Ma Heroes o' Sport
by Roger McKillop
Genre: Memoir
Swearwords: None.
Description: Groin’ up in the Sixties I discovered ma trinity o’ personal Scottish heroes. For ma generation much of our heritage and culture was disseminated tae us by the writtin’s o’ Nigel Tranter an’ the music o’ The Corries. Tae these, as a Rugby player, A ay’ add the commentaries o’ Bill McLaren. A wrote and sent tributes tae them aw’ an’ A’m proud tae say that A received gracious replies. This is ma tribute tae Bill McLaren and ma other sportin' heroes.
Swearwords: None.
Description: Groin’ up in the Sixties I discovered ma trinity o’ personal Scottish heroes. For ma generation much of our heritage and culture was disseminated tae us by the writtin’s o’ Nigel Tranter an’ the music o’ The Corries. Tae these, as a Rugby player, A ay’ add the commentaries o’ Bill McLaren. A wrote and sent tributes tae them aw’ an’ A’m proud tae say that A received gracious replies. This is ma tribute tae Bill McLaren and ma other sportin' heroes.
As
a youngster growin’ up in Musselburgh in
the 50’s an’ 60’s there were very few Scottish voices on network T.V., Fyfe
Robinson bein’ the yin, embarrassin’ exception! Later, there followed Robin
Hall an’ Jimmy McGregor, A won’ir hoo mony folk mind that the theme tae “Match
O’ the Day” comes frae their sang “Fitba’ crazy?” Bein’ Rugby daft though, it
wis great that the voice o’ ma game wis stridently Scots! The only flee in the
ointment wis he wis ay’ wheeched aff tae cover England’s games an’ we’d be left
wi’ Peter West! Bill wis loved by the players because he never said anything
more in the way o’ criticism than “He’ll be a wee bit disappointed in that.” He
was impartial and always on the side of good, skillfu’ open play. His “Billisms”
became legendary an’ through it aw,’ shown his love o’ the game.
A sent a copy o’ this poem tae Jim Telfer, the then Scottish Director of Rugby, sayin’ that he as a former Player, Educator an’ Coach was in the best place tae understand whit this great communicator had done fir the game. A suggested that it would be guid tae officially recognise this while he wis still in harness. A suggested that that could be at the furst game at Murrayfield in the new millennium. He said he’d pit this tae the president o’ the S.R.U. I heard naethin’ mair. Then while A wis watchin’ the TV oan the day o’ the Calcutta Cup match wi’ England, there wis Bill runnin’ oantae the pitch tae be awarded the “Freedom o’ Scottish Rugby!” The buggers didni’ even gie me a ticket fir suggestin’ it! Mind you the SRU were never generous. Jock Weyms, played For Scotland, either side o’ the Furst World War, in which he lost an eye. On arrival at the changin’ room fir the furst International efter the war, he looked at 14 bedecked pegs, on enquirin’ “Whaur’s ma jersey?” he wis telt “ Dini’ be daft Weyms, we gave ye your’s in 1914!”
A sent a copy o’ this poem tae Jim Telfer, the then Scottish Director of Rugby, sayin’ that he as a former Player, Educator an’ Coach was in the best place tae understand whit this great communicator had done fir the game. A suggested that it would be guid tae officially recognise this while he wis still in harness. A suggested that that could be at the furst game at Murrayfield in the new millennium. He said he’d pit this tae the president o’ the S.R.U. I heard naethin’ mair. Then while A wis watchin’ the TV oan the day o’ the Calcutta Cup match wi’ England, there wis Bill runnin’ oantae the pitch tae be awarded the “Freedom o’ Scottish Rugby!” The buggers didni’ even gie me a ticket fir suggestin’ it! Mind you the SRU were never generous. Jock Weyms, played For Scotland, either side o’ the Furst World War, in which he lost an eye. On arrival at the changin’ room fir the furst International efter the war, he looked at 14 bedecked pegs, on enquirin’ “Whaur’s ma jersey?” he wis telt “ Dini’ be daft Weyms, we gave ye your’s in 1914!”
The Mansfield Master
Few, are ever 'claimed, "The best",
An' less, wi' time, can stand the test,
Maintainin' passion, wit an' zest,
A laddie still,
A voice weel ken't, baith east an' west,
Oor Uncle Bill.
Their roots, micht be, in Mansefield Park,
Your words loup lightly ow'er the Sark,
An' drive awa' yon stodgy dark,
That could destroy,
Frae rugby, played aw' dreich an' stark,
Tae skill an' joy.
Your Border voice, transcends aw' walls,
An' every rugby fan enthrals,
Wi' fairness, aw' the play it calls,
But ay' the same,
Proclaims, through aw' the hits an' falls,
Tae "Play the game!"
