After a drive past the Vatican City walls, where the Hoops are out in force, we have been dropped off near the Villa Borghese, from where the coaches will ferry the Celtic support to the stadium later on. A short walk takes us to the Piazza del Popolo, one of the nicest squares in Rome. There are restaurants here, busy as tourists and locals alike soak up the sun, so this is a perfect spot for lunch. Happy days.
We’ve ordered some pasta and are people-watching. The police presence has increased whilst we wait but the atmosphere is not intimidatory or hostile in any way. The waitress asks us what match is taking place, on behalf of an elderly couple at the next table, and I helpfully explain to them in my best Italian why we are here. They look at me blankly. Turns out they are Welsh. Nice one, Matt.
They are on a cruise stop-off and I make the fatal mistake of asking if they are with the NCL ship, whose agents and coaches were lined up outside the airport as we arrived. They are definitely not having the dream holiday promised. Everyone is either sick or angry, apparently, and they will never cruise again. He should probably just have taken her to the match instead. Romance is overrated. I know these things.
Blissfully, I am interrupted by a gentleman wearing a green polo shirt, who asks if I am Matt. We haven’t actually met before but I do recognise him immediately as ‘Brogan Rogan Trevino and Hogan’. Jim and I have exchanged a few comments on Twitter. I like the cut of his jib.
We very nearly met in Salzburg, last year. Café Mozart to be precise. I was taking a photo of the place for my first ever Diary Tweet and Jim, inadvertently, appears in it. Trademark boots and all. That’s how we got ‘talking’. He has posted some gems on there, including a brilliant clip of a group belting out ‘Royal Canal’ in the Albert Hall, before some of the British royal family. I kid you not. It’s a great version of a song I always associated with the Pogues, a real ‘go-to’ favourite after a few beers.
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Jim’s dad ran the trip to Budapest in 1972, made famous by the party set up for visiting Celtic fans by Richard Burton, there both to film and to celebrate the 40th birthday of his wife, Elizabeth Taylor.
He has a thousand anecdotes of that, and Lisbon, and Milan, and best of all, Argentina. The luckiest Celtic-supporting boy on the planet, he was at the games in Buenos Aires and Montevideo. Jammy git.
I am loving his stories and could have listened to him all afternoon. He was once a guide in Rome, so points out where we can see Caravaggios, or where Nero was interred then…err…dug back up in the piazza. I am also really interested in his plans to visit Milan for the 50th anniversary of the Feyenoord final, in May of next year, when a group of Celts will be cycling to the city, via Rotterdam. I quite fancy that.
I am conscious that time is getting on and that I had hoped to meet my Japanese Celtic friend, Nobu. My first contact with him pretty much sums up just what a special entity our club is. In March of this year, I ran the Tokyo Marathon to raise funds for the Celtic FC Foundation. The night before the race, I receive a text from Nobu asking if I want to meet up for a pint afterwards. Totally random. I reply that I will be in the Dubliner pub around 7pm the next night, if he can make that. And he agrees. The following night, I hobble across downtown Tokyo to find the pub. I am the only guy in there from this part of the world and we have never met. This could be awkward. I just need to hope Nobu sees me.
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Then I see him. It has to be him, as he is wearing the full Celtic regalia, strip and scarf, in the pub. There is no game on tonight. As ice-breakers go, this is a belter. I burst out laughing. Ask him what he’s having and, of course, it’s a Guinness. Within a short time, we are discussing all things Celtic. I love this guy.
I ask for a photo and he is happy to oblige. But only after he has dipped into his bag and produced the world’s largest tricolour, complete with Tokyo CSC emblem in the centre. I am gone by this point but we duly get someone to take the photo and resume our chat and Guinness appreciation session. Then he goes back into the bag to bring out a gift for me, a t-shirt. I immediately recognise it as the same one presented to my late dad by my cousin, Eugene, some twenty years earlier.
