Paradise Found

Martin O'Donnel 2nd Feb 2003

A few years back I had the good fortune to be in Portugal. I was staying in a place called Cascais which is just along the coast from the capital Lisbon. I had always entertained the prospect of visiting the place where Celtic had won the European Cup. For some reason, I had got it into my head that the stadium must be in the city centre. However, I checked with Joao the man at the hotel desk who spoke excellent English. I assumed that he would be a Benfica fan, but much to my pleasure he revealed that he was a Sporting Lisbon fan. Any man whatever his background, must be alright if his chosen team plays in green and white hoops.

Our budding friendship is given an extra boost by the fact that Graeme Souness was at that time manager of Benfica. How the mighty have fallen. A team which included the likes of Eusebio, Torres and Colunha has now fallen under the tutelage of a barbarous hun. Joao tells me that even after just a few months of his stewardship, there are loud murmurings of discontent.

I mention to Joao that I want to go and visit the stadium in Lisbon where Celtic won the European Cup, and enquire as to its exact whereabouts. To my surprise, Joao informs me that it is not in Lisbon itself and is but a fifteen minute train ride from where we are standing.
Quite literally I say goodbye there and then and make my way to the small station in Cascais. Within minutes, I am on the train and "on my way to Lisbon".  I get off at the designated station and if I am honest, I am deeply disappointed by what I see. I had expected a large train concourse and the infrastructure that would suggest some magnificent stadium nearby. What I get is a tiny hut, a few houses and a large forest. For one minute I think that I've got off at the wrong station or that Joao was a hun in disguise.

There's an old man sweeping up leaves with a broom outside the station. I go up to him and say "estadio', he looks at me and walks away. I think that my sheer bulk might have frightened the poor wee man away, however after a few minutes he reappears with two young boys with a plastic football and says something to them and points up the hill where the forest is. I thank him and the laddies lead the way, passing and kicking the ball occasionally inviting yours truly to make an arse of himself.
After about ten minutes with no 'estadio' in sight I am beginning to lose heart. To be sure, for a late January day the weather is magnificent. Blue skies, no wind, a bright sun and a temperature which Northern Europeans can only envy at that time of the year. The pine forest smells beautiful but still no estadio. On my right, I see evidence of Portugal's economic renaissance with an ultra-modern shooting range, an equestrian centre, and what seems to me an American football field. But worryingly still no estadio.

I'm still looking right downwards into a dip and suddenly, almost instinctively I turn left and there it is before me. Between either side of the forest there is a road and it seems to go straight into the stadium itself. What makes it even stranger is the fact that there are absolutely no signs at all to give an indication that a building of this size and stature is in the vicinity. The two youngsters take off and I make my way to the ground. It seems to rise before me, because there is no roof anywhere to be seen it is difficult initially to get any sense of scale. The other thing that throws me is that the circular stadium seems to be missing a segment. As I walk into the ground, there is simply  a huge space through which I can walk, no turnstiles, no walls, no barriers, nothing. Then I remember vaguely that in 1967, there was a wee makeshift stand which had probably been erected just for the game and provide the VIPs with a bit of shade. This presumably is where I am standing now.

I decide to head towards the end from where Celtic defended in the second half of the game.
There are no seats at all, just a stadium which seems to have been constructed from huge slabs of granite hewn from a nearby quarry. I take my vantage point at the very top of the upper tier and then, and only then, I appreciate the full extent of the panoramic view. What must it have been like for the ordinary Celtic supporter who had made the long haul from Scotland to this site? Automatically, my mind is back to the grainy black-and white footage BBC Scotland showing ordinary tims crammed into wee cars, dubious buses and fat planes making their tortuous path to Portugal. Who knows what sacrifices they made to get here, to a country for which the majority would have no idea.But they came in their droves, they found the money and they showed the world what Celtic football club was all about.

As I settled myself down , I was transported back to a crowded living room in West Lothian. With our recently acquired black and white telly with the aerial on top, there is a nervous anticipation before the game kicks off. My father has worked all the overtime available on the building site to feed and clothe seven kids, not easy on a labourer's wage. Having even a simple thing like a telly seems a great luxury in his eyes.Tonight, all his Celtic mates from work are in the house. They're already well oiled and in fine voice, I'm loving it because I'm the youngest there and as they come in they all give me a tanner. There are no women present. My mother and sisters have been banished from the hoose for the night. Most of these men are in their late thirties and have been through some tough times following Celtic for as long as they can remember.
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I am now looking at the pitch and trying to locate where the key incidents of the game took place. Down to my far right, I see where Jim Craig barges into an Italian and if I am honest gives away a daft penalty. I see Mazzola place the ball, walk back, complete his run up and arrogantly stroke the ball into the corner leaving poor old Ronnie Simpson helpless.

