At the edge of the council estate, where the burn ran north to the sea, two play parks sat divided by a small brae: one built from galvanized steel, the other of weathered russet-painted wood. Kids smoked in the wooden hut while dogs peed on the climbing trees nearby. Further south, the land climbed into dense pines and patchwork fields, ascending into hills and valleys, while northwards was the cold North Sea.

*

They met one Saturday morning. The older boy was outside, in the wooden play park, kicking about his football when he saw a younger boy leaving his house, going “oot ti play” as his mother had told him to.

“Fit like?” he called over, stopping from dribbling between three trees and picking up his football. “Di yi play fitba?”

“Aye,” said the smaller boy.

“Ye any good?”

The smaller boy shrugged shyly. “Ah’m aright.”

“Fit team do ye support? Better nae be a Hun!”

“Celtic.”

The older boy held the ball above his head, as though holding a trophy aloft, and grinned. “Me ana! Beauty, eh! – got to love the Celtic! ‘For it’s a grand old team to play for..!’ You bide there?” he pointed out a house. “I’m Kevin. That’s my house tee there,” he pointed again.

“I ken, ah’ve seen you afore.”

“Aye?” Kevin asked curiously.

“Just playing fitba here, wi yer dad.”

“Oh right. So fit’s your name then?”

“Tommy.”

“C’mon en, let’s see fit you kin dae. Kin ye dae a diving heeder? Or trap the ba?” Kevin asked, as he started to dribble the ball around animatedly.

Tommy blanched with embarrassment. The games of football he played at school involved disorganised hordes of boys chasing the ball around during the lunch hour in the grey afternoon, running and skirling and shouting, the ball rarely passed but more often being hit off an inadvertent body. Kevin was much older. Nearly going into high school. Those boys played for the school football team, they were allowed to put nets onto the enormous white-painted football goals, and sometimes even played in the green and yellow school team strip against the “best of the rest” who always lost by enormous scores.

“I jist play in defence,” he said, as that was where the boys in charge of the game always told him he was to play. “We’ll try tae score,” the boys who were good at football had said. “You try tae stop the other team fae scorin. Stye close to the goalie.”

Kevin smirked. He knew which boys were told to play in defence. “Ah well, let’s try a couple a things, crossin the ba n that. That’s how I learned; n I play for the school team and the Boys Club noo.”

Tommy brightened. He wasn’t going to be shown up.

*

It was an October afternoon during the tattie holidays. The trees were stripping for battle in preparation for winter, the sky a pallid blue suspended over a chill air. Kevin had continued to teach Tommy footballing techniques; he now knew about chipping the ball, to head it with his forehead, how to play a one-two, even to take the ball down with his in-step. He had practised diving headers, crossing, shooting, adding curl to the ball and how to side-foot. Kevin’s enthusiasm for football never waned or even tired; it was like a hard, inextinguishable bright light. For Tommy this was a change. Normally he played his games on his Commodore 64 or lost himself in his Roald Dahl and Enid Blyton books in the evening. Instead, every day Kevin had continued teaching him the tricks and techniques of football.

That day, they were outside in their tracksuits, practising long passes to each other. The trick was to get your foot underneath the ball, and get it straight – if you got it to the side it would curl left or right. They ran a few dozen yards apart, then attempted long cross-field passes to each other, while avoiding the trees. Who were like Rangers defenders anyway, big and thick and stupid, as Kevin said. One he named “Terry Butcher”.

“Watch oot fir Butcher! Right, pass it then! Into space! He shoots and… GOAL!” Kevin ran, his arms spread out, utter delight on his face.

Tommy had supported Celtic from a young age, for no particular reason. But Kevin was completely immersed in Celtic. He was a member of Celtic Boy’s Club (with a framed certificate in his bedroom), had the home and away and goalkeepers strips, and had signed posters of his favourite players above his bed (Frank McAvennie and Paul McStay). He even had tapes of the songs supporters sang, which Tommy had never heard before.

“Aye, but wir nae allowed tae sing those songs it the game, ken?” Kevin had explained. “So they dinna let ye hear them.”

“Why nae?”

Kevin shrugged irritably, as though such things were self-evident. “Cuz these songs say things like Fuck the queen and Up the pope n a that.”

Tommy tittered at Kevin swearing. “Fuck the Queen and the UDA, because we’ve got the Pope and the IRA!” Kevin sung, in a sort of jingle. Tommy burst out laughing this time. “Ah’ll gie ye a tape of the Wolfe Tones,” Kevin said. “If ye’re a Celtic supporter ye shid ken a the songs.”

