This kept going through my mind, as no doubt it did through the thoughts of so many people – possibly even Jock Stein who played in that game. They were perhaps better at hiding their emotions than I was but were undergoing all the agony just the same. Those who tried to tell me after the event “Ah knew we were OK when Billy scored” are, frankly, liars. Still more hideously wrong was the fatuous statement “It’s just a fitba match!” We still had these minutes to see out.
Bertie Auld did not seem to be worried though. He took his time, pretending to trip over a pile of police coats placed too close to the pitch, and generally clowning. In truth, Dunfermline seldom got over the halfway line in those last desperate minutes. I kept watching the linesmen. I knew that linesman signalled to the referee about how long to go, usually with their fingers against their black uniform and I kept looking for that.
Eventually, I decided that there was no point in looking at anyone other than referee Hugh Phillips, and so I watched him obsessively as Celtic retained possession. Eventually he turned and pointed to the pavilion, and the immediate impression was of everything going up – players arms in triumph, flags, scarves and people – youngsters lifted up by their parents, arms in the air – and everything was green and white.
And everything rose metaphorically as well. There was the glint of silver in the South Stand. This was what it had all been about – the Scottish Cup, and we had won something at last!
Tears welled up unashamedly, as the green and white figures appeared to collect the trophy, and out they came to get their photographs taken. Oddly enough, my feelings were for Dunfermline Athletic as much as anything else – a good team and their supporters were a decent bunch, and we knew what they were going through – and I joined in the polite applause for the Pars. But everything around me was going crazy, and I was particularly careful not to fall down the terracing stairs as the triumphant Celtic crowd swept out. There was no point in getting killed NOW!
The images remain – the seller of “The Shamrock” magazine “the long downtrodden man” as we called him, with a grin on his face instead of the hunted, persecuted look of before, and then the sight of a middle-aged, middle-class man, well-dressed with a tie and a soft hat and possibly a banker or a teacher during the week. He had collapsed over a hedge. He was not in any way under the influence of alcohol, nor did he wear any club colour.
CONTINUED ON THE NEXT PAGE…
