Glasgow 1971 ‘Is Paddy coming oot, Mrs Gilgannon?’ a tousled haired Ian Stark grinned, holding a well-worn football under his arm. Bernadette Gilgannon smiled at the lad, ‘come away in and ask him yerself, Ian.’ The 12-year-old followed her into the first floor flat and pushed open the bedroom door where he knew he’d find his friend. Paddy was still in his bed, the blankets pulled over his head. Ian looked around the room at the football posters adorning the wall. Paddy was as Celtic mad as he was Rangers mad but it didn’t stop them being the best of friends. He bounced the ball off his sleeping friend’s head, ‘Mon, Paddy, get up. We’re playin’ fitbaw doon the pitch.’ The blanket was pulled back to reveal the smiling face of Paddy Gilgannon, ‘aw right bawjaws, I was just kidding ye on I wis sleeping.’ He leapt from the bed and grabbed his jeans from the chair, ‘how many are coming?’ Ian shrugged, ‘so far Donny and his wee brother, Geezer, Banjo, Boyney, Coxy, yon yin wi the coo’s lick in his hair. Oh, and wee Davie. Might make a six-a-side.’ Paddy nodded as he pulled on his jumper. As the boys headed for the front door Bernadette Gilgannon called from the kitchen, ‘haud on, Paddy. You’ve not had a thing tae eat.’ She appeared, holding a thick piece of toast, coated with crimson jam. Paddy smiled, ‘thanks ma, I’ll be hame efter the game.’ His mother smiled at him, ‘mind ye are. If you want tae go see Celtic wi yer da later.’ The two boys skipped down the stairs and had just reached Ian’s door when it opened. ‘His father, a dour faced man with a shock of dark hair peered out, ‘Ian, if ye want to go tae Ibrox later then get back here for wan o’cloak.’ Ian nodded, ‘aye, da. Wait for me.’ The man closed the door with barely a glance at Paddy which wasn’t unusual. Paddy figured out long ago that Ian’s dad, for whatever reason, didn’t seem to like him. The boys exited the close into a cold and misty day, Paddy munching on his toast. Kellas Street was quiet as they headed towards the red ash pitch at the end of Dava Street. A dozen or more boys stood around on the pitch waiting impatiently for Ian to show up with his football. ‘Come tae fuck, you. We’re aw freezing here waiting oan ye!’ one of the boys called as Paddy and Ian jogged onto the pitch. As it was Ian’s ball, he insisted on picking the teams. There were enough boys for a seven-a-side contest and they were keen to get going. Paddy jogged down towards the rather lopsided goal where he would be keeper, at least for the first three goals. He was in the opposing team to his friend Ian, but that alright, they liked getting stuck into each other. ‘We’re Rangers,’ Ian shouted to no one in particular as he started the game. Paddy watched as Ian played the ball wide to Tony McGee, known to one and all as Geezer. Geezer was one of the best players in the Wine Alley and Paddy just knew Ian would pick him to be in his team. Geezer sidestepped a smaller boy and thumped the ball towards Paddy’s goal. Paddy dived to his left and touched it around the post, feeling the red ash stinging his leg. His cold hands were stung too by the solid football, but he had saved a goal and for that, he’d accept the pain. As the game wore on, Paddy came out of goals and listened amused as he heard Ian commentating on the game as he played. ‘It’s young Ian Campbell,’ he said as he dribbled past Paddy, ‘he beats Gilgannon as if he wasn’t there. What a tube young Paddy is! Now he heads towards the goal.’ As Paddy chased back, Ian chipped the ball over the head of rather short goalkeeper to score for his team. As he ran back to his own half, Paddy could hear him still commentating. ‘Another goal for Campbell! How long can Scotland ignore this great young player?’ The game swung from end to end as the mist descended even more, giving the pitch a rather eerie look. As most of the boys playing were going to Ibrox later to watch the Rangers v Celtic game, it was agreed that the first team to 11 goals would be the winner. With the teams tied at 10-10 after an hour of ferocious football, there was a dispute about who was the goalkeeper in Ian’s team. ‘It’s a penalty,’ one boy argued, ‘he’s no the fuckin goalie and he caught it!’ The red-haired offender was having none of it, ‘Ah said I was in goals, no my problem if you cannae hear.’ ‘Did ye fuck,’ was the taught response from his accuser, ‘ye knew I was scoring and ye grabbed the fuckin’ baw!’ As it was Ian’s ball, the red-faced plaintiffs looked to him to adjudicate. Such disputes had led to violence in the past and Ian didn’t want that. He glanced at Paddy, trying his best to be fair. ‘Ah never heard ye say ye wur in goals, Boyney. It’s a spot kick.’ Thirteen-year-old Brian Boyne looked as if he’s just cost his team the world cup. He held his head in his hands, ‘no way! Youse ur aw deaf bastards!’ His protestations fell on deaf ears though and the penalty stood. Paddy placed the ball on a scuff mark roughly where the penalty spot should be and looked at Ian, who had decided to go in goals for his team. Behind him, the two boys involved in the row were still bickering. ‘If this goes in, we win,’ Paddy declared to the watching boys. Ian nodded, ‘and if I save it, we’ll call it a draw and head hame. It’s too cauld noo.’ Paddy Gilgannon took four steps back from the ball as Ian stood waiting on the goal line like a coiled spring. He knew tensions were high, not just after the hand ball row, but because most of the football mad youngsters were wound up about the big match that same afternoon. The Celtic-Rangers rivalry extended even into games like this. Paddy knew that Celtic supporters versus Rangers supporters matches often descended into brutality and Ian had wisely mixed the teams up today. As Paddy got ready to take the penalty, he decided to do something he had never done in his young life; he would deliberately miss it. He’d forgo the personal glory of scoring the winner in the interests of a diplomatic draw. It was just a game, right? He stepped forward and blazed the ball high over the bar as half the boys cheered while the others groaned. Ian looked at him, ‘honest tae fuck, Paddy, if you were shooting at John F Kennedy, that man would be alive today!’ Paddy smiled, ‘your ugly face put me aff.’ Four hours later, Paddy Gilgannon stood with his father on the packed terrace behind one of the goals at Ibrox stadium. He gazed around at the awesome sight of 80,000 football fans gathered to watch Rangers take on Celtic. At the opposite end of the ground, somewhere among that sea of faces was his friend Ian. One of them would be happy when the match was over and Paddy hoped it was him. A huge roar was emitted into the dank and misty air as the teams walked out onto the pitch. ‘Come on Celtic!’ Paddy roared as his father smiled at him. As the game began, 80,000 souls became immersed in every kick of the ball. It was a techy game full of thundering tackles on a hard pitch, and no quarter was asked or given. Lennox hit the bar for Celtic but the game thundered on goalless. First one team, then the other gained the upper hand but it wasn’t until the 89th minute that Celtic finally took the lead through Jimmy Johnstone. Half of the great bowl of Ibrox erupted and sent a deafening roar into the dark sky. As Rangers kicked off and the Celtic fans began their victory songs, fate decided she wasn’t finished just yet. In the dying seconds of the game Colin Stein bundled home an equaliser. Victory, Paddy knew, had been snatched from their grasp. As he gazed towards the celebrating Rangers end, he thought of Ian in there somewhere, cheering his head off. The final whistle blew and it was honours even. Paddy’s father told him it was wise to avoid the pubs after such games and they walked home through the mist of a Scottish January evening. As they neared the Wine Alley, ambulances and police cars, sirens wailing, whizzed past the towards the stadium. ‘Idiots fighting again,’ Paddy’s father muttered. As they reached their close, Paddy’s mother came running out and threw her arms around them both. ‘Oh thank, God,’ she cried, ‘thank God.’ Paddy’s old man was mystified, ‘Hey, hey, Bernie, what is it?’ Through her tears she pointed at the house, ‘the news .’ Her voice trailed off as her husband took her hand and led her inside. They stood numbly in front of the television as the newsreader updated the nation on the tragedy unfolding at Ibrox. ‘Police have now confirmed that the death toll has reached 24, with many more injured. It is expected to rise. The incident took place at the traditional Rangers end of the ground.’ Paddy looked at his father, ‘Ian was there!’ He raced out of the house, down the cold stone stairs and banged on Ian’s door. There was no reply. Somewhere in the pit of his stomach he could feel a great weight descending. Paddy Gilgannon sat by his bedroom window watching the dark street below. He could hear his father mutter, ‘my God,’ and his mother sobbing and praying, as the television continued to relay the latest news on the disaster. ‘Where are ye Ian? Come oan Pal. Come hame,’ Paddy whispered to the unforgiving night. Six o’clock turned to 7 and then 8 as Paddy kept up his vigil. Every time someone passed, he peered out. Every voice he heard made him jump. As the small clock in his room approached 8.50, he heard voices and saw Ian and his father coming along Kellas Street. He leapt from the bed and ran from his room screaming, ‘it’s Ian! he’s alright, he’s alright!’ His father appeared at the living room door in time to see Paddy speed from the house and down the stairs. Ian’s father was putting the key in the door as Paddy flashed past him and wrapped his arms around his friend. Ian, who obviously knew what had occurred at Ibrox, held him close as Paddy whispered, ‘I thought I’d lost ye. I thought I’d lost you.’ As the two boys shook and sobbed in each other’s arms, Paddy’s father appeared at the top of the stair and looked at them. He felt a lump rising in his throat. Ian’s father looked at him and the two men nodded, almost imperceptibly at each other. They had not always been on good terms and had fallen out over football and other things which seemed somewhat insignificant today. Both had, in their own way, tried to raise their boys in the right manner and teach them to be decent people. Today, perhaps their sons had taught them something. Dedicated to the memory of those who lost their lives at Ibrox stadium in January 1971 and to those who mourn them. May they rest in peace.
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