As they were practising their passing, several older boys cycled up the road and plonked their bikes on Kevin’s front garden. Tommy stood back. Who were they? They were older. Probably friends of Kevin; they would laugh at him for not being good enough at football or not knowing all the words to the Celtic songs. But one boy had an Aberdeen strip on.

“Aright boys!” Kevin said. “Mon the Celts, fuck the sheep!” he said to the boy wearing the Aberdeen strip.

The boy smirked. “Three-nil,” he said.

“Hun referee, Darren. Fucking Hun!” Kevin shouted. He kicked the ball over. “Play doubles, then, eh, boys?”

“Nah, headers and volleys, eh” another, tall, acne-marked boy said.

“Ah fuck off, Gogsy,” Darren said.

Gogsy smiled more than half a sneer. “Men from the boys, Darren. Just cuz you canna play worth a shite, you fat prick.”

Kevin shrugged. “Aright then, headers and volleys.” He chipped the ball deftly to a slight slim boy behind Gogsy, shouting “Dode’s ba!”

The ball was exactly the right height for Dode to header it, doing so to Gogsy, who passed to Darren, who chipped it to Mikey, who headed it to Tommy. Tommy had been standing nervously by them, inching away from their conversation. Now he crossed it back to Kevin, who launched it straight up into the air. “Heids!” he yelled. Darren and Dode stood under it, but let it bounce, then Darren dribbled it away, followed by Dode.

“Fa’s the boy?” Gogsy asked, half-laughing and nodding at Tommy.

“Bides there,” Kevin said, nodding to Tommy’s nearby house. “Ah’ve been showing him how to play a bit.”

“Aye?” Gogsy turned to Tommy. “Fit team div ye support? Bet it’s fuckin Aiberdeen!”

“No, Celtic,” Tommy said.

“C’mon,” Kevin said. “Tommy, you can go in goal. Here’s ma gloves.”

*

Tommy had never played headers and volleys before and was glad he was in goals to learn how it was played. The bigger boys tried to put together good moves, passing on the first touch, which had to end with a goal attempt by a volley or a header. The aim was about aesthetics, so there were few goal-attempts to save. One typical exchange started with Darren left-side crossing the ball into the middle; Gogsy on the right headed it gently, cushioning it towards Kevin near the left goalpost (or tree); Kevin kneed it up, and lifted it to Dode in the middle, who blasted it goalwards but much too high.

“Mon tae fuck!” Kevin shouted at him. The ball landed far off, Dode trotting to fetch it.

“Want to change about?” Darren asked Tommy, approaching. “Let’s see if you can play, eh!”

Tommy shrugged. “Ah’m alright.”

“Go on, eh, Tommy,” Kevin said. “Let the boys see what you can dae!””

Oblivious, Tommy yielded the gloves.

*

It was only a month until Bonfire Night, so Kevin enlisted his friends to help collect stuff. They went from house to house all along the terraced streets, asking “Onythin for the bondie?” They had to have a bigger bonfire than the park down the brae, Kevin said; they were all just tinks. Day by day, they gathered unwanted furniture and garden stuff from the council houses and brought them back to the park. They tried the posh bungalows once or twice, but the folk there were suspiciously unhelpful. As the material built up, Kevin led them in organising it into forts: two upside-down sofas, making two facing “r” shapes, would be placed together, with the cushions on the ground, giving a comfy space between them; or doors placed up as walls would then be roofed by fencing and wood. Making a series of linked sections, they could fit the whole gang of them in there.

Tommy loved it. He loved the sense of creating something, something real. He loved working with the bigger boys and holding his own. He loved the mission of collecting and transporting and arranging the stuff they go. It was like being part of something. All Kevin’s friends (apart from Darren) were Celtic supporters, that was part of it. When the bondie stuff was all built into forts, they squashed into it and sang all the supporters songs that Tommy knew all the words to now. Kevin had copied him a tape.

Look out Maggie Thatcher, sure the boys are out to get you!

Don’t care about your bodyguards or bloody SAS!

We’ve got a daring plan, to put gelignite down the lavvy pan

You’ll find your fanny in the Falklands and your arsehole in Japan!

Oh some they say have memories few

Of far off distant days

When being just a lad like you

I joined the IRA!

*

The kids from Douglas Crescent were going to steal their bondie stuff, Kevin said; they had to watch out. They hadn’t got as much stuff for their bondie because the Douglas Crescent folk were tinks. On weekends, when the rest were collecting – going far afield, all the way up to the Highfield Way bungalows or down to Harbour Street – two kept guard until the rest came back with their bounty.

