Ten days after the Hampden game we were flying in over the skyscrapers of Buenos Aires to prepare for the second leg. At that time we were an optimistic outfit because we sensed that the Boss believed we were capable of getting the draw, which would be enough to give us the World title. We moved out immediately to the luxurious Hindu Club and on that first Sunday we got off to a light-hearted start.
As it was a day of Obligation most of our party went off to find the nearest Catholic church. That left the Boss, Bertie Auld, Willie Wallace, Ronnie Simpson and myself. So we headed for the golf course. And what a start the Boss made. Over the first nine holes he played as if he had been searching for that course all his life. No wonder all the wee local boys skipped around his heels and fought to pull his clubs. They knew class when they saw it and the Boss looked at us as if we were lucky to be playing with him. He was in a great mood and, like any golfer who thinks he has suddenly found the secret; he could hardly keep the smile off his face.
Then the bubble burst. After the turn the Boss’s ball began to go in all directions and the wee boys retreated to a safe distance. Even the smallest member of the gallery soon realised that old man Simpson, commonly known as ‘faither’, was the real golfer in the company. By the eighteenth he had the gallery to himself and the Boss was pulling his own caddie-car.
Yet I think I remember that round of golf because it was the only time during our stay in South America that I saw him looking really relaxed. Usually he hides his feelings well, especially in the tension before a big game, but he was obviously concerned about these matches with Racing Club.
The strain the Boss was under would show through during training sessions. Usually, as we train, a lot of cross-talk goes on and the Boss is liable to take as much a part in it as anybody, but in those days before the tie in Buenos Aires he would turn on anyone who was capering about and tell them: ‘That’s enough. We are here to work’…or words to that effect. So we were all on our best behaviour while we stayed at the Hindu Club. Even if we thought we were good enough to get the draw, which would give us the title, we sensed it was going to be no picnic.
And when we reached the Avellanda Stadium our worst fears were justified. Even before the game started, as we loosened up and hit a few shots at goal, Ronnie Simpson suddenly staggered and put his hands to his head. He had been hit. A narrow rectangular piece of iron, about two inches long, had been thrown through the fence, which is supposed to protect the players.
Boy, were we angry! It was ridiculous that a thing like that should happen to any player before such a big game. Ronnie, dazed, shocked, and obviously in pain couldn’t possibly play and it meant our reserve John Fallon suddenly found himself playing in a World tie at two minutes’ notice. At least he hardly had time to get nervous, but I could not help thinking this was one time when fate wasn’t working for Celtic.
Yet despite Ronnie’s injury and despite all the unfriendly Argentinians in that stadium, we actually came very near to victory in Buenos Aires. In fact, we scored first. With what was virtually his last gesture of neutrality, the referee awarded us a penalty. I never took a kick with more determination and it was worth a guinea a box to see the expressions on the faces of Racing Club. The turning point came, however, when Jimmy Johnstone scored what looked like a perfectly good second goal, only to have it chalked off. Racing equalised after that, yet at the interval we still thought we had a chance. The Boss urged us, as he had done before kick-off, not to ‘annoy’ either Racing or their supporters. He couldn’t have guessed how difficult this was going to be!
For Racing got their second goal soon after the interval and from there on they decided to take no chances. Their tackling became worse and worse and after a while you didn’t need to decide whether to pass or hold the ball, because if you did not get rid of it immediately, someone was sure to send you sprawling. Jimmy Johnstone suffered more than most of us, but we all had to remember, firstly, not to annoy the Argentinians.
Well, we didn’t annoy them. Instead they hacked, tripped and pushed their way to a 2-1 victory, which earned them a third-game play-off for the title, which they were obviously determined to get at all costs. We trooped back to our dressing room, disgusted. I’ll never forget it. We were so incensed at the treatment we had had to take from these South American soccer gangsters. Nobody made a dive for the bath as they would normally do. We just sat there trying to think of words bad enough to describe Racing Club who had obviously been confident the Uruguayan referee would let them away with anything.
Then we were joined in the dressing room by our own officials. Chairman Bob Kelly told us he would not allow us to play a third game against these opponents. I think that cheered most of us up because we were so fed up with the whole affair we would have like nothing better than to grab the first plane back to Glasgow.
Half an hour later we would have been happy to settle for a ‘pass out’ from that dressing room. The atmosphere had become chaotic. Argentinian and Uruguayan officials poured in when they heard we did not want to play a third in Montevideo, and they were followed by Press men, photographers, Police, and anyone in Buenos Aires who had nothing better to do at the time. At least, that’s how it seemed because there was simply no room to move and most of us had still not changed.
