Jock Stein
So much has been said, so much written over the last week, that it would be inconceivable to find anyone in Scotland who wasn't aware that Saturday marked the 20th Anniversary of the death of Scotlands finest manager, and Celtics greatest legend.
On such occasions, there is always the danger of going overboard with the praise. Mediocrities can become geniuses, the past can be rewritten - glories overhyped, failure quietly swept under the carpet. In the case of Jock Stein, there can be no such danger. Every plaudit is earned. Every glory worthy of our recollection.
I must admit to being too young at the time to realise the significance of what happened that dreadful night in Cardiff. When John Lennon was shot dead in New York a few years earlier, I knew that something terrible had happened. It wasn't until years later that I began to realise the magnitude of the loss.
And so it was with the death of Jock Stein. I knew it was bad. It had to be. My own Dad, a Rangers man to his own last breath, was as distraught as any Celtic fan could be. But only as I learned of the massive impact that he had on our club, and, more importantly, about the man himself, did I come to realise what we lost that night in Wales.
September 10, 1985, should have been a night of football celebration. A draw at Ninian Park was enough to see Scotland into a World Cup qualifying playoff against Australia. I still remember watching, through gaps in my fingers, as Davie Cooper stepped up to slot the penalty that gave us the draw past Neville Southall in the Welsh goal. We celebrated like we would any goal that carried such importance, completely unaware of what was happening in the visitors dugout.
Only after the game finished did we hear the tragic news that Jock Stein had collapsed. I went to bed that night not knowing he had died soon afterwards. School the next day was a solemn occasion. No one talked about the result. No one mentioned the penalty that would help send us to the World Cup in Mexico. Instead, we spoke quietly about the passing of a man who's presence and achievements seemed to define everything about the club we supported, even if we didn't understand the reasons behind such greatness.
Twenty years on, we understand. We've learned about the dignity of Jock Stein. We've heard the stories and read the books that chronicle the life of not only a great family man, but of a great football manager. And we've laughed at the glorious anecdotes from his managerial days - always one step ahead of the opposition, two steps ahead of Jinky.
And this is why the minute long appreciation of the life of our greatest manager was so important. It gave myself - and thousands like me who were too young to fully appreciate what we lost in Cardiff that night - the chance to pay our respects to a legend we've now come to know, and to respect.
Yesterday may have been the 20th anniversary of the death of Jock Stein. But in the East End of Glasgow, and in homes all over the world, the Big Man has never left us. His memory is forever looking down over Celtic Park, reminding us of what we once we once achieved; what we must strive to achieve again. Not only in trophies or victories, but in the manner in which we achieve such trophies and victories. Jock Stein defined what Celtic is in the eyes of its supporters - if not in the eyes of the money men who now run our game. We must never forget what he taught us.
On such occasions, there is always the danger of going overboard with the praise. Mediocrities can become geniuses, the past can be rewritten - glories overhyped, failure quietly swept under the carpet. In the case of Jock Stein, there can be no such danger. Every plaudit is earned. Every glory worthy of our recollection.
I must admit to being too young at the time to realise the significance of what happened that dreadful night in Cardiff. When John Lennon was shot dead in New York a few years earlier, I knew that something terrible had happened. It wasn't until years later that I began to realise the magnitude of the loss.
And so it was with the death of Jock Stein. I knew it was bad. It had to be. My own Dad, a Rangers man to his own last breath, was as distraught as any Celtic fan could be. But only as I learned of the massive impact that he had on our club, and, more importantly, about the man himself, did I come to realise what we lost that night in Wales.
September 10, 1985, should have been a night of football celebration. A draw at Ninian Park was enough to see Scotland into a World Cup qualifying playoff against Australia. I still remember watching, through gaps in my fingers, as Davie Cooper stepped up to slot the penalty that gave us the draw past Neville Southall in the Welsh goal. We celebrated like we would any goal that carried such importance, completely unaware of what was happening in the visitors dugout.
Only after the game finished did we hear the tragic news that Jock Stein had collapsed. I went to bed that night not knowing he had died soon afterwards. School the next day was a solemn occasion. No one talked about the result. No one mentioned the penalty that would help send us to the World Cup in Mexico. Instead, we spoke quietly about the passing of a man who's presence and achievements seemed to define everything about the club we supported, even if we didn't understand the reasons behind such greatness.
Twenty years on, we understand. We've learned about the dignity of Jock Stein. We've heard the stories and read the books that chronicle the life of not only a great family man, but of a great football manager. And we've laughed at the glorious anecdotes from his managerial days - always one step ahead of the opposition, two steps ahead of Jinky.
And this is why the minute long appreciation of the life of our greatest manager was so important. It gave myself - and thousands like me who were too young to fully appreciate what we lost in Cardiff that night - the chance to pay our respects to a legend we've now come to know, and to respect.
Yesterday may have been the 20th anniversary of the death of Jock Stein. But in the East End of Glasgow, and in homes all over the world, the Big Man has never left us. His memory is forever looking down over Celtic Park, reminding us of what we once we once achieved; what we must strive to achieve again. Not only in trophies or victories, but in the manner in which we achieve such trophies and victories. Jock Stein defined what Celtic is in the eyes of its supporters - if not in the eyes of the money men who now run our game. We must never forget what he taught us.
posted by Moravcik67 @ 12:51 AM
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