Tommy, Darren and Kevin were manfully carrying a heavy, awkward wardrobe back to the park. Kevin directed them, endlessly issuing encouragements and instructions, Darren alternating between bantering with him and laughing and telling him to fuck off. Tommy strived to follow Kevin’s teachings, even when they were contradictory.

“C’mon boys! Let’s get this fucking thing up to the park!” Kevin enthused. “We’ll hae the biggest bondie in the toon, eh! Bigger than Well Road or the Douglas Crescent tinks or up the bungalows. Championees, championees, oh-way-oh-way-oh-way…”

“Hud on,” Darren said, as he climbed a kerb. “Tommy, git a fuckin hud of that corner! I’ve a’ the weight this side!” He was holding the front of the cupboard, walking backwards up the street, while Kevin and Tommy took a side each.

Tommy struggled to take more of the weight and hold it higher, and they resumed.

“You get your team for the Boys club, Darren?” Kevin asked. “I’m in Athletic.”

“Aye, Rovers,” he said.

“Ah nae luck!” Kevin crowed. “Kenny Rennie your manager! He’s a fucking tube!”

Darren laughed. “I ken! He cannae fuckin manage. We had him a couple of year ago ana, and me and Gogsy just ignored him and telt the boys what to do. Then he was going spastic on the sidelines!”

“Fucking useless likes! What about you Tommy, you going to the Boys Club?” Kevin asked.

“I dinna ken,” Tommy said. He hadn’t thought of it. He didn’t know where to register or how to join. Some of the boys in his class went. Mark Slater, Bruce Cardno, David Johnson. But they had never asked him.

Darren snorted. “Come on, min, all the fuckin boys play.”

“Aye, you should join!” Kevin said. “Seven a side, and you play two games every Wednesday, in a league, ken? You get a manager and he picks the team and trains yiz.”

“How do yiz – fa picks the teams?” Tommy asked, panting slightly. It was tiring work. But he thought it might be okay if he was in a team with Kevin and Darren. They might win! They would beat a team with Mark Slater and David Johnson.

“It’s just random, likes, they get all the names and them draw them out a hat,” Kevin said. “You might be in a team with some boys fae St Peters or Cluny schools, but you get to ken them soon enough. They usually try to mix yiz up.”

“Oh right,” Tommy said.

“It’ll make a change from getting you always picked last at doubles, eh,” Darren laughed.

Tommy laughed along with them. But that wasn’t fair of Darren. Darren was always making fun of him for being shite at football, whereas Kevin spent time coaching him if they were alone. Darren and Kevin had obviously been friends for a long time; they were in the same class at school. Two years ahead of Tommy. There was a photo of Kevin and Darren in Kevin’s house when they were wee lads at Xmas time, in their new football strips. But sometimes Kevin invited Tommy into his house to play the computer, as they both had a Commodore 64 and could swap games, though Kevin had much more. Kevin always seemed surprised when Tommy showed him how to do things on the computer.

*

Tommy could barely sit still. The bus rattled along the road, every bump jolting through him, but he didn’t care. Today was the day. Celtic Park. He’d seen it on the telly, the packed terraces, the scarves held high, the sea of green and white. And today, for the first time, he’d be inside it.

The bus was full of other fans—young men in Celtic tops, old guys with scarves, wee boys with their dads. Everyone buzzing. Someone had a radio, the crackling pre-match chatter adding to the excitement. Tommy let himself imagine it: walking through the turnstiles, the first glimpse of the stands, the moment when the teams walked out and the whole stadium rose to its feet.

Kevin sat next to him, but facing the other way, talking shite with Gogsy and Darren in the seats behind, about some lassie he’d met at the school disco. Tommy wasn’t listening; his mind was on the game, the songs, the sight of the pitch opening up in front of him. Someone put on a tape and everyone sang along lustily, most with hands held aloft:

We’re on the one road,

Sharing the one load,

We’re on the road to God knows where!

We’re on the one road,

It may be the wrong road,

But we’re together now who cares!

North men, South men, comrades all,

Dublin, Belfast, Cork and Donegal!

We’re on the one road swinging along,

Singing a soldier’s song!

Even Darren and Gogsy were singing along. Kevin put an arm around Tommy’s shoulder, another around Gogsy’s. Gogsy put his around Darren’s. The four of them stood in a circle, singing along. Tommy’s face beamed pink.

