2 January 1971

Rangers v Celtic. Ibrox Park, Glasgow.

Both teams were strong. The bulk of the Rangers team would go on to win the European Cup Winner’s Cup the following season. Five of Celtic’s Lisbon Lions had been selected, augmented by the exciting ‘Quality Street’ youngsters such as Davie Hay and George Connelly. Kenny Dalglish watched from the main stand.

Rangers were in fourth place in the league and badly needed to win. So too did Celtic, who trailed Aberdeen at the top by four points. It was Rangers v Celtic at Ibrox at New Year. Winning was all that mattered. More important than life or death as someone naively said.

He hadn’t been to a Celtic game, or Ibrox, for a while. He wasn’t a diehard. He chose his games. He was a family man now and he’d stopped going with his pals to see Celtic regularly. Big games only now, accompanied by his seven year old son. The family was far from poor but money had to be managed.

Until recent times he and Celtic had been starved of footballing success. There were big showpiece final wins but he’d seen Celtic win the league just four times in 42 years. That was before Jock Stein arrived. Stein was the best manager in Britain, arguably Europe. Celtic hadn’t beaten Rangers at Ibrox at New Year for fifty years. On 2 January 1971 he believed this was the day.

In those days, there were only two league “Old Firm” derbies. He lived a 20 minute walk from Ibrox so he at least had no problem getting to the game on a public holiday with no public transport. Getting a ticket, albeit for the “Rangers end” hadn’t been too difficult either. He could lift his son over the turnstile.

He didn’t mind going into the Rangers end. He didn’t wear colours. Didn’t sing songs. He wouldn’t be bevvying. He’d blend into the company of the other team’s fans. He was used to this. He’d married into a Rangers supporting family which was unusual in 1950s Glasgow where Catholics and Protestants rarely ‘inter married’. Many of his friends were Rangers fans and his workmates too. A toolmaker, he’d been Alex Ferguson’s gaffer at Stern’s Engineering in Hillington. Anyway, there wasn’t any alternative if he wanted to see the game as it wasn’t being shown on tv. It never would be.

This was his son’s first visit to Ibrox. They’d been to league games at Celtic Park and cup finals at Hampden. His son had begged him to be taken to the 1969 Scottish Cup final v Rangers but was told he was too young “for that kind of game”. He relented for the October League Cup Final v St Johnstone. 73,000 spectators, officially, that is, were inside Hampden. The 1970 Scottish Cup Final v Aberdeen had at least 108,000 in the ground. His son joked that they’d get to this game on time as there wasn’t a bookies between their home and Ibrox! His wife wasn’t keen on them going. She knew the trouble there could be at these matches. He warned his son as they headed out the door “You’ll hear some bad language today, son! Words you don’t hear in the house. I don’t want to hear you using them!”

The game was a disappointment. Despite the high quality on the park, no one from either team managed to find time or space on the ball, to find a bit of magic on an icy pitch on a foggy winter afternoon. There were five minutes to go and it was 0-0. Anything could happen. Something, not something on the pitch, was worrying him though. They’d never left a match early. Today they did.

“C’mon son, let’s go.”

“Why, dad, there could still be a goal?”

“I’ve got a bad feeling about today, son. Let’s go.”

He’d dodged a few bullets in his time. Growing up in Partick in the 20s for a start. He’d joined the merchant navy at 17. German U boats honed your survival skills. He turned his son round and they squeezed past the thousands of bescarved Rangers supporters who were urging their team on. Eventually they reached the top of the Copland Road terrace to the stairway out. Stairway 13.

They made their way down the steep steps. Back on the field, the home crowd continued to roar their appreciation as the Rangers defence, with Sandy Jardine and Ronnie McKinnon in fine form, held firm. If anyone would score a late goal it would be most likely be Stein’s fit and hungry side. They had a habit of scoring late winners. But they hadn’t yet.

Apart from beer and whisky bottles, the stairway was almost completely deserted. They sped down, then through Ibrox’s huge wooden gates which were slid open for them by a steward. He was keen to get home. There was a family get together at night at his sister in law’s house in Hillington. The game which promised so much had been a disappointment. He wanted to get on with the evening’s socialising. With honours shared no-one would be gloating or in a bad mood.

It was dark now. They walked quickly along Edmiston Drive. They had just reached the roundabout at Broomloan Road when they heard a mighty roar. In the uncovered terracing to their right they saw men in green and white scarves celebrating.

“What’s happened, dad?”

“Celtic have scored.”

“How do you know?”

“That’s the Celtic end up there, son. That’s why there was a big cheer. That’s just about full time. Celtic have won 1-0.”

“Why did we leave early, dad? We missed the goal!”

“There were too many people in there, son. I felt crammed in all game. I didn’t fancy us all trying to get out at the one time. You’ll see the highlights on Sportsreel tonight.”

Past “The Albion”, Rangers’ training ground. Up Helen Street towards Bellahouston park. Past the bus depot on the left and the police station on the right. Nearly home. For the size of the crowd, the road was quiet. Once they reached the White City Stadium they turned into Bunessan Street.

The first ambulance screamed past. Then another. Then another. They entered close number 16 and climbed the flight of stairs up to their flat. There was a terrible sense that something truly awful had happened.

His wife was waiting for them at the door. Distraught. In tears.

“Thank God you two are back.”

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