Your passion, for oor game, shines through,
Wi' everythin' you say an' do.
No' blinkered, jist wi' navy blue,
But clear an' fair,
Skilled endeavour, bold an' true,
You help us share.
Ay' kind an' generous your praise,
An' coined in mony a Doric phrase,
"A mad Baggie, up a burn"‘s craze,
Was Redpath's style!
An' tales, frae aff the gowff course braes,
Still make us smile.
Big Doaddie's like a "Lighthouse door?"
I think, that we aw' ken the score,
An' mind, you were a swift back rower,
Ay' pure an' clear!
Mary Whitehouse, wisnae oan the blower,
Sae dinni'fear!
Lang may you "Ca’", oor rugby game,
Wi' phrases bold, no' limp an' tame,
That glorify, your border hame,
An' make us proud:-
The Flower o' Scotland's Rugby fame,
We’ll sing oot loud!
Few, are ever 'claimed, "The best",
An' less, wi' time, can stand the test,
Maintainin' passion, wit an' zest,
A laddie still,
A voice weel ken't, baith east an' west,
Oor Uncle Bill.
Their roots, micht be, in Mansefield Park,
Your words loup lightly ow'er the Sark,
An' drive awa' yon stodgy dark,
That could destroy,
Frae rugby, played aw' dreich an' stark,
Tae skill an' joy.
Your Border voice, transcends aw' walls,
An' every rugby fan enthrals,
Wi' fairness, aw' the play it calls,
But ay' the same,
Proclaims, through aw' the hits an' falls,
Tae "Play the game!"
Your passion, for oor game, shines through,
Wi' everythin' you say an' do.
No' blinkered, jist wi' navy blue,
But clear an' fair,
Skilled endeavour, bold an' true,
You help us share.
Ay' kind an' generous your praise,
An' coined in mony a Doric phrase,
"A mad Baggie, up a burn"‘s craze,
Was Redpath's style!
An' tales, frae aff the gowff course braes,
Still make us smile.
Big Doaddie's like a "Lighthouse door?"
I think, that we aw' ken the score,
An' mind, you were a swift back rower,
Ay' pure an' clear!
Mary Whitehouse, wisnae oan the blower,
Sae dinni'fear!
Lang may you "Ca’", oor rugby game,
Wi' phrases bold, no' limp an' tame,
That glorify, your border hame,
An' make us proud:-
The Flower o' Scotland's Rugby fame,
We’ll sing oot loud!
A wrote this efter Bill’s last commentary, at the Melrose Sevens. Durin’ a yin sided tie he used the phrase “It’s aw’ bye wi’ noo.” Bill, like me, wis a Drillie, a teacher o’ Physical Education but he worked in the Borders an’ that means Rugby! By wy’ o’ illustration, a tellin’ tale. A wis comin’ doon the passageway, frae the dressin’ rooms at Philiphaugh, jist efter the Musselburgh under 18’s Seven had been, as usual, put oot in the furst roond. A saw a wee lad spy a loose tin can an’ of course he kicked it. Bit furst he made a wee tee afore applyin’ the boot!
It’s Aw’ Bye Wi’
Auld Ned Haig’s legacy’s secure,
Frae Fiji tae the Boroughmuir.
The 7’s game, delights an’ thrills,
Ablow yon, shapely, Eldon Hills.
As Greenyaird cheers stert tae fade,
Comparisons o’ auld are made.
Noo it’s aw’ bye.
In Hawick green or Jeddart blue,
Or jerseys, o’ whitivir hew,
Whaur Rugby is the game o’ choice,
They aw’ look tae, ae Border voice,
Tae gie rich colour tae the day,
An’, vividly, tae ca’ the play.
But that’s aw’ bye!
Clearly, he still loved their game,
Ay’ praisin’ skill, no’ pointin’ blame,
Tae bring the joys o’ speed an’ flare,
Played wi’ spirit, bold an’ fair!
Free o’ biases’ shame fu’ taint,
Braw verbal pictures he could paint.
Noo, it’s bye wi’!
Oh! Whit a treasure’s left behind,
For aw’ posterity tae find!
Descriptions, o’ deft slichts o’ han’,
Or tackles, made as a last stan’,
In Rugby’s rich auld, catalogue,
His work will hae nae epilogue!
It’s no’ bye wi’!
Auld Ned Haig’s legacy’s secure,
Frae Fiji tae the Boroughmuir.
The 7’s game, delights an’ thrills,
Ablow yon, shapely, Eldon Hills.
As Greenyaird cheers stert tae fade,
Comparisons o’ auld are made.
