Jock stood on the dockside raging, ‘You’re late. Where have you been?’ ‘Cuba’ said Billy. ‘Or near as dammit’

IT wasn’t often Jock Stein was left speechless. But Billy McNeill managed it in Miami one evening in May 1968 as we prepared for a threegame end-of-season tour.

Big Jock had allowed his players some free time to recharge our batteries before we were due to play AC Milan in New Jersey, 10 days after we had flown out to Florida from Prestwick.

Jock gave us some latitude but was a real stickler for routine and demanded his players adhere to his timetable.

If you attempted to pull the wool, you invariably found yourself lapping a track long after everyone had gone home.

One early afternoon Billy, me, Tommy Gemmell and John Clark decided to go fishing. Tommy was a huntin’, shootin’, fishin’ type of guy and fancied trying to catch marlin.

We made our way to one of the small harbours in Miami and hired a pokey little vessel, nothing too elaborate, because we reckoned we were only going out for an hour.

The crew consisted of the captain and a young deckhand. Billy, Tommy, John and I got on board and, of course, Big TG had brought along some “supplies”. Obviously, he reckoned fishing for marlin might be thirsty work.

Would you believe the young deckhand was from Dundee and also a Celtic supporter?

That was good enough for Tommy. He delved into his traveller’s bag and presented the lad with a bottle of best malt.

The sun was shining, the sky blue and cloudless and there was hardly a ripple in the shimmering ocean as our wee boat floated in the general direction of where the captain assured Tommy was the best spot for marlin.

We put our feet up and were gliding along for a couple of hours or so when Billy stirred.

“Shouldn’t we think about heading back at some point?” “Ach, stop worrying,” was our response, “We’ll be back in plenty of time.” Famous last words.

About an hour later three of us were close to dozing off when Tommy broke our reverie. “I think something’s wrong,” he said. “I’ll go and see the captain and tell him it’s about time we made a move to return to Miami.”

Five minutes later he came back, his expression displaying he was clearly concerned. Billy said: “What’s wrong, TG?”

“The captain’s done in the bottle, he’s out the game, totally blotto, slumped over the steering wheel. No one’s in charge of the boat.”

The four us dashed to the top of the vessel. At the captain’s feet lay the empty bottle of malt Tommy had presented the deckhand.

We went downstairs and the lad was sound asleep in his bunk. We shook him awake and Billy said: “You’ll have to take over, son.”

The kid informed us he’d never sailed a boat before. We peered out and could see nothing but the Atlantic Ocean.

The kid went to the bridge, picked up some charts and said, “I know where we’re headed – Cuba.”

“CUBA?” we shrieked. “It’s not too far away,” he pointed straight ahead. “Turn this bloody thing around,” said Billy. “Just aim us in another direction.” The kid said: “I’ll do my best, Mr McNeill.”

The young Dundonian managed to steer a steady course and navigate us back in the direction of Miami.

Eventually, we returned to the team hotel and as you might have guessed Big Jock was waiting for us. We had broken his curfew and he wasn’t too pleased.

“Okay, you lot,” he said sternly. “You’re two hours late. Where have you been?” He looked at the club captain for an answer.

Billy cleared his throat and answered: “Cuba, boss.” A moment later, he added: “Or, at least, as near as dammit.”

Big Jock was struck dumb for the first time in his life.