The first time I travelled to Scotland for a game was in May 1973. It was cup final day in both Glasgow and London, and six of us sailed over on the Larne-Stranraer ferry. At 16, the youngest travelling, it was my first time abroad.
A few hundred miles to the South, Leeds were taken out at Wembley by a combination of Ian Porterfield's strike and acrobatic acumen in the Sunderland goal from Jimmy Montgomery. In Hampden Celtic fell to Old Firm rivals Rangers, losing out by one in a five goal thriller. An official attendance of 134,000 - fans swore that was a very conservative estimate - the sway of the crowd left me wondering about the threat to public safety posed by heaving terraces, my friend urging me to grip his father who seemed in danger of being consumed by the moving mass. Two years earlier Rangers fans had suffered an appalling tragedy when 66 fans were crushed to death in Ibrox. Then too, the opponents were Celtic. On my left arm is a simple stencilled tattoo - Ibrox 66, an affirmation of my strongly held view that every soccer fan who who attends a game should return to their family safe, not in coffins.
Things have improved in stadia since then despite, and because of, disasters at Bradford and Sheffield. So when fans gathered at Celtic Park yesterday for the final day showdown - the game that would see either Hearts or Celtic emerge as champions - what concerns they had given so much at stake, being crushed was not amongst them. That is, if we set aside the emotional crushing that Hearts fans endured when their season, so filled with anticipation that after sixty six years they could emerge as champions of Scotland, came to a shattering end that was not climactic.
I had been at a Gaza vigil in the town centre, intending to make it home for the second half. As soon as I reached the house my son opened the door excitedly proclaiming 'Celtic penalty.' In the living room once the conversion proved successful, he went into a state of frenzied excitement, roaring, dancing, scarf waving and screaming. I thought my startle reflex was just not sufficiently finely honed for an afternoon of jumpiness. I turned around and made my way for the train to Dublin to see my daughter and then onto a friend. Thankful for small mercies, I was relieved that the four women in the seats next to me while following the match and cheering when Celtic took the lead, were not remotely near as eardrum bursting as my hyperexcitable son.I followed the score throughout the journey on my phone. My son rang immediately after the home side took the lead to exuberantly inform me that Celtic would be champions of Scotland. While I was happy for him, for friends like Paddy Mooney and Davy Clinton, for Gary Robertson who has seriously raised my interest levels in Scottish soccer with his TPQ column, I had wanted Hearts to win. Because of my fond memories of big Scooby McCabe, a man I had on more occasions than one staggered into Celtic Park with after a feed of whiskey and beer - vodka for him - I felt a twinge of guilt, a tad disloyal. All sentiment aside, I feel a Hearts success would have been good for the game in Scotland. For the first time in years because of the Hearts challenge, Scottish soccer had become unpredictable and excitement enhancing, the race to get over the line even more appealing than that of the English Premier League.
Soccer in Scotland, with its history of success in Europe, should not be a poor neighbour to its Southern counterpart. Although there are currently only twelve teams in the Scottish premiership, there is a huge gap between it and the League of Ireland Premier Division which has two fewer competing. Scottish soccer needs something broader than Celtic-Rangers. It needs more success from the two Edinburgh teams, one of the Dundee sides as well as Aberdeen.
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