A legend who crossed the divide
He WOULD have scoffed at the very idea, of course. But former Rangers, everton and Scotland manager Walter Smith, taken from us at the far-too-early age of just 73, represents a rare unifying figure in the eternally fractious history of our national game.
He deserves to be remembered as a man of uncommon quality, humility, ability and decency. Someone who never confused picking a side — and going all-in — with the kind of enmity that comes too easily for so many on the front line of Scottish football’s Great Divide.
All who had dealings with him over the decades will have similar stories to tell, of course. On this side of the business, anyone old enough to have covered both of his spells at Ibrox — and all stops in between — could testify to the fully rounded nature of his character. Most famously, there was that silent look capable of creating icicles out of corpuscles. But also the multiple acts of kindness and generosity. And the humour. Always the humour.
The overriding impression was of someone who really cared about people, as well as football. Oh, he wasn’t even remotely bothered by minor things like what team you supported. Far less which particular order of service your primary school used for assembly on high days and holy days.
But he wanted to know how you were getting on. Understood that, while it was sometimes necessary to bark and snarl, everyone deserved to be treated with a degree of respect. His friendship with another diamond of a man, the late Tommy Burns, epitomised Smith’s natural desire to rise above even the most intense of rivalries.
Such was the depth of their kinship that, when Burns passed away in 2008, Smith helped carry his coffin at the funeral.
To a new generation raised on a diet of instant hatred never more than a click away, the genuine warmth of that relationship must seem like some quaint throwback to a more gentle age.
Yet that would be to mistake humanity and civility for a lack of fire. And no retrospective on the life and character of Smith would ever be complete without addressing the burning desire that propelled him to such heights.
As competitive and committed as any true football man could ever be, Smith battled and argued the case for ‘his’ club with every fibre of his being.
Some of his spats with Burns, back when they were pitted against each other during
Rangers’ pursuit of a ninth consecutive title, generated heat and noise aplenty. But nobody ever thought any less of Walter for fighting his corner. That much became abundantly clear within hours of the news breaking yesterday.
Tributes from all corners are expected when someone of Smith’s standing passes away. Yet Ally McCoist, whose tearful morning tribute on radio said so much about the humanity of his dear friend, reported his phone was overflowing with condolences from old Celtic players and supporters.
Scott Brown insisted on volunteering for Aberdeen media duties in order to pay his own personal tribute.
Real football folk recognise kindred spirits. They understand that a shared love of the game unites us more than any club tribalism might divide us. That’s not to say that plenty of those same people didn’t spend long periods of their footballing lives cursing Smith, of course.
Because, as a manager, he was absolutely brilliant. And that made him responsible for inflicting misery on thousands — a natural byproduct of inspiring such joy among the Light Blue legions.
The trophies he won, the things he might have achieved had he not been tempted away from the Scotland job for a return to Rangers, speak to the quality of someone who understood the game in a way that great conductors can interpret the most complex of symphonies. It was a pleasure to watch him work. And from all of the subsequent meetings and phone calls in the quarter of a century since, a few personal memories inevitably stand out.
Like the entirely-deserved dressing-down delivered by a still-damp Smith, draped only in a towel, as he hurried from the showers to the Ibrox press room on the eve of yet another ‘more important than ever’ Old Firm game, clocked yours truly in the third row — and let rip with a double-barrelled volley. Before letting the subject drop.
Or the hilarious lunchtime chat at Everton’s Bellefield training ground, when talk about his love for Italian football, the challenge of managing Paul Gascoigne (again) and the crazy boardroom goings-on made for a truly enjoyable couple of hours.
As for dry wit, well, the first inkling that he wasn’t enjoying absolutely every aspect of his part-time gig as national team manager came during a phone call near the end of his tenure as an SFA employee.
Asked how he was spending his morning, he mock-growled: ‘Watching Barney the Dinosaur with the grandkids! There’s nothing else to do, is there?’ In truth, he put in plenty of hours with Scotland. But he missed the daily involvement with the game.
His return to Rangers was every bit as remarkable as the first, given the reduced circumstances. The success he achieved second time around was attributable to his acumen, his ability to inspire — and his insatiable hunger for success.
He loved winning as much as anyone ever did. Wasn’t terribly fond of losing. Gave everything to a grown-up business built around a children’s game. And earned a kind of near-universal respect along the way.