I eat, I sleep, I laugh, I cry and I worry... I just happen to have played football
BILLY McNEILL was a true Football Man. Jock Stein and Alex Ferguson won more trophies as managers but Billy was the complete package. Whereas Stein and Ferguson enjoyed only moderate success in their respective playing careers, Billy achieved iconic status in both spheres of the game, making the transition from phenomenally successful Celtic captain to manager.
But he was very much more than a legend.
Often, when someone in the public eye passes, those who eulogise over the deceased are guilty of embellishing the facts and papering over any imperfections in the personality.
That has not been necessary in Billy’s case. The tsunami of tributes since his passing on Monday and the outpouring of raw emotion has come from the hearts of those who penned them without the need to edit out any bad bits.
Billy was not perfect. Like the rest of us, he had his moments when his displeasure showed and those who incurred his wrath regretted having done so, albeit that he was sometimes forced to later concede that he had perhaps over-reacted in the first instance.
I know, for I felt the sharp end of his tongue on more than one occasion, due largely to newspaper headlines designed to catch the reader’s eye at the expense of the intended target’s feelings.
But while Billy certainly had the capacity to make you feel bad, any differences were invariably settled within a day or two at most, for he found it almost impossible to bear a grudge.
He never allowed a row or dispute to simmer and fester.
More often than not he would end up throwing an arm around you, smile and declare: ‘Ach, you know what I’m like!’
So, what was Billy like? He was a warm, caring and compassionate human being blessed with a talent for making those around him feel as if they belonged in his company.
He was also a natural leader with the type of presence that is noticed, even in a crowded room.
He went out his way to put others at their ease. His charm and patience under, at times, extreme provocation from those demanding a slice of him was remarkable.
I remember an occasion when I was socialising with Billy and his wife Liz at a Glasgow hotel and a middle-aged guest who’d had at least two too many kept interrupting our conversation before eventually pulling up a chair and joining the company uninvited.
I was the one who cracked first and advised the interloper where to go while Billy continued to show the patience of a saint.
I first encountered Billy close up in 1970 while employed by a freelance agency in Dundee.
He was locked in conversation with Stein just outside the dressing room area at Dens Park.
I can’t for the life of me remember how Big Jock was attired but I do recall that Billy was wearing a fashionable brown leather jacket and looked every inch as if he had stepped out of a Hollywood film.
His perfect posture made him appear considerably taller than
6ft 2in, given his ramrod straight back, a legacy of his upbringing and the influence of his late father, Jimmy, a career soldier.
By the mid-1970s I was ghosting Billy’s newspaper column – a task I performed for many years – and we had formed a close rapport.
As our friendship grew, so, too, did my respect and affection for the man.
I also came to understand that family was important to Billy, and I believe that the love and support he received from his wonderful wife Liz and their five children – Susan, Carol, Libby, Paula and Martyn – was key to his success.
That became increasingly apparent when I had the good fortune to collaborate with Billy in the writing of his autobiography, Hail Cesar.
With Billy’s career making huge demands on his time, many of the duties of parenthood fell to Liz and it was she who effectively ran the home and deflected much of the pressure associated with family life.
Billy, for his part, was always keenly aware of the needs of his wife and children and that led to him facing a huge dilemma when he was approached to succeed Stein as manager in 1978.
I discovered this when I boarded the Aberdeen-Glasgow Express at Arbroath, en route to attend the press conference at Celtic Park to announce the dramatic change of management and spotted Billy and his assistant John Clark.
Not wishing to encroach on any private discussions, I distanced myself in another compartment. But within moments Billy appeared to invite me to join them.
It was then that I learned the extent of his dilemma. Liz and the kids loved their new life on the north east coast at Stonehaven, free from the excesses of Old Firm involvement, and Billy was loath to force them to return to Glasgow.
I was also present in 1991 when Celtic dispensed with Billy’s services following his second spell in charge, just three years after guiding the team to a Centenary league and cup double.
Billy conducted himself with dignity and wouldn’t show his emotions publicy but, inwardly, he was heartbroken. I was one of only two journalists who witnessed him shedding tears that May day, which he later described as ‘the lowest point in my life’.
I was one of the first to learn that he was to undergo openheart surgery in 1997. I was also honoured to be invited by the family to attend his 70th birthday celebrations at Celtic Park nine years ago.
But it was the six months I spent in Billy’s company working on his book that I recall most fondly.
One day, I expressed the view that sometimes I had to remind myself how fortunate I was to have been chosen for the task of committing a legend’s memories to paper.
He turned to me and replied: ‘Listen, Jim, I eat, I sleep. I laugh and I cry. I worry and I sometimes say things I later regret. I just happen to have played football as a career and I’ve been extremely fortunate. I’m no different from anyone else.’
I also feel a lump growing in my throat when I recall the last time I saw him and, despite the hellish ravishes of dementia, he was still able to recall: ‘We never forgot how to laugh’ – in reference to his oft repeated saying at the time that our friendship survived despite the pressures of producing a book worthy of the subject matter.
I was driving on the motorway on Tuesday to fulfil a commitment but my mind was elsewhere. I could think of little else other than Billy.
Twenty-eight years after he asked me on the steps of Celtic Park in the wake of his sacking: ‘Listen you big bugger, are you trying to make me greet (cry)?’, he has his revenge.
Thanks for the memories, Billy — and the friendship.