The half-time whistle probably comes at a bad time for us, as Lazio are rocking. We’ve struggled for much of the first-half against the top seeds but we’re going in level and on a bit of a high. The second period is much more encouraging. Celts are now sweeping down towards us, the one-touch passing is back and the Italians are rattled.
We look like a real team. I felt in Rennes that I was watching a totally different approach to the normal fare served over the years abroad by Celtic, much more akin to the style of play we traditionally adopt at home.
Whilst there is the odd scare – there always will be playing against teams from the top leagues – this is feeling increasingly comfortable. As the clock ticks down, I am looking for a win. To break that Italian duck. To start creating our own great European memories.
With a couple of minutes to play, we have the chance to do just that. French Eddie is bearing down on goal and has opened up his body to finish Lazio off, passing the ball past the keeper but agonisingly also the post. That was it. Just like GMS at the Etihad and Callum against a German team. Another case of nearly. Of glorious failure. Ah well. I would have taken a point beforehand. That’s more than decent.
And then it happens. Eddie has it again. This time he has support in numbers. ‘Take the right option, Eddie.’ And he does. He slips it to Ollie. His first touch takes him wide. Or does it? He clips it over the diving keeper. In slow motion. It can’t be? It is! It’s there! Oh man! There is no feeling like this. No noise like this. Anywhere. Grown men are screaming. Falling over seats. An explosion of pure joy. ‘Blow that whistle!’ And he does. And we’ve won. This is just the best ever. This is how it feels to be Celtic.
The players have come to the track to share the moment with the supporters. They look as happy as we do. Big kids, all of us. Making another piece of Celtic history. Together. The older hands have seen it before. Although nothing as special as this very often.
Broony. Jamesy. Callum. Big Fraser, back after a spell down south. Defying the notion that ‘you should never come back’ with a string of priceless saves towards the end. Shades of a night in the Camp Nou, where he pretty much cemented his reputation as England’s number one. Playing for a Scottish team in our pub league. Unheard of. And the new Bhoys are quickly getting it. Delighted faces. Fists punching the air. As Tommy used to say, ‘when you pull on that jersey, you represent a people, a culture.’ And those people are happy tonight.
As we await the signal to leave the stadium for the long journey home, there is a nice touch. The big screens are playing Celtic games of the past. Magic moments. Many in black-and-white. The goals are cheered as if live. As are images of the legendary figures in our history. Brother Walfrid. Willie Maley. Jimmy McGrory. Jock and his Lions. Henrik. If Carlsberg did European nights…
Heading for the exits now and there is one more familiar face. Well two, really. I spot Mark from the flight home from Sarajevo, where earlier, totally co-incidentally, I had noted his brother Hugh, striding down the main thoroughfare resplendent in straw hat and his ‘TULLY’ Shamrock kit from the late ‘50’s. Mark shouts his brother over and makes the introductions, before Hugh jokingly asks me what I meant by calling him ‘a character’, in my Sarajevo diary. It’s a good thing to be, Hugh.
3.30am. Friday, 8 November 2019. I’ve dropped Emma home and I’m pulling into the driveway, still wearing my Italian Celts scarf, French Eddie t-shirt and a huge smile. It’s the middle of the night ffs.
Hail Hail!
Matt Corr
Follow Matt on Twitter @Boola_vogue
Papa Francesco Ale!
(🎥 via @KarlBrady77)
pic.twitter.com/1q07tRR71d— celticbible (@celticbible) November 8, 2019
