I guess you don’t feel as tense right now as you did on the
morning of May 9th 1998. I was away early that day, so early that I
missed a call from a Hibby mate wishing us all the best. The feeling from the
Craig Falconbridge goal hadn’t left me, it felt like my heart had been ripped
out my chest as thousands gleefully told us that this would be Rangers year
(again) and that we were perennial losers.
Deep down that nagged at all of us.
I went through on the train to Glasgow that day and settled
into a Gallowgate full of nervous anticipation. The players had gone to Dublin
for a couple of days to get away from it all, us fans just has to grin and bear
it all week. Every outcome was played out in our heads, every omen was studied
and every escape route planned should we not do it. “It” being protecting our
cherished nine in a row record.
As the hours ticked on, beer glasses were drained but the
humour was akin to pre court in America when you’ve already had two strikes. As
we moved along the Gallowgate, faces were studied nervously and, again, we
talked about every possibility “Get an early goal” “Surely Dundee Utd will give
them a game” “Christ, I keep thinking we have blown it”
Upon arriving in the stadium I got involved in a silly
argument with a mate, it was a something and nothing type where the tension far
outweighed the subject matter. It was that kind of day.
As the teams emerged, the noise was deafening. I sat in the
back row of section 443 and all around me people clenched fists whilst looking
at each other, steely determination exuding from all. If the players match the
fans, we are going to be fine.
We barely had time to get nervous when Henrik sailed past
two defenders and planted a ball in the St Johnstone net like Dennis Taylor on
that last black ball in 1985. An eruption of blanketed Celtic Park and as folk
held each other for grim life.
Everybody needed a hug.
We expected the barrage of goals to come but of course, this
is Celtic, we don’t do anything the easy way and we settled into the ebb and
flow of anxiety football.
Anxiety became The
Exorcist type fear as George O’Boyle stalked our goal and missed a header
that looked easier to score. We all looked at each other as if considering
taking up Rugby as it would be far less stressful.
In the second half, news filtered through from Tannadice
that Rangers were two goals up and any slip from us would be catastrophic. We
made subs and Brattbakk appeared for a walk on part in the war.
A ball was flitted down the wing, suddenly it was in the
middle and Harald found a burst of pace that resulted in the time needed for a
cool finish and to put us 2-0 up.
The world just turned on its axis.
Simon Donnelly, just subbed, jumped on John Clark’s back.
Tosh McKinlay and Darren Jackson danced in the tunnel. Henrik jumped on Harald
and pointed at him profusely.
We were lost in a sea of relief, grown men cried and
screamed in equal measure, the realisation dawning: we have done it.
The remaining minutes faded away like the last bath water
down a plug hole and the explosion from Tom Boyd on full time matched the
explosion from the stands that echoed round Scotland and sent the flag up right
round the planet: Celtic are back.
As drained as the players, we left the stadium, our seats
not allowing us to join the magical pitch invasion and we met with others,
equally lifeless and just stood there in awe. As we moved along the Gallowgate
once more, bars had shutters down and the first pub we could get in was The
Braemar.
From there we got the train home to Edinburgh, a brief
meeting with a clearly miffed ICF as well, and went to The International Bar
where folk danced in the streets and long into the night.
The players went to a restaurant in Newton Mearns where Phil
and Eileen O’Donnell danced on tables and summed up the mood.
From there the players went to play a game in Lisbon that
most could not tell you the score of and the next day it was confirmed, Wim was
off and Wim’s Tims were no more.
Thankfully our nine in a row record still remained.
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