Celtic 7-0 St Johnstone, 9 April 2022
It’s not often that match reports are released 18 months after the full time whistle. But football matches have significance for many, many different reasons, and this one holds a special place in my heart, so let me tell you why.
Just in case the pun in the title of my blog didn’t tip you off, I have cystic fibrosis. In April of 2022, I didn’t know what that was. Shockingly, undiagnosed and largely unmanaged lung conditions can have pretty brutal effects on your quality of life (not something I’d recommend). In the simplest of terms, cystic fibrosis is a genetic condition that means your body produces too much phlegm. This affects your lungs, primarily, but also your pancreas and a whole load of other organs. Phlegm isn’t actually supposed to build up for years on end in all your organs. Basically, if you’d cut me, I’d have literally bled green and white.
The primary symptom of my condition was the coughing.
If the air was a bit dry, I’d have a coughing fit. If the air was humid, I’d have a coughing fit. If I laughed really hard, I had a coughing fit. If the temperature changed, just slightly, but too quickly, I’d have a coughing fit. If it was hot, I’d have a coughing fit. If it was cold, I’d have a worse coughing fit. If I had to jog for the bus, I had to sit and collect myself for five minutes and suffered the dirty looks while I drew down my mask to choke down my phlegm. To be honest, I’d say that there was a period of a year up until about July of 2022 where I didn’t sleep through the night once without being woken up by a coughing fit.
When I could struggle along to the pub or to Celtic Park, it was a real respite for me - even if the trips back were often punctuated by vomiting over the nearest fence. Once, I tried to travel to Tynecastle to watch the Women’s Scottish Cup Final that season, and I couldn’t make the two minute walk to my nearest bus stop.
So with all that said, Celtic beating St Johnstone 7-0 was the best afternoon of that awful year. It was one of my better days. I’d managed to shake off my traditional morning coughing fit within a couple of minutes and even got through a warm shower without regurgitating my banana Weetabix. That winter felt like forever, so the fact that the sun was making a rare appearance was a welcome relief. I made it to the pub in time for a couple of pints and a bit of chat, I even managed to keep pace with my pals. Walking along the Gallowgate chatting, laughing and surrounded by a sea of Celtic supporters, I felt normal.
Using a season ticket I borrowed from a guy I met on a Discord server for a Celtic podcast (the final proof, if needed, that I truly was housebound), I took my seat, just a few rows back from the halfway line in the North Stand. I distinctly remember finally appreciating how tall Matt O’Riley is when he took a throw in right in front of me.
Our performance that day was truly relentless. It was so typical of that first season under Ange, with a little bit of everything that defined us that year. We’d opened the scoring inside eight minutes, with a beautiful first-time Hatate finish to cap off a sequence that began with us harrying the St Johnstone back line in their own penalty box. The second goal was Giakoumakis scoring from an angle that seemed impossible in the stadium and somehow looks more impossible every time I watch it back. I wasn’t quite healthy enough for a half bottle in the stands, so I recall spluttering over a flat, and no doubt extortionate, Fanta, the mild cool of it just a little too much for my sensitive lungs. Before half-time, we had a third, with a cushioned Daizen Maeda header that came from his outstanding movement to meet a fantastic cross from Jota.
We reopened the scoring after seven second-half minutes, with an expertly converted Juranovic penalty. Matt O’Riley’s first two goals at Celtic Park followed in quick succession, the second an obscenely good finish that saw him deceive Jamie McCart with some delicate close control before placing it past Zander Clark. For the first time in months, I took my jacket off outdoors. Kyogo came on after a long injury layoff, and provided a wonderfully floated through ball for Maeda, which he duly miscontrolled into the path of Abada, who completed a 7-0 rout in the 78th minute. I even got a glimpse of one of the most iconic players to ever grace Paradise, as James McCarthy came on for a 15-minute cameo.
It’s easy to look down on football. It’s easy to look down your nose at anyone that likes it. It’s easy to stereotype us.
That was never my experience. In reality, the large majority of the friends I made that year were from football. A year when a wracking cough in public was enough to draw stares from people who couldn’t and wouldn’t understand. These friends showed me kindness, compassion and care when I needed it most. These friends spoke to me when I was at my loneliest. These friends listened to me when I could stop coughing for long enough to get a sentence out. They had a profound impact on me during that dark, dark time.
All that love came from football. Through football, I found community, I found friendship, I found peace. For two hours that afternoon, in the East End of Glasgow, basking in the glow of a complete performance, I almost forgot I was sick.