Noo it’s aw’ bye.
In Hawick green or Jeddart blue,
Or jerseys, o’ whitivir hew,
Whaur Rugby is the game o’ choice,
They aw’ look tae, ae Border voice,
Tae gie rich colour tae the day,
An’, vividly, tae ca’ the play.
But that’s aw’ bye!
Clearly, he still loved their game,
Ay’ praisin’ skill, no’ pointin’ blame,
Tae bring the joys o’ speed an’ flare,
Played wi’ spirit, bold an’ fair!
Free o’ biases’ shame fu’ taint,
Braw verbal pictures he could paint.
Noo, it’s bye wi’!
Oh! Whit a treasure’s left behind,
For aw’ posterity tae find!
Descriptions, o’ deft slichts o’ han’,
Or tackles, made as a last stan’,
In Rugby’s rich auld, catalogue,
His work will hae nae epilogue!
It’s no’ bye wi’!
On the subject o’ sport A maun offer poems aboot twa Fitba’ heroes, baith played fir the same club an’ baith wore the same number. As A say A dinni’ follow fitba an’ their’s is no’ ma team bit as a student o’ sportin’ prowess A salute them as great sportsmen!
Henrick Larsson proved his ability at Feyenoord, Celtic, Barcelona an’ Manchester United! An impressive C.V. in onybudy’s reconin’. A wis pleased tae be able tae get this tae him via a mutual friend. It wis at the time jist prior tae his leavin’ Celtic, when he wis goin’ through a process o’ aduration that wis close tae beatification! It wis nice tae gie him a tribute frae someone wha didni’ want anythin’ from him! Oor mutual friend telt me o’ the time Henrick wis decidin’ gin he wid get his dreadlocks cut off. They were watchin’ him frae the offices in Celtic Park as he sat in his car decidin’ his hair’s future. Gin he turned right it wis the haircut, left he’d chickened oot an’ wis gaw’n hame. He turned right an’ wis scalped. When he got hame, his wife wis goin’ oot, she passed him an’ smiled as if tae a stranger, she hadni’ recognised him! Henrick wis the type o’ player wha, though a star, will unselfishly work hard fir the team! Such fruit are rare oan ony tree!
The Magnificent Seven
A’ dinni follow fitba’, A’m no’ a Celtic fan,
But spot an honest athlete, A’ definitely can!
He brewed a heidy mixture, o’ flare an’ skill an’ poise,
An’ set it aff wi’ passion an’ effort for the bhoys!
He was nae Prima Donna, for aw’body tae serve,
But ran his very he’rt oot, wi’ unselfish verve.
He put his body oan the line, time an’ time again.
Playin’ whaur it really hurts, he took the scars an’ pain!
Deportin’ hinsel’ wi’ dignity, a lesson tae us aw’,
An’ model tae aw’ bairns, wha aspire tae kick a ba’!
His professional approach, shone, wi’ a brilliant light,
Nae mercenary or prostitute, for the jersey he would fight!
He graced oor game wi’ honor, an’ won aw’ Scot’s respect,
We’ll no’ “See your like again!” A’ ‘very much, suspect!
May he always in the future, retain his drive an’ spark,
An’, fondly, mind the time he spent at Celtic Park!
A’ dinni follow fitba’, A’m no’ a Celtic fan,
But spot an honest athlete, A’ definitely can!
He brewed a heidy mixture, o’ flare an’ skill an’ poise,
An’ set it aff wi’ passion an’ effort for the bhoys!
He was nae Prima Donna, for aw’body tae serve,
But ran his very he’rt oot, wi’ unselfish verve.
He put his body oan the line, time an’ time again.
Playin’ whaur it really hurts, he took the scars an’ pain!
Deportin’ hinsel’ wi’ dignity, a lesson tae us aw’,
An’ model tae aw’ bairns, wha aspire tae kick a ba’!
His professional approach, shone, wi’ a brilliant light,
Nae mercenary or prostitute, for the jersey he would fight!
He graced oor game wi’ honor, an’ won aw’ Scot’s respect,
We’ll no’ “See your like again!” A’ ‘very much, suspect!
May he always in the future, retain his drive an’ spark,
An’, fondly, mind the time he spent at Celtic Park!
Naeyin wha wis brought up in the 60’s wid deny the extraordinary skill o’ Jimmy Johnstone! The Wee Man wis a phenomena, ok a flawed phenomenon but great! Billy McNeill once said in an interview, “If we wanted a rest in a game, we’d gie the ba’ tae Jinky and ask him tae keep it, cause the opposition couldnae get it off him! Mind you we had tae make sure he was headin’ the right way, cause we couldnae get it off him either!”