Back in the hoose, I now understand why the women folk were asked to leave as for once the air turns blue. But the game picks up and Celtic after the early setback start playing like we know they can.The momentum builds up and the bhoys quickly pick up the tempo with Bertie and Bobby running the show, pulling all the strings. The movement is phenomenal, with players interchanging and dragging the Italians all over the place. We're getting shots in, peppering their goals with shots from all ranges. In the first half the ball just won't go in, there is always a leg, a foot, a head, a piece of wood and above all the man in black Giuliano Sarti. I had never heard of this guy before but he is surely having the game of his life. The half time whistle blows and I decide to change ends. As I walk around, I realize that the pictures are there but there is no sound. Who provided the narrative to Celtic's greatest moment?

Kenneth Wolstenholme was the man who the previous summer had commentated at Wembley on England's greatest moment. Wolstenholme belonged to an era when the BBC actually had commentators who commented upon what they saw and not what they think they should have seen. There was no denying Wolstenholme's genuine joy for Celtic when they won that day, to me that was one of the highlights , an Englishman telling it as it was. It occurs to me that it would have been horrendous had one of BBC Scotland's huns had been allowed to record our greatest moment for posterity. Almost as bad as the likes of John Motson or Barry Davies who see excellence where mediocrity is staring them in the face. Wolstenholme's commentary was exemplary, he called it as he saw it.

It dawns on me that there is not another single person in the vast amphitheatre, the lack of noise only emphasizes to me what it must have been on that night. As I sit down to watch the second half, I'm back again in the packed living hoose which is electric with tension and anticipation.
I have now been relegated to the role of nipper boy on the building site and am sent with increasing frequency to fetch beer bottles from the crates in the kitchen. In an era where beer was sold in dark, clumsy bottles it required a lot of effort for a nine year old boy to open them without spilling the stuff. (The ring pull, aluminium can was seen as a revolutionary invention when it came along, which indeed it was.)

Celtic start the second half where they left off and they have Inter penned in, this is not a question of the Italians simply sitting back and sucking in the pressure. They can't get out of their half, Sarti is still performing his minor miracles but the goal has to come. When it does, it's spectacular with Tommy Gemmell producing the sort of goal fit to win any cup. He hits it so hard that I only realize that it is a goal when the net bulges. The hoose is in a state of pandemonium, with grown men behaving like wee boys. We have them on the run and the winner comes courtesy of Stevie Chalmers' touch in. As the final whistle blows there is an enormous roar of relief and joy. I'm thrown in the air and given more tanners and the occasional half crown.

I've gone down to pitch level and walk on the turf, it's beautiful and is manicured like the lawns at Wimbledon. I walk round and stand where the key incidents took place, I then move to the sidelines and stand where Jock Stein must have stood all those years ago. For the first time, I begin to feel emotional. Words cannot adequately convey what that man did for Celtic and the debt we owe him. A superb coach, a brilliant man-manager and an unrivalled tactician. When Stein spoke you tended to listen as he spoke the common sense of the working man. Clearly a very intelligent man, like countless of thousands of other youngsters he was forced down the mines to earn a living. I feel a twinge of illogical guilt when I see a big softy like me allowed the benefit of a university education when the likes of Jock Stein were only granted a basic education. He escaped to Celtic and his heart always remained with Celtic even years after his departure. His subsequent treatment by the Celtic Board  was one of the most disgraceful chapters in the club's history. What must he have been feeling as the final whistle beckoned? Outwardly quiet and in control, but you can bet that inside his stomach was churning.

I then look upwards towards the winner's podium and see captured for eternity Billy McNeill, standing there with cup aloft. Not for nothing was Billy nicknamed "Caesar', tall and erect he stands out above the joyful chaos which  has surrounded him.

As I keek out the living room window, I notice that the greatest moment in Scotland's sporting history has passed the other houses in the scheme by. There is an eery silence and no movement at all from within any the houses. To hell with them! Celtic against the rest, that's how it always was and it will always be. Not paranoia, but a true reflection of the society in which we live.  I don't understand what unites my father and his pals from the building site, he's done his best to shelter us from it but I sense that it's more than a game of football. I sense that it's about self respect and feeling valued, this at a time when Rangers made a mark of honour in refusing to employ Catholics in any capacity.

