Neil Lennon: Man and Bhoy. Neil Lennon

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      The telephone call which changed my life was not even made to me.

      It was late in the afternoon of 21 August 2002, when ‘he’ called the BBC’s office at Ormeau Avenue in Belfast. He didn’t say his name—they never do—but left enough hints as to his background. His message was brief and to the point. As it was recounted to me, the call went something like this…

      ’This is the LVF. If Neil Lennon takes the field tonight he will get seriously hurt.’

      LVF stands for Loyalist Volunteer Force, one of the more extreme terrorist groups in Northern Ireland at that time. They battled in their own way for what they perceived to be the Protestant and Unionist cause. I, on the other hand, was a Roman Catholic from Lurgan in County Armagh, and to them I was guilty of a terrible crime—I played for Glasgow Celtic, the club which, despite being non-sectarian since its foundation, is seen as a totem of Irish Catholic nationalism.

      It didn’t matter to the caller that I had lived away from Northern Ireland for fourteen years. He didn’t know that my family was not associated in any way with political or sectarian groups. My three sisters and I had been brought up with ‘the Troubles’ all around, but hadn’t lost a relative. We were always lectured by our parents that we should avoid being caught up in the madness that had besmirched our country over four decades.

      It only mattered to the caller that, for the first time, a Roman Catholic who also played for Celtic would captain Northern Ireland in Belfast that night. It was a ‘friendly’ match against Cyprus to prepare both sides for the forthcoming qualifying matches for the European Championships. There was nothing remotely friendly in what the caller said.

      They say a week is a long time in politics. Well, let me tell you that two hours can be a lifetime in football, and eighteen months can seem an eternity. For the seeds of what happened that night in Belfast were laid on the evening of 28 February 2001, with an event that made headlines in newspapers in Britain, Ireland and further afield.

      That was the first time I played for Northern Ireland after joining Celtic, in a friendly match against Norway at Windsor Park. Geography is vitally important in my country, so you should know that the crumbling old stadium is in the heart of East Belfast and is home to Linfield FC, a club traditionally supported by the Protestant and Unionist section of Northern Irish society who predominate in that area.

      The events of that night didn’t come as a complete surprise to me. When I signed for Celtic a few months earlier I had known that it was highly probable that when I turned out for Northern Ireland I would get some stick and maybe a bit of hassle here and there. It had happened to Celtic players capped by Northern Ireland in the past, such as Anton Rogan and Allan McKnight. A captain of Celtic had actually led Northern Ireland in the past—the late Bertie Peacock, who played thirty-one times for his country and went on to manage the national side, in the fifties and sixties. But he was a Protestant in an era when there was rather more respect around.

      I, on the other hand, was the antithesis of what some ‘fans’ stood for in a sectarian time. There had been warnings in various newspapers that my move to Celtic could earn me some serious grief when I played for Northern Ireland, so I wasn’t entirely taken aback, but nothing could have prepared me for the sheer scale of what happened before and during that match against Norway.

      A few days before the game, my mother and father at home in Lurgan were appalled to learn from journalists that the words ‘Neil Lennon RIP’ had been scrawled on a wall in the town of Lisburn. Someone was saying that I was going to be a dead man.

      It was a terrible shock to my family who are quiet-living and fundamentally decent Christian people. My father Gerry had not been well and was to suffer a heart attack in August 2001. He, my mother Ursula and the rest of my family were deeply upset by what some moron undoubtedly thought was a sick joke—or maybe in light of subsequent events, he or she meant it as a shot across my bows, a warning of worse to come. And indeed worse, much worse, did come my way as I joined my colleagues of different religions and none at all to play for my country against Norway.

      From the moment I went onto that pitch to play in the green and white colours of Northern Ireland I was the target of an unremitting chorus of boos, jeers, catcalls and insults. In a half-empty stadium, the noise seemed to amplify and at times it seemed as though it was the only sound to be heard.

      I had anticipated the odd jibe from individuals in the crowd or on the streets, but nothing prepared me for the extent of the hatred I faced. Deep down, it was the sheer scale of things which upset me.

      Prior to the game, the graffiti incident became known and there were some rumours about threats to me. The Irish FA and manager Sammy McIlroy appealed for me to be supported, but perhaps that backfired. I myself had spoken of the support and letters of encouragement I had received, but inside I had a justifiable dread of what might happen at Windsor Park. Later, people would try to play down what happened, saying that it was only a minority in the crowd who had hurled abuse. There wasn’t a massive crowd at the game, maybe 7,000 or so, and the minority might only have been 500 or 600, but to me the proportion booing me didn’t matter—one per cent would have been too much for me.

      On the pitch I was only too aware of what was happening off it. Not only could I hear the booing and jeering, but I could also see people in the stands arguing and gesticulating at each other amidst the home support. I could see and hear sections of the Northern Ireland crowd having a go at their fellow supporters who were abusing me—I use the word abuse because that is what such conduct is—and after a while I could clearly see that nobody was paying much attention to proceedings on the pitch.

      The focus was no longer on the team as we battled to contain a slick Norway side. Instead the crowd’s concentration—and mine too—was almost totally on events off the pitch. And all too obviously, those events were connected to my part in the game. Every time I went near the ball there would be a chorus of boos and jeers, and then a spattering of cheers from fans who were clearly disgusted at what was happening to me.

      Now I have been booed and jeered many times—just about every time I play for Celtic away from home in Scotland, and yes, I’ll have more to say about that later in this book. I had heard anti-Catholic songs being sung at Windsor Park internationals before but like most Catholic players, played on and ignored them.

      This was substantially different, however. The fact is you do not mind being booed by the opposition fans or even your own supporters if you are having a stinker. But this was something else again and was, I believe, completely premeditated by a part of a hard core of the support which could not stomach seeing a Catholic Celtic player turning out for ‘their’ country. I say it was premeditated and planned because it started with my very first kick of the ball, it emanated from particular groups within the crowd and continued all the way to half-time without letting up. Also, I had played thirty-five times for my country before that night and had a good relationship with most fans who knew I gave my all for Northern Ireland. So what had happened to make things so different? Answer: I now played for Celtic.

      It was a totally surreal atmosphere inside Windsor Park that night. God only knows what the small number of Norwegian supporters made of it all. Ole Gunnar Solskjaer of Manchester United was playing for them that night. He was interviewed afterwards and was quite bewildered. He had no idea what it was all about and just couldn’t understand why one of Northern Ireland’s own players was being booed every time he touched the ball.

      Whether the clubs can do anything about it or not, Celtic and Rangers have become identified with the two sides of the sectarian divide in Northern Ireland. Here was I, in my thirty-sixth appearance for my country, never having been singled out before, being roundly abused simply because I was now a Celtic player. In the small minds of some people that fact was sufficient to make СКАЧАТЬ