Outside, the city was changing. The streets looked rougher. Towerblocks, grey, run-down, even more than the ones Tommy had seen in Aberdeen. Streams of fans walking alongside began to spring up. Then, for a second, Tommy saw it. Through the gaps between the buildings, past the tower blocks and the crumbling walls covered in torn posters and graffiti, the stadium rose, massive against the sky. The floodlights standing tall. Then it was gone again.

He turned to Kevin. “Did ye see it?” he asked excitedly.

Kevin smirked. “See it every other week, min.”

The bus slowed. People were shifting in their seats, grabbing bags, adjusting scarves. A hum of voices rising, energy building.

Then Kevin stood up, nudging Tommy. “Come on. Ye don’t want to miss the songs.”

Tommy stepped off the bus into rivers of people. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, van frying burgers and onions, the sour fizz of cola, the pishy smell of toilets and beer from the streetside pubs with their Celtic flags and Irish tricolours. Everywhere he looked, people were moving—groups of men in Celtic scarves, fathers gripping their sons by the shoulders, packs of lads like Kevin and his pals, pushing and shoving, all hyper and laughing too loud.

Kevin led the way, hands in his pockets, Gogsy and Darren spread out behind him like they owned the place. Tommy stuck close, half-worried he’d get left behind in the surge of bodies.

They passed a stall selling scarves and rosettes. “Get yer colours! Get yer colours!” the vendor shouted, rattling a metal tin full of change. Tommy hesitated, looking at the scarves, the badges with players’ faces, the cassette tapes of Wolfe Tones and Irish rebel music, and Not The View fanzines.

“Fuckin robbery!” Kevin laughed, glancing at the prices. “What you gonni get, Tommy?”

Tommy hesitated. He wanted something, some proof he’d been here. But the scarves were too dear. Twelve pound, the man had said! Instead, he picked up a badge, a small golden metal thing with the Celtic club crest, and handed over his money.

“Right, come on let’s hurry up,” Kevin said, nodding toward the stadium. “Kick off soon.”

They moved toward the ground, the noise swelling. A chant started somewhere ahead, rolling through the crowd like a wave.

“Hail, hail, the Celts are here…!”

The stadium loomed now, vast, the turnstiles clicking, stewards in yellow jackets waving people through, a few policemen speaking into radios. Tommy felt his heart hammering as they got closer, the noise vibrating in his chest.

Celtic Park was a vast bowl around an enormous football pitch with four stands rising high above the ground. Approaching the terracing, the noise didn’t hit Tommy like he had expected. There were chants, but they started up, faded out, then started again somewhere else.

Tommy, Kevin, Gogsy, and Darren stayed at a spot near the back, where the stand curved up into the roof. From here, the pitch looked miles away. The players were tiny figures, moving through the warm-up with the distant thud of balls. The famous Jungle on the other side, “where all the most pure fuckin mental fans went” Kevin said, was only two-thirds full. Most of the chants emerged from there, true.

Tommy said, “Ah thought it would be louder.”

Kevin shrugged, and spoke without turning his head from the pitch. “It’s not like a big European night or an Old Firm game against Rangers, ye div.” Gogsy sniggered. “It’s just against Hamilton fucking Accies.”

Everyone cheered as the teams came out, and songs finally echoed across the stadium. Thuds of boot against leather resounded. Tommy tried to focus on the game, but Kevin and the others were already just joking and laughing most of the time.

“Here, check this cunt.” Gogsy nudged Tommy, nodding down a few rows.

A couple of older lads were sitting slouched forward, one of them rolling what looked like a long cigarette one-handed, barely looking down at what he was doing. His mate cupped a lighter, shielding it from the wind as he sparked up.

Kevin yawned, stretching. “State of this, man.”

A chant started up. “We shall not, we shall not be moved!” Tommy joined in, his voice uncertain, trying to feel part of it. But after a few lines, it faded away.

Darren leaned into Kevin. “This is pish, mate.”

Kevin snorted, unable to agree or disagree. But Tommy felt it too. He rubbed the badge in his pocket, the one he’d bought earlier. The gold colour was coming off it already.

The game dragged on. Someone scored. A cheer went up, loud but short-lived. People stood, clapped, then sat back down, lighting fresh cigarettes. Darren and Gogsy had lost interest completely and went for food and not come back. Tommy tried to watch, naming the players he recognised, but it was hard. Mick McCarthy in the centre of defence, he was easy. Paul McStay in midfield, just by how he played. Tommy Burns with his ginger hair.

