I settled into a comfy seat in the backroom of a pub under the misty slopes of Croagh Phadraig.
The men folk on my father’s side, including my father himself, have congregated in this back room for over 125 years, as far I can guess, to discus politics, the GAA and life in general.
The lads asked the Glaswegian, one of their own, how the match would go.
I was immediately sworn in as an expert witness on Glasgow’s soccer feud and association football in general.
“Well I do not see us as having any chance to be honest.”
I let the words sink in.
The floor was examined.
An invisible gob of spit on the floor was smeared thinner by a shoe make the figure of eight pattern and the wearer thought of something to respond with.
“No chance at all?” asked yer man.
“Through the spine of the team they’re stronger” this was now an anatomy class to medical students wondering at how this invertebrate Celtic team could get on the field at all.
I was on a roll, confident of my facts.
“They have a better keeper, they have a better central defensive partnership.”
“Partnership?”
“Yeah, they’re very close on the field.”
“Oh”
“They’re stronger in midfield and their fella up front Kenny Miller can’t stop scoring.”
“What about our lads?” asked a very decent man with a soft brogue, but no brown brogues.”
“Well, where do you start?”
No one knew. So I continued.
“Our defence can’t keep a clean sheet in crunch matches. That midfield hasn’t started a game together. That lad Kayal just back from injury, don’t expect much tackling from him. Beside him there’s Joe Ledley. We brought him in to provide the killer pass. He just doesn’t do it I’m afraid. Paddy McCourt can’t last 90 minutes and Samaras? Oh dear god give me strength! SAMARAS? What IS the point of a centre forward that can’t score goals?”
My scathing, forensic analysis was met by a sloped shouldered silence.
“They’re a tough cohesive unit with a real general directing them. Lenny, no offence, is a rookie. I mean he has Charlie Mulgrew in at left mid!”
It was like a doomed badly organised Irish army in history going to be bested, yet again, by the well-drilled ranks of redcoats. In those days we had courage in the front line, but little else. Today leading the line was Samaras.
“Then of course…”
The lads looked at me, surely there couldn’t be MORE bad news…
“There’s the referee. This one has previous your honour.”
If, at that point there has been a mass walk out of the pub then the landlord would have had every right to bar me.
It would have been my fault if, in these straightened times for the licensed trade, that he had lost his Sunday trade.
The match started.
Celtic won two nil.
The final nail in the coffin that contains my analysis was in 91 minutes the torpedo formerly known was Paddy McCourt flying into a Rangers player foolhardy enough to be on the ball.
In fairness I thought Paddy ran out of steam a wee bit with 30 seconds to go……………
