This is how it feels to be Celtic, magic moments in the Eternal City…
2.30am. Thursday, 7 November 2019. My alarm’s going off. It’s the middle of the night!
Then I click. Matchday. Plane to catch. Sort yourself out.
It’s a quick shower, shave, then the year’s earliest cuppa. Then the short drive to pick up my daughter. None of your Norman Naemates CSC nonsense today. The Corrs are on tour again. Well, two of us anyway. The boys are both working and are gutted. They won’t make this one. But Emma’s here, ‘bright and breezy’, just as her text said, when I checked earlier that she was up. Even at 3.30am. Because the Celtic are playing in Rome tonight and we’re going. The way it should be.
Even by Celtic awayday standards this is early. A 4am check-in at Glasgow for a flight two hours later. Madness. But it’s the Jet2 terminal, which is good news. We have a pal who works for them. Maria. My other daughter’s best pal’s mum. Does that make sense? Inevitably, when we fly from there, she will be on duty, greeting me with a hug, kiss and the whispered words, ‘I hope your team gets stuffed tonight!’, before ensuring that I have the seats with extra legroom. That’s friendship, Glasgow-style.
Maria’s not working today, as she recovers from a recent op. Husband Andy told me that yesterday, when he completed some work he was doing in our home. But clearly the message has got through that the Corrs are on tour, as we receive the boarding passes with…the seats with the extra legroom. ‘Ave Maria! Yer some wummin!’ Even when you’re under the weather. Real friendship, Glasgow-style.
Speaking of friendships, the first familiar faces I see today are a couple of the guys who work at Celtic, Adam and Martin. They hand us our match tickets. It’s a tough gig trying to keep everyone happy on these trips, with all the unpredictability the day’s events will throw up. I saw that first-hand in Leipzig.
Through security and heading for breakfast. We pass a guy who seems to be having an argument with himself regarding a shop being shut. It’s 4.15am. Beardmores is open though and I tell Emma that we can have a breakfast roll and a drink at my usual table, number 45. She thinks I’m joking until we reach the place and pretty much the only unoccupied spot is…table 45. It is written. She shakes her head.
My airport Guinness this morning will be unique in that it will be the only one of the day. Early start, late return and the fact I’m going with my daughter to a city where the prospect of hassle seems more than a possibility have all made the decision to take the car a no-brainer. I love a few beers on these European trips but this just seems to make sense. I’ll savour this pint then become Sensible Dad CSC.
There is a good vibe on the flight. Beers are flowing and so is the patter. The ‘seatbelts’ sign is on and the stewardess announces that all passengers should remain seated, ‘apart from the gentleman who has had to use the toilets, as he has an emergency situation.’ Cue hilarity in the cabin.
A few moments later, the poor guy emerges to loud cheers, looking suitably relieved, embarrassed and confused. As we approach the runway in Rome, a new awayday tradition kicks in again, the fans gradually building up the noise to a crescendo, until that moment when rubber hits tarmac, the trigger for bedlam as the by-now familiar ‘Doo, doo, doo, doo, roo,’ chant belts out across the aeroplane. Nutty but nice.
We’re out of the terminal and piling onto the coaches, which will take us into the city. We decide to find somewhere for lunch once we know where the drop-off point is. We would normally pick up one of the sight-seeing ‘hop-on hop-off’ tours to kill a few hours in the afternoon but we’ve already done Rome. I’m gobsmacked as Emma tells me that was the best part of a decade ago. Where did that go?
That trip in 2010 had been my second visit to the Eternal City. Five years earlier, my wife and I had arrived, totally by chance, on Palm Sunday, joining the crowds as they thronged to St Peter’s Square. We had spent hours in the baking sun, hoping for a glimpse of Pope John Paul II, stood below his room, his window-ledge bearing the maroon and gold drape, for so long in the fierce heat that I ended up looking even more like Quasimodo’s Lovechild than normal. Deformed face, the works.
Then finally it happened, the frail pontiff appearing briefly at his window to wave, for images which would be global within seconds. People around me were weeping openly. It would be the last time he would be seen in public, passing away two weeks later. Whilst my faith is important to me, I am not a deeply-religious man. But there was definitely something special about the original Polish ‘holy goalie’, God rest him.
That evening, Mr and Mrs Quasimodo made a different kind of pilgrimage. To Rome’s Stadio Olimpico. Who says that Scottish men are not romantic? It’s AS Roma v AC Milan. She is one lucky lady…I tell her as I usher her into an expensive seat in the main stand. The things I do for her.