Darren and Gogsy came back clutching Bovrils. It was getting cold. The final whistle blew, and the stadium emptied fast. No big send-off, no chanting into the night. Just the crush toward the exits, the shuffle of feet down concrete steps.

Kevin stretched, cracking his neck. “Right. Get some chips afore we get the bus?”

Darren nodded.

Outside, the streets were clogged with bodies moving in the same direction, a slow shuffle toward the buses or the nearby pubs. Tommy pulled his jacket tighter as the cold bit the air. They drifted past a row of pubs, most of them packed, doors open, sound spilling onto the street. A few men were pishing against a closed shop. Urine dribbled down the pavement.

The chip shop was rammed. Steam clung to the windows, oil sizzling, the smell of vinegar thick in the air. Kevin shoved the door open with his shoulder. Tommy then Darren and Gogsy followed him in.

“Right, chips and curry sauce. Big fuckin portion,” Kevin said, grinning. The old man at the counter turned away saying nothing.

Fans old and young packed the narrow space, waiting for their orders. Old men with scarves, wee boys in tracksuits, a few younger lads in Accies strips lingering near the ketchup pumps.

“Fuckin queue, man,” Gogsy muttered.

Someone ahead turned. “Ye shoulda queued for three points instead,” said one of the Accies boys. Not loud, but enough.

Kevin smirked. “That your da’s patter, aye?”

The other boy just rolled his eyes. But Darren stepped forward, puffed up.

“Here, don’t get brave in a fuckin chippy,” he said, voice low and nasty.

Tommy stood behind them, silent. He glanced at the Accies boy. He was maybe his age. He wasn’t smirking or mouthing off. Just watching.

They got their chips in open trays then stood outside eating hungrily, barely speaking. Then Gogsy laughed and said, “Check those wee spastics.”

They were coming along the path outside the ground, a group of four boys like themselves but all wearing the red and white stripes of the Hamilton Accies strips. One of them was about Tommy’s age. They were loud, laughing, kicking something along the pavement.

As they drew closer, Darren stood up and spread his arms wide, half-blocking their way.

“Awright lads, enjoy the game?”

One of the younger ones tried to swerve past but caught a deliberate shoulder from Gogsy, who nudged him just enough to throw him sideways — straight into Tommy.

The boy stumbled, steadied himself, and looked up. Tommy looked back. Neither of them knew what to do.

“He fuckin barged ye, Tommy!” Darren said. “Taking the fuckin piss!”

“It wisnae – ” Tommy started to say, but his voice was thin.

Kevin stood beside him now. “Well? Don’t let him get away wi’ that. It’s disrespect.”

The wee boy had stopped too. He was standing now just a pace away from Tommy, pale and still. His eyes moved between the group and Tommy. He didn’t raise his fists. Just waited.

Darren clapped once. Loud. “Go on, Tommy! Show him who you are!”

Tommy could feel everyone watching. People coming out of the chippy. Passersby stopping to watch. All the other boys were grinning, except the wee boy, who looked upset.

A circle was forming already. Boys shifting, moving around, making space.

“I dinna want to fight,” Tommy said, barely audible, tears forming in his eyes

“Stop fucking greetin,” Kevin said. His voice wasn’t cruel but implacable. “Get a fuckin hold of the cunt, eh! Mon en – you can take him!”

Tommy looked at the other boy. He was scared, too. But now they were in it. Both of them knew what the game was. Neither moved. Then Gogsy shouted: “Fuck’s sake, get in aboot ya wee fannies!”

The boy moved forward and swung at Tommy – not hard, not well. His fist hit Tommy’s shoulder. He winced but didn’t fall. Tommy hit back, going for the face but getting his ear. They flailed, fists hitting shoulders and ribs. Tommy fell, and started weeping. It wasn’t the pain. It was the humiliation.

Darren cackled. “Jesus. What was that meant tae be?”

The other boys stopped and looked embarrassed. “Fucking hell boys, what a wee jessie.” They held up their friend’s arm. He too was crying, snotters running from his nose onto his striped Accies strip, but trying to look brave. “We have a winner!” they laughed and walked off, telling the boy he’d done well.

Kevin looked at Tommy still crying on the ground and shook his head. Tommy wiped his face with his sleeve. His nose was running. His badge had fallen out his pocket and lay half-covered in dirt, its gold coating already rubbed away.

“Thought you were ma pal!” Tommy cried, his voice shrill and high.

Darren and Gogsy laughed and walked off, Gogsy shaking his head. “Fucking jessie,” he said. Kevin paused, uncertain. For a moment it looked like he might help Tommy up. Then he walked away and joined them.

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