When Celtic beat Inter Milan 2–1 in Lisbon they become the first British team to win the coveted European Cup.
Today Lisbon is almost, but not quite, back in Portuguese hands at the end of the most hysterically exuberant occupation any city has ever known.
Pockets of Celtic supporters are holding out in unlikely corners, noisily defending their own carnival atmosphere against the returning tide of normality, determined to preserve the moment, to make the party go on and on. They emerge with a sudden burst of Glasgow accents from taxis or cafe´s, or let their voices carry with an irresistible aggregate of decibels across hotel lounges. Always, even among the refugees who turn up at the British Embassy bereft of everything but the rumpled clothes they stand in, the talk is of that magical hour-and-ahalf under the hot sun on Thursday in the breathtaking tree-fringed amphitheatre of the national stadium.
At the airport, the impression is of a Dunkirk with happiness. The discomforts of mass evacuation are tolerable when your team have just won the greatest victory yet achieved by a British football club, and completed a clean sweep of the trophies available to them that has never been equalled anywhere in the world. They even cheered Helenio Herrera and his shattered Inter when the Italians left for Milan yesterday evening. ‘Inter, Inter, Inter.’ The chant resounded convincingly through the departure lounge, but no one was misled. In that mood, overflowing with conquerors’ magnanimity, they might have given [Rangers manager] Scot Symon a round of applause.
Typically, within a minute the same happily dishevelled groups were singing: ‘Ee Aye Addio, Herrora’s on the Buroo’. The suggestion that the most highly paid manager in Europe is likely to be queueing at the Labour Exchange is rather wild but the comment emphasized that even the least analytical fan had seen through the hectic excitement of a unique performance to the essential meaning of the event. Mundo Desportivo of Lisbon put it another way: ‘It was inevitable. Sooner or later the Inter of Herrera, the Inter of catenaccio, of negative football, of marginal victories, had to pay for their refusal to play entertaining football.’ The Portuguese rejoiced over the magnificent style in which Celtic had taken retribution on behalf of the entire game.
A few of us condemned Herrera unequivocally two years ago after Inter had won the European Cup at their own San Siro Stadium by defending with neurotic caution to protect a luckily gained one-goal lead against a Benfica side with only nine fit men. But he continued to receive around £30,000 a year for stifling the flair, imagination, boldness and spontaneity that make football what it is. And he was still held in awe by people who felt that the statistics of his record justified the sterility of his methods. Now, however, nearly everyone appreciates the dangers of his influence. The twelfth European Cup final showed how shabbily his philosophy compares with the dynamically positive thinking of Jock Stein. Before the match Stein told me: ‘Inter will play it defensively. That’s their way and it’s their business. But we feel we have a duty to play the game our way, and our way is to attack. Win or lose, we want to make the game worth remembering. Just to be involved in an occasion like this is a tremendous honour and we think it puts an obligation on us. We can be as hard and professional as anybody, but I mean it when I say we don’t just want to win this cup. We want to win it playing good football, to make neutrals glad we’ve done it, glad to remember how we did it.’
The effects of such thinking, and of Stein’s genius for giving it practical expression, were there for all the football world to see on Thursday. Of course, he has wonderful players, a team without a serious weakness and with tremendous strengths in vital positions. But when one had eulogized the exhilarating speed and the bewildering variety of skills that destroyed Inter – the unshakable assurance of Clark, the murderously swift overlapping of full-backs, the creative energy of Auld in midfield, the endlessly astonishing virtuosity of Johnstone, the intelligent and ceaseless running of Chalmers – even with all this, ultimately the element that impressed most profoundly was the massive heart of this Celtic side. Nothing symbolized it more vividly than the incredible display of Gemmell. He was almost on his knees with fatigue before scoring that thunderous equalizer in the 63rd minute but somehow his courage forced him to go on dredging up the strength to continue with the exhausting runs along the left-wing that did more than any other single factor to demoralize Inter.
Gemmell has the same aggressive pride, the same contempt for any thought of defeat, that emanates from Auld. Before the game Auld cut short a discussion about the possible ill-effects of the heat and the firm ground with a blunt declaration that they would lick the Italians in any conditions. When he had been rescued from the delirious crowd and was walking back to the dressing-rooms after Celtic had overcome all the bad breaks to vindicate his confidence, Auld – naked to the waist except for an Inter shirt knotted round his neck like a scarf – suddenly stopped in his tracks and shouted to Ronnie Simpson, who was walking ahead: ‘Hey, Ronnie Simpson! What are we? What are we, son?’ He stood there sweating, showing his white teeth between parched lips flecked with saliva. Then he answered his own question with a belligerent roar. ‘We’re the greatest. That’s what we are. The greatest.’ Simpson came running back and they embraced for a full minute.
In the dressing-room, as the other players unashamedly sang their supporters’ songs in the showers and drank champagne from the huge Cup (‘Have you had a bevy out of this?’), Auld leaned forward to Sean Fallon, the trainer, and asked with mock seriousness: ‘Would you say I was the best? Was I your best man?’
‘They’ve all got Stein’s heart,’ said a Glasgow colleague. ‘There’s a bit of the big man in all of them.’
Certainly the preparation for this final and the winning of it were impregnated with Stein’s personality. Whether warning the players against exposing themselves to the sun (‘I don’t even want you near the windows in your rooms. If there’s as much as a freckle on any man’s arm he’s for home’) or joking with reporters beside the hotel swimming-pool in Estoril, his was the all-pervading influence.
Despite the extreme tension he must have felt, he never lost the bantering humour that keeps the morale of his expeditions unfailingly high. The impact of the Celtic invasion on the local Catholic churches was a rewarding theme for him. ‘They’re getting some gates since we came. The nine o’clock and ten o’clock Masses were all-ticket. They’ve had to get extra plates. How do they divide the takings here? Is it fifty-fifty or in favour of the home club?’
It was hard work appearing so relaxed and the effort eventually took its toll of Stein when he made a dive for the dressing-rooms a minute before the end of the game, unable to stand any more. When we reached him there, he kept muttering: ‘What a performance. What a performance.’ It was left to Bill Shankly, the Scottish manager of Liverpool (and the only English club manager present), to supply the summing-up quote. ‘John,’ Shankly said with the solemnity of a man to whom football is a religion, ‘you’re immortal.’
An elderly Portuguese official cornered Stein and delivered ecstatic praise of Celtic’s adventurous approach. ‘This attacking play, this is the real meaning of football. This is the true game.’ Stein slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Go on. I could listen to you all night.’ Then, turning to the rest of us, ‘Fancy anybody saying that about a Scottish team.’ …