Football Scarves and Richard Kimble
Originally published in The Hope that Kills Us: An Anthology of Scottish Football Fiction (Freight, 2002)
He wound down the window and pulled in the green and white scarf that hung limp in the dead wind. He carefully placed it round his neck making sure that it didn’t cover the logo or the CR SMITH banner across the front of his shirt.
“C’mon then, we’ve a wee walk ahead of us.”
He was tensing up to slam the door, making sure this time, when he noticed them. The army. Marching. An enormous snake of green, white and gold weaving its way through the streets. They were everywhere he looked, taking over the streets.
“Grand, isn’t it?”
He'd seen this on TV, the crowds, but it was so much bigger. So real. His first: Hampden. Magic words. 1888 – 1988. Centenary. He was eight. That made Celtic 92 years older than him. Older than Grandad.
“Just like it was in the sixties. Nine in a row. Did I tell you I was at all the games? All of them. And the European nights. In 1967. The year we won the European Cup, you know that, right? First British team, first Catholic.
“Billy McNeil was in it, wasn’t he, Dad?”
“Sure was. Great man. Gonnae get us the double this year. Dundee United? Who are they anyway?”
Trying to avoid the muddy puddles so as to keep his socks white he fell in line behind his dad, his colours blending in. He could hear singing but couldn’t understand most of it.
- Hullo, hullo…
- Oh it’s a grand old team tae play fur…
- Hail Hail…
A big man with a beard was beside him. He had a boy with him in an away strip. He’d wanted one as well but it cost too much for both.
“Better tae have to hoops though, eh?”
Still it looked cool.
“Alright Bigman? First game?”
“Aye.”
The beard looked above his head, over at his dad.
“Good choice for a first time, eh?”
“Aye, centenary and a possible double.”
“Nae possible about it. In the bag.”
“Aye.”
The beard was separated from them as the crowd moved on.
“I remember when a was your age, maybe a bit younger, the bus taking the Rangers fans tae Hampden always passed the end of our street. One day me and ma mate went out in our full altar boy gear when the bus was stopped at the lights. We knelt down on the pavement and blessed the bus.” He laughed as he made a cross in the air. “They started banging on the windows and then we heard the door opening so we pegged it. Got chased in and out of all the closes. Got skelped by your Gran for making such a mess of my good clothes.”
He tried to imagine doing that himself. Kneeling in front of Rangers fans, intimidating them like that. It didn't make sense though. How do you bless a bus? Apart from making the sign of the cross in the air what else happened? He was still worrying about this when they turned a corner and there it was up ahead. Hampden. He looked around at the other fans. All so happy. It made him feel happy, welcomed. Like he was one of them. But he wasn’t really. His dad had told him that. A teuchter. A country boy from Aberdeen. Not from Glasgow.
Aberdeen. Sheep-shaggers. He didn’t know what that meant but knew it was bad and not to be said in front of his mum. His friends all supported Aberdeen. He didn’t. Kept getting beaten up for it.
“Who’s better?”
“Celtic.”
Wallop.
“Who’s better?”
“Celtic.”
Wallop.
“Who’s better?”
“We thrashed you four-nil. Sheep-shagger.”
Wallop.
He saw a vendor selling programmes and scarves.
“Can I have a programme, Dad?”
“Sure, souvenir.”
They moved through the crowd until they were at the stand.
“A programme please, pal.”
“Sure. His first time?”
“Aye.”
'“Good day for it.”
“Aye. Glorious.”
“Golden sun. Just need a green and white sky.”
“Dad, can I have that scarf?”
“You’ve got a scarf.”
“But look at that one.”
It was amazing. It said CELTIC F.C. in huge white letters down the middle. Above this it said “League Champions 1987 – 88” and below it said “Scottish Cup Winners 1988”. In the bag.
“You’ve got one. You’ve only got the one neck.”
“But Dad…”
“No.”
“Look, if it his first game I’ll give you it for two fifty.”
“Go on, Dad.”
“Okay. And dinnae say a never do anything for you.”
His Dad took the first scarf, put it on and looked at his watch.
“Better get a move on.”
“What time is it?”
“Quarter to. Fifteen minutes. Did I tell you about one game I was at? You know The Fugitive?”
“No.”
“It was a programme that was on years ago. About this guy Doctor Richard Kimble. His wife had been murdered and it was made to look like he did it.”
“Did he?
“No, but he was arrested then escaped. He knew that a one-armed man had done it and the whole series was based round him trying to find the one-armed man without getting caught. Anyway, the last episode was on at the same time as this game. Wednesday night. Everyone watched The Fugitive but there are more important things than TV so we went tae the game. Me and your grandad. So we’re at the game and it gets tae half time and we’ve got our pies and Bovril an everyones either talking about the game or about The Fugitive.”
“What was the score?”
“Cannae mind. Anyway, the guy comes on the tannoy…”
“Whats that?”
“The loudspeaker that they use to tell everybody what’s happening.”
“Like the commentary on TV?”
“No, just things like substitutions. You’ll see. So this guy comes on the tannoy and announces that they’ve found the one-armed man and this huge cheer goes up round the stand. Made everybody’s night.”
They were at the stadium. There were even more people than on the street. It seemed impossible. The whole world must be here.
“Right, stay close.”
Before he realised it they were entering the stand. Celtic end. He looked in front of himself and saw the pitch. Beautiful green. Dark and light stripes like on TV. He saw the goals. Little details. Then he saw the rest of the stadium. So many people. Green and white spilled out in front of him, stopping abruptly when the orange and black began round the other end. The Rangers end Dad called it. It was unbelievable. He felt himself sinking, lost in amongst all the colour. He noticed a huge Irish flag travelling across the top of the Celtic fans. He had a Scotland flag at home on the back of his door. He imagined himself passing the flag across the fans and then felt a sickness as he realised he would never get it back, would lose his Saltire forever. He felt sorry for whoever’s flag it was. He heard a shout and realised he couldn’t move forwards. Looking down he saw a metal bar across his chest. He turned and saw his Dad right behind him, a comforting presence.
“Calm down tae fuck. Just a kid. First fucking time. Here ye go.”
His Dad handed over the tickets, the ones that had come a month ago through the post. They’d been waiting when he came home from school. Big pieces of paper, a dotted line half way along. Celtic V Dundee United.
“On you go then.”
A hand on his back, he stumbled forwards, the turnstile moving around him, a ticket stub in his hand. He held it close to him, afraid to lose it as a huge cheer went up. A shiver ran down his back.
First fucking time.