Standing on the shoulders of giants

Tom Murray

1967

Wedged between my Dad and my Uncle John I couldnt see a thing. In front of us swayed a huge mass of folk all the way down to the edge of the pitch. Either side and behind it was the same. We swayed with the crowd my Dad and my Uncle keeping a tight grip on me. I could only listen, and feel the noise, the expectation, and stare up at the clearest of skies.

The day before, May 25th 1967, the three of us could barely look but we had finally danced our own crazy celebration dance as we watched, on the tiniest Black and White TV, Celtic beat Inter Milan and become the first British club to lift the European Cup. Twenty fours hours later the heroes were returning and Celtic Park was packed in the sunshine.

May 26th 1967 was my birthday. I was eight. This was the best birthday present Id ever had. Id never been to Celtic Park before. Id never been to an actual game. But I was a lifelong supporter like my Dad and my Uncle John.

The heroes were on an open top bus that had travelled all the way from the airport. The heroes were all Scottish and had been born in a thirty mile radius of Glasgow. Like being eight, and singing along with my Dad and my Uncle, thatll never happen again.

I never saw the players arrive. I heard them. Or heard the crowd. Felt the sway and crush of folk. I wasnt scared. I felt protected by the people around me. Even in their eagerness to catch a glimpse of the players hands reached out and pulled me up if I ever slipped, or looked like slipping under all those feet.

I bounced up and down and every now and then through the smallest of gaps in the crowd I would glimpse the bus. Once I was sure I saw the sun bounce of the European Cup itself. They were getting closer. My Uncle was giving me a running commentary but I wanted to see them.

I wished then I was anything but eight.

My Dad had warned me that I might not see anything. But I had jumped at the chance when hed asked if Id wanted to go. I just wanted to be there.

Maybe he saw the look on my face as the bus approached and knew this moment was unique. And it would soon be gone.

I dont know. All I do know is that the next thing I was being lifted up by both my Dad and my Uncle. Lifted up and a foot placed on one of their shoulders.

My dad shouted Its his birthday. And no-one complained behind us. In fact some of the men either side of my dad supported them so that it was easier to hold their grip.

I gasped at the crowd. Wave after wave of colour filled every corner of the stadium.

Wed queued forever to get in. But even so I wasnt expecting what I saw. I remembered us dancing in celebration the day before. It was like a never ending extension of that. Folk happy and smiling and singing non stop. Relieved that their team had won for sure. A goal five minutes to go. Five minutes that had lasted a lifetime and sprouted many a grey hair no doubt.

I remember covering my ears against the noise. Fit to burst your eardrums. They must have heard it all the way to Milan.

The bus grew nearer. I swayed on my Dad and Uncles shoulder. They must have ached for days after. I glanced down at them. Working men released from everyday cares for just a little while. Not that I thought about it then but they looked so young. Men in their prime. And for that time I wasnt just an eight year old boy. I was like my Dad and my Uncle John. We were as one.

The noise grew even louder all around me as the bus passed in front of us, Billy McNeill holding up that massive trophy. The terracing seemed to shake. And I held my scarf high feeling my feet solid on strong shoulders as I sang as loud as I could. What I sang Ive no idea. I couldnt even hear my own eight year old voice.

Too soon the bus moved on to another section of the ground. We carried on singing and chanting. When it had worked its way to the far end of the stadium I climbed down from my Dads and my Uncles shoulders.

After that everything is hazy. I cant remember leaving the stadium. It must have taken us an age. I cant remember the trip home. Probably stuck in mile after mile of traffic. Was there that much traffic in 1967? Maybe that day.

I remember later though. The feeling that my birthday would soon be over. I would be eight and one day. I dont think I even opened my cards till the next day. What other presents I got I cant remember. I didnt need anything else anyway. I lay in bed scoring the winning goal in future European Cup Finals. I must have eventually slept.

After that I went to many actual games and experienced the highs and lows any football supporter feels. None touched that particular day which wasnt even a game.

Now over forty years later Im no longer eight, and Im the only one of the three left to remember. Heres to them. Giants in another world. Mine.