FAMOUSLY, John Gordon Sinclair, Gregory himself, Had A Dream. Thirty-nine years on, I feel it was John Souttar who thought he was dreaming. After all the injuries he has had to suffer, to score against Denmark, in his first international for three years, well, could it get any better for a Scotsman?
As the Tartan Army boogied its way out of Hampden last night, they were dreaming of better things to come, as were those of us who had watched the game live on Sky, listened to the BBC Shortbread broadcast, of avoided the game like the plague, ready to watch the highlights on Sportscene.
It could have been a damp squib. We had already secured our place in the European play-offs, other Scotland squads would have gone out with the notion: “Job done, we go through the motions here,” decided to avoid injury or yellow cards and allowed the Danes to complete a clean sweep of the qualifying group.
But, not this Stevie Clarke-led group. They wanted that play-off seeding and the relative security of a home semi-final. Let's not kid ourselves, that will be a hard game, which, if we win it, will get us to an even harder play-off final.
However, having seen the quality of the football the team produced last night, we all now have a dream – suddenly we are all Derek and Rodney McTrotter: “This time next year, we will be in Qatar for the World Cup.”
Those Tartan Army foot soldiers confident enough in taking the time to do a pre-tournament recce, will have noted, you can get a drink in Qatar, but on-street drunkenness is frowned upon. Yes, I reckon the TA's all for one and one for all mentality will see them manage to stay out of trouble, should we get there. However, I cannot say the same about England's Barmy Army.
Steady the Buffs Socrates old boy. Don't get ahead of yourself, we've still got two games to navigate before we can go into full-on dream mode.
Let's simply enjoy the moment. Last night's victory will sustain us through a long hard winter, we can start to get fired-up again come March.
I
WAS never a big Bertie
Auld fan. In the few
fleeting moments I had to deal with him in his later years in
management – well, I wasn't impressed. Several former journalist friends, who knew him better, speak highly of him, however.
As a player he certainly earned his place in the hearts of the Celtic family, through his midfield partnership with Bobby Murdoch for the Lisbon Lions. Bertie was from that generation of tricky Scottish wingers who had to transition from being out-and-out wingers to becoming midfield providers, and he managed that better than most.
Off the field, he was a character, up there with Tommy Docherty with his one-liners and quips. On it, he had, however, a dark side, a side which one or two players he later managed have spoken off.
He was one of that number of Celtic-daft fans who got to wear the hoops, but, discovered life at Celtic Park was not all roses, so, he was sold to Birmingham City, where he played in a European club final and is still fondly remembered by the club's older fans.
His second spell at Celtic, capped by that day in Lisbon, was markedly more successful than his first. He is remembered too, for starting-off the rendition of the Celtic Song in the Lisbon tunnel, which somewhat disconcerted the Inter Milan team; while in the notorious World Club Championship kicking match in “The Battle of Montevideo,” he earned the football equivalent of a Military Cross by fighting back furiously in the face of Argentinian provocation. A few of the Racing players learned that day; you don't mess with a Maryhill Man.
He later had a middling managerial career, with Partick Thistle, Hibernian, Hamilton Academical and Dumbarton.
In later years, he was a familiar and much-loved figure with the Celtic Family, through his hosting work at the club, but, unlike team mates such as skipper McNeill or Bobby Lennox, he was, while rightly respected for what he achieved in his career, perhaps too much of a Celtic man to be loved elsewhere.
He had a good innings, 83 years, and my condolences go to his family and friends. With his passing, only four Lions remain: Jim Craig, John Clark, Willie Wallace and Lennox.
OVER THE TOP Tartan Army celebrations last night appear as nothing to the triumphalism of our southern neighbours, going absolutely ape shit following their Lions' 10-0 hammering of San Marino.
San Marino, I reckon Auchinleck Talbot could put three or four goals on them, perhaps the question for Gareth Southgate should be: “Why only ten?” If England are as good as their media cheerleaders would have us believe.
Harry Kane's four goals have suddenly elevated him to the status of “England's greatest striker.” I kid you not. Trouble is, he's behind two other Tottenham and England strikers when it comes to the true measure of a finisher – his goals per game average.
Topping the list is the wonderful Jimmy Greaves – who scored goals at a rate of 0.67 per game over his long career. Greaves' strike partner in the great double-winning Tottenham team of the early 1960s, Bobby Smith, a very-under-rated striker, tucked chances away at the rate of 0.61 gpg, which also puts him ahead of Kane, who scores at a rate of 0.6 gpg.
Kane is maybe England's too gun today, but, he wouldn't get into my England team, if I ever had to pick one. And, if you wanted to pick an English player to score for you, how about a certain Brian Clough, who, during his tragically short, injury-afflicted career, knocked-in goals at the rate of 0.9 per game?
His managerial exploits have made us forget – Cloughie the player was, like Cloughie the manager, something else entirely.
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