We didn’t know when,
Alfie Conn-he used to be one of them,
but he’s alright now – swung in the corner,
as Roddy McDonald,
towered, and powered,
a header goal wards,
that we were watching:
the end of an era.
Silver laden years
where the club was dragged from,
black and white,
into blinding technocolour.
Shuggie poked, after the goalies fumble
the ball was palmed,
like ushering a toddler away from a fire.
A clear penalty
no need for weeks -or years- of disputes,
Mr Valentine was sure.
But we still didn’t know
that this was the last of
10 league titles,
8 scottish cups,
6 league cups,
and the small matter of a European cup.
We were asking:
Why was Andy Lynch,not King Kenny
placing the ball?
It didn’t matter.
A left footed arrow
sent to the right,
keeper was beaten,
Kipper took the ball from his grasp.
Into the net,
which rejected its catch,
using the howls of despair,
from the terracing beyond,
trying to blow away the reality,
and the ball to safety.
We didn’t know at the time,
as Andy punched a hole in the sky,
scaring Joe Craig, amusing Kenny,
a joyous dance: of autumn leaves falling from trees,
turning the red commemorative graffiti
on the hoops: beautiful forever,
that Jock’s trophy years were up.
Our only thoughts were with Andy Lynch,
winning our 25th Scottish Cup.
Written to commemorate the release of Andy Lynch’s autobiography “Hoops, Stars and Stripes”. First published on Celtic Quick News.