The article below was composed by Ted Reeve, a Canadian sports-writer, and first appeared in the Toronto Telegram on 20 March 1962. Reeve, a tall, craggy man, was a legend in Canada’s athletic lift, having played at the highest levels in lacrosse and football (North American style). His purpose in visiting Scotland was to cover the World Curling Championships for the Telegram. Despite his eccentric vocabulary and unfamiliarity with soccer, he does capture the flavour of a big match involving Celtic back in the day. ‘In like Flynn and trying to look like him’ indeed!
Wednesday, 14 March, at twenty-five past seven of a raw, murky Glasgow night, Gulliver here is cantering with the later waves of nearly 60,000 Clydeside citizens towards the huge, gaunt, floodlit outline of the world famed Hampden Park. To fall in on the Third Lanarks v Celtics Scottish Soccer Cup quarter-final replay.
Crowds of the cap and mufflers, in happily hooting, away-we-go groups, all practically on the double. Up a big shop-lined street, then swinging off to the left on various inlets towards their
favourite sections of the mighty stadium. Caught-up as ever with the eager whoop and holler of an occasion that sets a crowd in such sail, our hasty enquiries land us (cap and muffler too, mate, and the Schnozzle to go with it) outside the main stand and one of the scores of Glasgow’s fine police force tells us: ‘The best will be all had now; you’d be better there at the 7/6d.’
‘Thank you, officer’, yips before you could say Wullie Auchterlonie and we are by the ticket cage and through the whirling turnstiles. In like Flynn and trying to look like him just in case the Celtics blow it.
Climb wooden steps to a twelfth row tum-up seat, just edging a tall steel girder. First look at this celebrated home of the Hampden Roar. Deep stands from deadline to deadline on either side. Topped up by second decks where the further-back seats disappeared under the slanting roofs.
To our left, the ramps for the rush-enders and down at the other end a vast sweep of towering open pews, packed with spectators, already full of uproar (and sundry) with the hanging fog fringing the distant pinnacles of the enclosure. The rattle of yells swelled into a stand shaking welcome, as, led by two small boys carrying footballs, a somewhat slight-looking Third Lanark swing into the beams of the brilliantly lighted pitch, followed by the sturdily-built, green and white
striped Celtics, hot for the fray, greeted by a wild howl from 40,000 thirsty throats that would have terrified a Banshee Union.
Celtic, odds-on to win last week but held to a 4-4 tie, were out to redeem themselves against their
inspired opposition and, as sometimes happens, were trying too hard.
Timing off and shooting wild and the Lanarks, still full of run, swept in on fast forays that might well have brought a couple of early-on tallies. But class commenced to wear away even the gallant endeavours of the red shirts’ centre-half.
The strong-legged, battle-scarred forwards, led by pivot man Hughes, kept up what we would call forechecking in hockey – and yet the scoring would not come before the halftime. At which point envoys from each collection of the Irish departed and returned with supplies to revive their comrades while the police carried out a few and the open stands, now almost hidden from our end in the light fog seeping down, set up chants, protests, songs and what sounded like club war-cries, and all-in-all it was a scene to warm a Cabbagetowner’s heart.
Back came the doughty Celtics with Hughes pressing, Byrne flashing on the wing and Brogan from left outside showing hoofing and pursuit down the touch line. Until the latter’s comer -kick curled in on Chalmers’ educated noggin and therefrom behind the harassed Third Lanark goalie.
St Patrick’s Day was off to start three nights ahead of time.
It wound up 4-0 but long before that we had circled a cavern under the seats looking for an exit and, lucky again, as an attendant threw open a sort of barn-door sized portal and we were just going to thank him for going to all that trouble when we meet, head-on a couple of dozen
beautiful horses with mounted police attached who are coming in. As good natured a troop of cavalry as we have ever encountered. Pointed us towards the hundreds of buses parked in the surrounding terrain and some thousands of cars and a wide cement road leading up from this historic valley of sport.
Flocks of folks are on the slopes around and about and others in the reflection of the lights over the ramps, standing below just listening to the match by ear but experting it nonetheless as vociferously as the lively lads inside.
The taxi to home through darkish high roads and low roads and into the Central Hotel by the station with a sure-enough Celtic fan for a driver.
A tremendous and enthusiastic conversation ensued and while it is certain that he couldn’t understand a word we said, we will guarantee that this went double for Canada.
Yet, somehow before we were back over the river, the two (or should we say ‘the twa’) of us had struck up a wonderful friendship. We more than imagined he had been desponding too at halftime. But, man, he could wheel that vehicle. So what a wallop of a way to off-and-running in Glasgow – and the curling to come!
Certainly, certainly so far, a haven of hospitality, bring back the kind Scots days when we were once up here on leave, I a little lonesomer than now.
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