I’m 6,000 miles from home, drinking with a complete stranger and every surface, bone or limb in my body hurts from the race. And now he has brought out this shirt. Jesus! So, I get emotional. I explain that my father always wore a collar and tie, even at home, even to the match. It’s just what that generation did. And when Eugene gave him the t-shirt, he simply pulled it over his clothes to pose for the obligatory photo. Of course, we slaughtered him for his fashion sense.
‘A t-shirt, shirt and tie combo is a definite ‘no-no’, Dad.’ I still have that photo. Framed, treasured, and it makes me chuckle every time I see it. I cannot believe that I have just been handed the same gift. And from someone I had never met until that night.
Then it gets better. Nobu asks for my cousin’s name and on hearing ’Eugene’, promptly completes the surname. ‘He is my friend. He was the president of the Tokyo CSC whilst he lived here.’ Nobu then proceeds to text Eugene the photo. My mobile does not work in Japan. I should have checked that out beforehand, but this is me.
So, the images travel across the world whilst we are sharing a few beers in an Irish bar in Japan, and by the time I get home, my family are all aware of both Nobu and his gesture.
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Through Twitter, he has let me know that he is coming to Rome for the game and I am looking forward to meeting up again. I drop him a text suggesting we meet nearby in an hour if that suits and we head into Villa Borghese, one of the main ‘green areas’ in the city centre. It’s a fairly steep climb up from the piazza but the views over the city and towards the Vatican make that effort worthwhile. There is the distinct sound of singing Celtic fans and we assume they are in the park, however, looking down, we can see the massed ranks just the other side of Piazza del Popolo. The party has already started.
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There is another one going on in the Villa Borghese park itself, where a small kiosk is doing a roaring trade serving thirsty Hoops. This is where the buses will leave from for the stadium and it is getting busier by the minute, as fans take on the guidance from the club to arrive early.
We had planned to head back into town first, hopefully to meet up with Nobu, but my instincts are to stay put meantime, soak up some sun and atmosphere then head to the ground. I let Yokohama’s second-most favourite son know about the change of plans and tell him we’ll see him there.
Soon we are boarding the buses for the Stadio Olimpico. It feels ridiculously early, however, I don’t want to be caught out again like previous trips, particularly Leipzig, where the proposed ‘half-hour fan walk’ took three times as long and we ended up arriving late and missing the kick-off.
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We are crammed into the first shuttle bus, next to the driver. I’m thinking that Nobu’s countryman, whose job is to pack people into Tokyo subway trains, would have a field day here, as the Sardines CSC motorcade gets underway.
We are standing but we have the box seat as far as seeing what’s going on is concerned. It’s like a military operation, as the fleet of Hoops make their way under armed police escort through Rome, other traffic and lights ignored as we speed towards the stadium. Within twenty minutes, I can see the distinctive roof supports through the trees. That’s Veni and Vidi sorted. Just need the Vici now.
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Security is as tight as predicted. There are two separate body searches plus a passport check, before we can head into the arena. We’re pretty much first off the bus and into the ground, three-and-a-half hours before kick-off. I’m the guy who struggles to make a game at Celtic Park on time, so the irony is not lost on Emma or myself. We’re here before the team, which is a definite first. But when in Rome…
Our seats are dead centre behind the goal, about halfway up the massive single-tier stand. It’s as good as it will get in this upmarket Hampden, with its athletic track and advertising boards obscuring the bottom of the goals.
Time for some food and a drink. Actually, time for a meal and a night out but the fans are arriving early and creating a good atmosphere, even at this stage. I pick up a text from Lubeck Joe advising that he is just a few rows behind me. So the obligatory photos are exchanged with my big German pal, who I first met in St Gallen, for the pre-season friendly. It’s good to see him, as always.
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Also present in St Gallen, was Marco from Lecco, owner of the Shamrock Bar, a ‘must go’ for any Celtic fan visiting Lake Como. One of the guys from the Italian Celts CSC has just sent me a photo of Marco and the other Lecco Bhoys in Scholars bar in the city centre. I hadn’t realised they were travelling over, daft as that sounds for Italian Celts. It would have been great to hook up. Too many things going on.