Being the son of an Irish, Catholic
immigrant I suppose to many it would seem inevitable that I'd support Celtic
as my team in Scotland. However, coming from what is erroneously termed 'the
East Coast", the matter was not so clear cut. Geographically speaking,
(long before Livingston f.c. came into this world), Heart of Midlothian was my
closest team.
Given my background and their background, the Jambos were never going to be a
serious option.They were, as so many have stated so frequently 'huns withoot
the fare tae Glesca'.
Which left Hibernian whose very name is an eloquent testimony to its Irish
roots. Proud to play in green and white and having a passionate support in the
one solid, genuine working class community of Edinburgh, the team from Leith
should have been a real contender for my affections. Moreover, as I was born
in the nineteen fifties it was also the era of the 'famous five' when the
Hibees reached their apogee. So why, when all is said and done did I opt for
Celtic?
Like most things in life, we are shaped and determined by elements and factors
outwith our own control. My father was born in County Mayo in 1922, a
monumental year in modern Irish history. Unlike so many before and after him,
he had to leave his native land at a young age as there was nothing for him.
Poverty then was absolute. He accepted this situation fatalistically and came
to England finding work as an itinerant farm labourer.
At one point, he even found himself in London in the midst of the Blitz but
fled the noise, chaos and fear. Like most immigrants, he stuck with his own
and when his older brother made it to Scotland, he followed him. Even then the
informal network of immigrant families was alive and thriving.
Between Edinburgh and Glasgow the two great Scottish cities, is the central
belt that somehow always gets by-passed. That non-descript, bleak hinterland
where life was harsh and unforgiving. Here were the coal fields of Lanarkshire
and West Lothian that sucked in the immigrant Irish in numbers. Conditions
were primitive especially before Nationalisation and the National Health
Service.The one escape from the drudgery of the mines was the game of
football. My father had never kicked a ball in his life and he had if the
truth be told, virtually no understanding of the basic rules of the game. And
yet, Celtic was his team unconditionally.
Frankly, he preferred the Glaswegians to the dour people of "Auld Reekie".
Glasgow was completly different in character from the Capital city. He was
convinced that this was all to do with the Irish component in Glasgow, just as
he felt the same way about Liverpool.
More down to earth, less serious and more rebellious he felt a natural
affinity for the "weedgies". He also felt a lot safer in the company
of Celtic supporters at a time when having an Irish accent in Scotland was at
best to be regarded with suspicion and at worse something much more sinister.
It would be all too easy to ascribe his feelings for Celtic to his background.
He was a devout Catholic to be sure and he recognized that Celtic valued and
cherished its Irish background in a way that Hibs never did. But it was more,
much more than that. He tended to see football in terms of individual players
and had no concept of tactics, strategy or formations.
His favourite two players were Charlie Tully (whom I never saw) and Jimmy
Johnstone.
Both small men, but wonderful players and entertainers, characters in the true
sense of the word. He would love it when Jinky or Tully would run at the hun
defenders who generally seemed to be twice their size and humiliate them with
ease. Even when they were hacked to the ground, they would get up and go at
them again because pride and self respect demanded it from them. For my
father, it was the wee men against the established order. It was Celtic (and
us) against the rest. What nowadays passes for paranoia and a self-persecution
complex, was a real and vibrant phenomenon when I was a young boy. The
"flag' issue of the fifties was a key moment for my father as an
Irishman. The SFA in its infinite wisdom had decreed that the Irish flag which
flew proudly on the main stand at Celtic Park should be hauled down as it was
'provocative'. For my father, this was a defining moment in the club's
history. Should Celtic get on its knees and accept the dictate and deny its
origins? Or should the club stand up for itself and reaffirm its faith? There
was no contest, there never could be. Perhaps in his finest moment, Robert
Kelly the club's chairman refused to even countenance such a move. Since that
day, my father refused to hear a bad word about auld Bob Kelly, for him at
least he always remained a hero.
The European Cup victory of 1967 was a great moment for all of us, it was
proof that we had arrived. When Celtic won that night in Lisbon, it was more
than just a game of football.
Celtic the 'immigrant' team had won, the underdogs in every sense had
triumphed. Watching the images of ordinary Celtic fans on the telly in far off
Portugal, we couldn''t conceal our pride and delight at their achievement.
Against all the odds, the Celtic way and ethos had prevailed.
My father passed away several years ago, sadly too soon to have witnessed the
achievements of another man from the Emerald Isle. He would have loved Martin
O'Neill and admired his achievements. However, he would have recognized in
Martin that same determination not to be ground down, not to be dicated to and
not to put up with second best. The link between Celtic and Ireland is vital,
long may it continue!