Like so many followers of the Hoops, I owe my life-long obsession to my Dad, Charlie. A resident of the Garngad, who’s family footprint lead back to Portadown in the North of Ireland.
One of a group of 13, who became the first Catholic apprentices in the yards. A true shipbuilder on the Clydeside during World War Two, where he often brought up the owners of a certain Club from across the city, who’s penchant was to find ‘positions’ for first team regulars in the yards, to keep them at Ibroke, rather than see them off to serve in their beloved military.
Goes beyond the ironic, that the inhabitants of that ‘institution’ conveniently used links to the same forces, who had been so accommodating in the past. No mention should be made of rumoured missing Poppy funds, or their ‘massive’ four grand contribution from a full house.
My Dad and his crew after the Clydebank blitz, were moved further North out of the range of the German bombers. He found himself billeted in a large barn on a farm in Alloa, where the production of invasion craft for D-Day for the British, Canadians and free French was carried out at pace. One every six days,instead of a peace time estimate of nine weeks.
One weekend off every four months was divided between his fiancée who’d become my Mum, and his beloved Hoops. I am still in possession of a framed unused ticket from a Southern League encounter at Ibroke, where the Bhoys prevailed 3-2. There is even an air raid warning, tagged to a possible refund should the match be interrupted by the Enemy.
Being part of a family of ten, equally divided in boys and girls, my twin brother and I were last in line to visit Paradise. Being Kirky Bhoys, the watering hole of Quinns at Bishopbriggs cross, was a must for Dad, my Uncle Snooks Gallagher, and an assortment of travelling companions down the years.
It was then that my brother Bryan (both of us named after the local priests) learned the essential skill of breathing through our ears. My old fellah wouldn’t have had a need to bend his legs sitting astride a horse, as he was so bow-legged, that we were sure if his legs were straightened he’d have been well over six feet tall. As it was we were, and still are a family of short arses.
On game day the Guinness fart concocted in Quinns, was brought into play, causing a hole in the crowd, as if someone had thrown a hand grenade. Thus the need of inhaling and exhaling via the lugs to ensure a perfect view of the goings-on. This worked a treat for us vertically challenged, in the days where all that was on offer was safe standing.
Later I became a proud member of the Kirky Emerald.
My earliest memory was the Dixie Deans blast over the bar in a penalty shootout, which cost us dearly, in the then level playing field of European competition. In later years I took my newly arrived sister from the States to her first ‘O*d F*rm’ encounter, where I’m sure she’ll forgive me for saying that she jumped for joy when the first goal went in, unfortunately it was at the wrong end. Then wet herself with excitement when Paul Wilson hit the first of two equalisers. My non-football loving girlfriend, who is now my wife of 30+ years attended the Davey Provan Cup Final, and never lets me forget it.
Almost 25 years ago I moved my young family to a new life here in Aotearoa (Land of the Long (Green) and White Cloud), swapping a job at BT for one at Telecom New Zealand. In no way did that dilute my passion for my Club, and my long suffering wife and 2 Kiwi kids are on board with Dad’s continuing obsession. My adopted earthquake ravaged home town of Christchurch, circa population of 300,000 has a strong supporters club, as does Auckland and Wellington. The Hoops brand has always travelled well.
Thanks to the joys of the Interweb, I can still touch the pulse of everything of a Hoops nature. I’m a huge fan of the man from Antrim and for what he has helped to achieve in his so far, short tenure as manager. The challenges of being outside the European money cartel is a subject close to my heart.
Like my Catholic grandparents in Norn Iron, it must be obvious to one and all that our Club is not welcome, at the top table of European football. Thanks totally in part to a combination of the compromised Gnomes of Nyon at UEFA, Russian Oligarchs, American Billionaires, Oil rich Sheikhs and Pseudo Communists from the Chinese empire.
Tradition, and the very soul of Association Football has been sold out, and forced to take a back seat, thanks to the franchises who now make the rules to suit them, for a game we all love.
The extra round to be played by us, Ajax and Benfica a clarion call, for which will I believe will lead to a European elitist tournament. The Champions League should be done under the Trades Description Act. 90% of the invitees are in fact also-rans, and only qualify by way of geography. The time I believe is at hand for a new product.
Offering a comparison, living here in NZ, God is in the shape of the funny shaped ball. Without a shadow of a doubt, the best regional rugby on the planet, is played between franchises here in the Southern Hemisphere.
To spruce it up, 2 years ago they added franchises from Japan and Argentina to those of NZ, South Africa and Ozzie. My team from Christchurch the Crusaders won the tournament for the second year in a row, making them the Real Madrid of the comp, through their past record.
Their resemblance to Celtic is profound. Most in the squad are local boys and they play a refreshing blend of attacking rugby. The telling factor though, is due to delays in building a new stadium here, they played the Final in a 22 thousand seater ground, and were still trying to punt tickets on the day of the Final.
The Super 17 concept has run its course, and the Champions League is going exactly the same way. Viewer figures are down, because people are getting sick fed up, watching a tournament where you can perm one team from six who’ll come out on top.
I believe that having to go cap in hand to UEFA for scraps off their table, that teams from Scotland, Scandinavia, Portugal, Holland, Belgium, Turkey, Greece and Croatia have a golden opportunity to offer something different. Amazon, Sky and Facebook amongst others, who are on the outside of the broadcasting cartel, would be all over it.
It’s refreshing to see that Lionel Messi and captains of the Spanish clubs are bucking the trend, and rebelling at taking La Liga games to the USA.
Unfortunately for them, the Franchises will win hands down. We are undoubtedly the big fish in a small pond, and its going to take some creative thinking to sustain our Club’s position in world football. I hope we have the leadership to see that through.
Thirteen thousand miles away the passion for my Club remains undiminished, the future for me will always be Green and White, and in Brendan I trust.
HH
Gerry Cassidy
South New Brighton, Christchurch
New Zealand
(Gerry struggling to reach you via email – can you supply an alternative email address to reach you on?)