I make my way out of the stadium and head down the path, past the forest  towards the station.
I wonder in retrospect if it was a good idea to come here as it has taken a lot more out of me than I had imagined. I have been assailed with images, voices, colours and people from the past. I realize too that it just isn't about visiting a football ground or even replaying the game in my head. It's about people and a way of life which has gone, never to return.
One of the great things about the Celtic players of that time was that they looked and sounded just like us, because they were just like us. They knew what it was to play for Celtic and represent their fans. The new breed of Celtic supporter is certainly wealthier and perhaps in some ways better 'educated'. However, driven by consumerism some have lost the understanding of the emotional involvement that goes with being a Celtic supporter. "Lisbon' for some has become a mill stone which has raised unrealistic expectations. It should be seen for what it is, a wonderful night in a wonderful place at a wonderful time. The socio-economic conditions which prevailed after the war no longer exist, not enough Scottish youngsters play football in the numbers that would be required to provide lasting excellence.

I am at the station hut now and the auld man is sitting in the shade drinking from a bottle of beer, he motions to me and offers me a bottle (he has obviously got me well weighed up).
I sit down and wait for the train to come, I look up again towards the forest and can imagine droves of ecstatic tims making their way down towards the wee station. I would wager that more than  a few spent a peaceful night in the sanctuary of the forest sleeping off huge hangovers. I learned recently that Portugal does not plan to use this stadium for the forthcoming European Championships which it will host. In recent years, no major games have been played here. Somehow this seems right, the prospect of renovating, tearing up and re-building would seem like an act of sacrilege to me. Upon reflection, this was the right place for the right people. On the face of it, you couldn't have got two more differing sets of people than Celtic fans and the many Portuguese who attended the game. But it worked as the reserved Portuguese took to the Celtic fans immediately because of their passion and good humour.

The auld man has been scrutinizing me carefully and our eyes meet, "Celtic" he says and a big smile breaks out on his face. I nod and he says something which I don't understand, I get the feeling that the auld man has witnessed this scene many times in the past. Foreigners getting off at his wee station hut and trudging up the path towards the stadium. Seperated by language, he is still able to convey to me that he likes Celtic. Maybe he was at the game all those years ago.

I hear the train approach and get up, I shake the auld man's hand and thank him as he then shuffles off. I take one last look and decide there and then I will never return to this place. All the images and memories have been exorcised. I do not need to return, I have found Paradise.

Tam Donnelly replies:

Thank you very much Martin I answer this with tears in my eyes, ( I kid you not) as one of the young men at the time who was fortunate enough to be there and see the game. You described it perfectly. After the game was over Martin we all gathered in a parking lot behind the Stadium but you had to go down a hill to it and it was a steep grassy hill. The memories came flooding back to me as I read your story, what a site it was . I sat on the edge of our bus bumper as I recall and looked up the hill as all the Tims where
heading for this parking lot and the site was something to behold Green and white coming over that hill singing and dancing the tears were blinding me
as each Timm from our bus reached where I was we all hugged and cried together. The police put us all on the buses to take us back into Lisbon all was done orderly. I believe there was about 30 to 40 buses lined up and they were all Green and white, they put the buses in a row and lined us up to go into Lisbon, through at the time what seemed like a mountain road . At the front there was 2 Limos, 6 motorbike police, and motorbike police lined along the busses , at the back of this motorcade the same thing at the back
Limos and more motorbike polis, The sirens start from the front Limo and we start to head for the city of Lisbon, as we wind our way down this tree filled mountain road I am hanging out the window with my tricolor I look back at all the busses behind us as I am in about the third or fourth bus, and the site of the buses winding down the road with scarves banners and Tims out the window will go with me to my grave, We get to the outskirts of Lisbon and the streets are starting to get lined with people all cheering and clapping the busses as we get there. when we get into the city heading for the airport the streets are now bulging with people all jumping about mad and trying to get souvenirs from us but the busses have full belt on and no stopping the motorcade is going like hell through the town then all of a sudden it comes to a slow crawl as the people on the streets are now over
crowding the place and it is to dangerous to go fast,  it was like a lap of honor for us and we sucked it up every last minute of it. What a day and thanks for bring back that memory Martin god bless ye mate.

Hail Hail Tam

PS  I would advise visitors to the stadium to start their journey in central Lisbon.  A 30-minute tram car (no. 21?) ride to the Estadio Nacional is an experience in itself.  Wee caurs tackling very steep hills in very narrow streets, motors screeching like demented banshees, tempts the uninitiated to pray for a safe landing in the leafy suburbs of Lisbon.
I'm glad that Lisbon has prospered.  It's a very beautiful place.