Three months earlier, the visitors had ended Celtic’s participation in Europe, the goalless draw in Glasgow bringing our third and least successful Champions League campaign to an end. That had commenced in September 2004, with the unthinkable prospect of Henrik playing and scoring against his beloved Hoops, even before I had finished paying for the therapy required after his transfer to Barcelona the previous close-season. Then injury-time goals from Pippo Inzaghi and Andrea Pirlo in the San Siro, had scuppered our hopes of a first away point in the elite tournament.
We would get that point in, of all places, the Camp Nou, courtesy of John Hartson’s strike. But it would be a forgettable and ultimately fruitless campaign, the 1-0 victory over Shakhtar Donetsk at Celtic Park and those two draws earning us a miserly five points.
Ancellotti’s AC Milan would then knock out Ferguson’s Manchester United, Hernan Crespo scoring the only goal in both legs, and were preparing to face neighbours Inter in the quarter-finals in the next fortnight. That tie would become infamous, the second-leg abandoned after the rossoneri’s Brazilian goalkeeper, Dida, was hit by a flare thrown from the blue section of the San Siro. AC were subsequently awarded a 3-0 ‘walkover’ victory for an overall 5-0 aggregate win.
They would go all the way to the Istanbul final, where they would throw away a 3-0 interval lead over Liverpool, before contriving to miss three of the five penalties in the shootout, as the English side became the first to win Europe’s elite prize twice by that method, having done so against Roma in their own Stadio Olimpico, in 1984.
I recall a few events from our visit to the stadium in March 2005. Firstly, the strange sight and sound of Roma fans booing one of their own players, Antonio Cassano, when he came out to warm up. That then continued during the game itself, for whatever reason. Milan won the game fairly comfortably with two second-half strikes from the aforementioned Crespo and Pirlo.
Then home idol, Francesco Totti, was sent off towards the end, the cue for a sea of missiles to come flying down from the back of the stand towards our section. Discretion being the better part of valour, we immediately headed for the exits, only to be greeted by the sight of hundreds of supporters fighting to get into the ground to join in the scrap. Perhaps next time we’ll just eat out.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
The sections on either side of us are completely empty, whilst there is a secondary batch of Hoops fans, perhaps 1,000 or thereabouts, who are over to our right. Behind the opposite goal are the two UEFA banners we recently saw in the south side of Glasgow, the penalty for racist chanting. In Lazio’s case, that happened in the home game with Rennes. What home support there is, is congregated either side of the banners and along the right touchline.
Then Emma spies Nobu in the crowd, just a few rows in front of me, holding court and his camera with fellow-Celts in the crowd. Two minutes later, there is a hug and the two Bhoys from Yokohama and Springburn are reunited in Rome. He’s having a ball. It’s lovely to catch up and introduce him to Emma.
There is a huge roar as the Celtic players get a first look at the pitch, then again as they warm up. One or two are looking up as if to say, ‘What the…?’ This is one of the biggest away supports I can recall in Europe. There are few clubs globally who could achieve this. It is truly a unique, wonderful spectacle.
Finally, the game is underway and we haven’t started well. There is a goal coming and it is a real sore one to lose, Ciro Immobile completely unmarked at the far post to open the scoring with a cushioned volley within seven minutes.
The Italians go close again and it’s beginning to feel like a long night. We have never won on Italian soil. Jock’s great team played in Florence and Milan, losing to Fiorentina and Feyenoord in THAT final, whilst drawing with both San Siro tenants.
My first continental trip was to the old Stadio Comunale in Turin, back in September 1981. That’s a story in itself, told elsewhere.
In the ground, however, the atmosphere was nerve-tingling, one of the best I have ever experienced. Billy McNeill’s young side were up against it, despite a Murdo MacLeod goal giving us a precious first-leg lead.
Inspirational skipper, Danny McGrain, our one true world-class talent at that time, was out injured, teenage central defender, David Moyes, deputising at right-back. We fought hard but a Liam Brady-inspired Juventus, including half of the Italian side who would win the World Cup the following summer in their ranks, proved far too strong, goals from Virdis and Bettega finishing the tie by the interval, despite a heroic display from a youthful Pat Bonner.
In the intervening years, the best we could achieve in this football-mad country was a UEFA Cup draw in Udine and taking the eventual European champions, AC Milan, into extra-time in the Last 16 of the 2006/07 Champions League, before Kaka broke 10,000 Hooped hearts with a sublime run and finish, to net the only goal of the tie.
Celts are now settling into a bit of rhythm and ten minutes before the break, we have the best thing about a European awayday, the meaningful goal. And what a strike it is, James Forrest, here for Terry Munro as his song goes, bursts past his defender before firing a superb shot high into the far corner. It’s madness all around me, bodies falling over seats and general carnage. Celtic-supporting heaven.
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