted the European Cup above the heads
of the Portuguese President and other political dignitaries after being forced
to fight his way through a thronging mass of fans minus his team-mates to
receive the trophy.
Now
in his 70s, Big Billy, as he is affectionately known - not in recognition of
his build but rather for his status in the game – still stands out in a crowd.
Eight
of the Lisbon Lions survive following the passing of Ronnie Simpson, BobbyMurdoch and Jimmy Johnstone, but for as long as one of them remains standing a
live link with a past age, when football seemed a much more entertaining
spectacle and the world a slightly saner place, will endure.
When
Derek McGregor, one of the Sun newspaper’s excellent team of football scribes
and a valued colleague, called several weeks earlier to extend an invitation
for me to attend as his guest I immediately replied in the affirmative before
even consulting my diary.
In
truth, had the date clashed with a previously arranged engagement I would still
not have hesitated.
But
I had not anticipated the sense of pure pleasure I would derive from an evening
spent in the company of Derek and his other guests, the aforementioned Messrs
Stanton, McGarvey and Latchford, John O’Neil, the former Dundee United, Hibs
and Scotland midfielder, my ex Sun colleague, the venerable Rodger Baillie, and
the glamorous Lawrie Anne Brown of Sky television.
Neither
could I have anticipated the wave of nostalgia that would sweep over me as I
watched film clips of Cesar’s greatest games in the Hoops, many of which I was
present at and reported on.
But,
of course, Billy has that effect on me. Having forged a close friendship with
the greatest living Celt, I don’t mind admitting that I swell up with pride
every time he puts an arm round me or publically pays me a compliment of which
I am largely undeserving.
For
years I ghost wrote his column in the Sun and we have shared many treasured
moments, both socially and professionally.
Our
friendship blossomed at the tail end of Billy’s highly distinguished playing
career and grew over the subsequent years of his managerships at Clyde,
Aberdeen and Celtic.
I
was the first person outside his immediate family to learn the shattering news
that he required major heart surgery.
I
was also among the first non-family members to visit him as he made a
remarkably swift recovery in the privacy of Glasgow’s Nuffield Hospital.
He
was already back on his feet just days after going under the knife, with the
proviso that he did not walk more than a few yards and avoided climbing stairs.
The
medicos might as well have held their tongues, for Billy ignored both pieces of
advice when he walked me to the front door before ascending the stairs back to
his room.
That
was a measure of his indomitable spirit and refusal to bow to adversity.
But
what has struck me most about Billy over the years is his humility; his refusal
to see himself as an icon.
I
recall in particular a bleak November afternoon in 2003 when we sat in the
front room of his Newton Mearns home, where so few of his many trophies, medals
and various other momentos are on display.
We
were in the final stages of completing his autobiography, Hail Cesar (He was a
fan of the actor, Romero, not the Emperor, Julius), and Billy was pouring over
parts of the manuscript.
I
suddenly found myself staring at him almost with a sense of wonderment that
here I was, his ghost writer, in the company of a man who had achieved
immortality.
Gradually,
Billy became aware of my stare and asked what was going through my mind.
“I’m
just thinking how many thousands would give their eye teeth to swap places with
me right now,” I replied.
“Listen,”
said Billy “I’m no different from you or anyone else. I sleep, I eat, I worry
and sometimes I even cry.”
“Aye,”
I shot back. “But how many guys do you know and are friends with who’ve lifted
the European Cup?”
He
smiled at that point but not in a smug way, because humility is a quality Billy
embraces better than most.
So,
to that thankfully small band of Celtic fans who live purely in the present and
who suggest that it’s time the club moved on from The Lions, I say this: Enjoy
having them while you can and continue to honour them for what they did to
establish your club on the world football stage.
Thanks
for the invitation, Del. The hangover the following day that preceded the long
and winding road back to Inverness was worth every moment of the discomfort.
And,
please God I’m still around the next time a Lion roars.
