A Wee Story
Neil Francis Lennon looked up to see the brightness of the sun obscuring his view to the large automated scoreboard, held aloft by the sold out 62,000 seated Celtic Park and pondered whether this is how Martin O’Neil had felt when Celtic defeated St Mirren to win the SPL back in 2001. He could see the date – the 16th of April 2011 but not much more. It was one of those rare summer days in the East End of Glasgow when the sun splits the sky and everything just looks better, the grass look greener, the sky bluer, and the football looks sharper and faster.
Even though he sensed Alan and Johan beside him, desperate to race onto the pitch and celebrate with the players, a numbness had overtaken his body. This was not a numbness he had felt before, he had battled that demon. This was more like an outer-body experience, as if his pride seemed to take him to a new level, he felt the joy everyone else did, but seem paralysed by it.
Pat McCourt stands almost absolutely static for half an hour after a mazy dribble or a wonder goal, maybe he feels this too, I’ll ask him later Neil decided.
At first he had thought it had been the Guinness from last night, after all, he hadn’t been in Tennents bar all season, well just about, (far less than the past few years anyway), and last nights tipple with the boys that had come up for the game had hit him hard. And indeed left him more than a tad hazy this morning – It was fine he had judged, that the team knew what they were doing by now anyway, an unchanged side were starting for the fifth game in a row and this had an almost robotic effect on their ever increasing winning streak.
Breathing new life into failing Celtic squads in dire need and showing them near instant success was certainly not all they had in common. The Northern Irish midfielders had been hard workers in successful teams, and not always entirely appreciated in all quarters, but had learned from top managers, with O’Neil’s lessons from Clough passed onto to Lennon and his team-mates in those heady Celtic days a decade ago.
Gaining much experience and know-how from his mentor Martin O’Neill, Lennon himself knew he also drew from Gordon Strachan’s tenure. The way he refused to let his team be characterised by his opening European defeat, Neil thought, that is exactly what I want after Braga.
That night, he felt alone with the level of confidence he had in himself, in those players, in this team – to gel together and bring success. Not only success in terms of recapturing the league, he wanted this team to thrive, his team, to kick on and show the grit, determination and indefatigability (that although he played down occasionally, he was enormously proud) that he was know for in his playing days. Had Gary Hooper played that night we would definitely have got a goal or two over there he would regularly concede in private, and definitely changed at least the complexion of that tie.
After Hooper’s 32 goals, including today’s brace, it would be hard to argue with Lennon’s assertion; the lively striker certainly had given Celtic’s attacking force a new and more potent dynamic this season.
A sharp learning curve he continuously assured himself that the first two matches were, were viewed not only by the management team, but now anyone else who cared to consider it, as a mere blip in the process of building a team, with new players, new manager, and ultimately a new formation and playing style. Thankfully they had not been an indicator of where the team were going, or any real long-term problems that Lennon would not be able to remedy.
A scarce cloud had now briefly blocked the sun allowing Neil to confirm to himself that the inevitable could not be delayed for much longer.
It read -
CELTIC 2 HIBS 0
And the clock in the corner showed that the game was entering its 93rd minute –
It wasn’t the Guinness, it wasn’t even the pride, it was the fear of failure that was slowly lifting from Lennon, he had proved to everyone, himself included, that he was cut out for football management, he had showed a talent (allied to his heart and spirit) that he wished he had been recognized for as a footballer. But that didn’t matter now. Like Martin had added Clough’s ruthlessness to his own considered approach, Neil had succeeded in at last parading his measured and intelligent side that was backed up by his ubiquitous bullishness, rather than being tarnished by it.
As he forced himself to reality, he instead let his emotions guide his actions rather than his usually careful almost paranoid thought process, as Lennon realising by now that the whistle had gone several seconds ago, ran to the far side of the pitch, grabbed Scott Brown in a headlock, and dragged the Celtic captain to a now rapturous Celtic support.
Glasgow Celtic Champions 2010/2011
Even though he sensed Alan and Johan beside him, desperate to race onto the pitch and celebrate with the players, a numbness had overtaken his body. This was not a numbness he had felt before, he had battled that demon. This was more like an outer-body experience, as if his pride seemed to take him to a new level, he felt the joy everyone else did, but seem paralysed by it.
Pat McCourt stands almost absolutely static for half an hour after a mazy dribble or a wonder goal, maybe he feels this too, I’ll ask him later Neil decided.
At first he had thought it had been the Guinness from last night, after all, he hadn’t been in Tennents bar all season, well just about, (far less than the past few years anyway), and last nights tipple with the boys that had come up for the game had hit him hard. And indeed left him more than a tad hazy this morning – It was fine he had judged, that the team knew what they were doing by now anyway, an unchanged side were starting for the fifth game in a row and this had an almost robotic effect on their ever increasing winning streak.
Breathing new life into failing Celtic squads in dire need and showing them near instant success was certainly not all they had in common. The Northern Irish midfielders had been hard workers in successful teams, and not always entirely appreciated in all quarters, but had learned from top managers, with O’Neil’s lessons from Clough passed onto to Lennon and his team-mates in those heady Celtic days a decade ago.
Gaining much experience and know-how from his mentor Martin O’Neill, Lennon himself knew he also drew from Gordon Strachan’s tenure. The way he refused to let his team be characterised by his opening European defeat, Neil thought, that is exactly what I want after Braga.
That night, he felt alone with the level of confidence he had in himself, in those players, in this team – to gel together and bring success. Not only success in terms of recapturing the league, he wanted this team to thrive, his team, to kick on and show the grit, determination and indefatigability (that although he played down occasionally, he was enormously proud) that he was know for in his playing days. Had Gary Hooper played that night we would definitely have got a goal or two over there he would regularly concede in private, and definitely changed at least the complexion of that tie.
After Hooper’s 32 goals, including today’s brace, it would be hard to argue with Lennon’s assertion; the lively striker certainly had given Celtic’s attacking force a new and more potent dynamic this season.
A sharp learning curve he continuously assured himself that the first two matches were, were viewed not only by the management team, but now anyone else who cared to consider it, as a mere blip in the process of building a team, with new players, new manager, and ultimately a new formation and playing style. Thankfully they had not been an indicator of where the team were going, or any real long-term problems that Lennon would not be able to remedy.
A scarce cloud had now briefly blocked the sun allowing Neil to confirm to himself that the inevitable could not be delayed for much longer.
It read -
CELTIC 2 HIBS 0
And the clock in the corner showed that the game was entering its 93rd minute –
It wasn’t the Guinness, it wasn’t even the pride, it was the fear of failure that was slowly lifting from Lennon, he had proved to everyone, himself included, that he was cut out for football management, he had showed a talent (allied to his heart and spirit) that he wished he had been recognized for as a footballer. But that didn’t matter now. Like Martin had added Clough’s ruthlessness to his own considered approach, Neil had succeeded in at last parading his measured and intelligent side that was backed up by his ubiquitous bullishness, rather than being tarnished by it.
As he forced himself to reality, he instead let his emotions guide his actions rather than his usually careful almost paranoid thought process, as Lennon realising by now that the whistle had gone several seconds ago, ran to the far side of the pitch, grabbed Scott Brown in a headlock, and dragged the Celtic captain to a now rapturous Celtic support.
Glasgow Celtic Champions 2010/2011
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