A wis watchin’ the memorial programmes at the time o’ Jinky’s death. A had nivir heard o’ him bein’ ca’d “The Lord o’ the Wing” afore. It struck me that the numbers coincided wi’ those in Tolkien’s “Ring Poem”, sae central tae The Lord of the Rings. That is gin you’ll allow me some poetic license wi’ “Three” an’ “The Wee.” A hope the poem says it aw’!
“The Ring Poem”
“Three rings for the Elven kings, under the sky,
Seven for the Dwarf lords, in their halls of stone,
Nine for mortal Men, doomed to die,
One for the Dark Lord, on his dark throne,
In the land of Mordor, where the shadows lie.
One ring to rule them all. One ring to find them.
One ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them!
In the land of Mordor, where the shadows lie.
(Tolkien JRR 1954)
The Lord o’ the Wing
The wee man was a fitba’ king, under big Jock,
Seven blazoned oan his shorts, went flashin’ bye.
Nine championships in a row, his skill took stock.
“One Jimmy Johnstone, oan the wing!” was ay’ the cry.
In the paradise o’ fitba’ whaur the memories lie.
One jink tae fool them aw’, one jink behind them.
A last jink tae beat them aw’ an’ oan their backsides, find them!
In the paradise o’ fitba’ whaur the memories lie.
(Roger Ceann Maol Beag)
“Three rings for the Elven kings, under the sky,
Seven for the Dwarf lords, in their halls of stone,
Nine for mortal Men, doomed to die,
One for the Dark Lord, on his dark throne,
In the land of Mordor, where the shadows lie.
One ring to rule them all. One ring to find them.
One ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them!
In the land of Mordor, where the shadows lie.
(Tolkien JRR 1954)
The Lord o’ the Wing
The wee man was a fitba’ king, under big Jock,
Seven blazoned oan his shorts, went flashin’ bye.
Nine championships in a row, his skill took stock.
“One Jimmy Johnstone, oan the wing!” was ay’ the cry.
In the paradise o’ fitba’ whaur the memories lie.
One jink tae fool them aw’, one jink behind them.
A last jink tae beat them aw’ an’ oan their backsides, find them!
In the paradise o’ fitba’ whaur the memories lie.
(Roger Ceann Maol Beag)
Many decades, stones an’ follicles ago A used tae run Marathons. Come tae think o’ it, A won’ir gin that’s why A hae a buggered knee? A ken aboot hittin’ the wa’ an’ poundin’ the roads! We set targets an’ devise trainin’ schedules tae try tae achieve them. When the trainin’s goin’ weel, ye sometimes get thon “Runner’s high” when the pavement jist flows un’ir yir feet! A’d train hard ower a 6 week lead-up period tae a marathon reachin’ in the 4th week a total o’ 134 miles then taper aff in the 5th and 6th week. Ye canni’ kid 26 miles an’ 385 bluidy yards, ye hae tae hae the trainin’ in yir legs, bit at least it keeps ye aff the streets! Perhaps ye hae tae hae gone through the physical pain tae really appreciate the story o’ Eric Liddle! It’s guid tae see folk like Euan Murray, the Scottish an’ Lion’s prop keepin’ his faith wi’ the great man an’ refusin’ tae play oan a Sunday! A ken it’s rich comin’ frae someyin wha ran aw’ his Marathons oan a Sunday bit as A say in the poem “Integrity’s uncommon!”
Yin wee amusin’ aside aboot Marathons. A colleague o’ mine had a neighbour wha wis trainin’ fir the Glesga Marathon. He reckoned he wid dae it in 3hr 45 mins. He had his Walkman an’ his tapes aw’ ready an’ set in order sae that he wid come doon the feenishin’ straight in Glesga Green tae the theme tae “Chariots o’ Fire!” Unfortunately he did mich better at the runnin’ an’ wis headin’ fir a 3.30 time an’ wis seen comin’ doon the straight fiddlin’ wi’ is Walkman tryin’ desperately tae fast forward the bluidy tape!
The Flyin’ Scot
Attention, aw’ Athletes, wha ken how it feels,
When runnin’ comes easy, wi’ wings oan your heels,
For rhythm an’ pace, you don’t have tae try,
You cruise, without effort, could reach for the sky!
Aye, your weel acquainted wi’ effort an’ pain,
Burstin’ your lungs, he’rt an’ muscle tae train!
Your sights oan some goal or jist the next stride,
Dig deep in reserves o’ courage an’ pride,
Self-centred devotion, motivatin’ your drive,
Tae achieve your desires, you struggle an’ strive.
Then picture yoursel’, yin o’ the Elite,
For Sport’s greatest prize, your picked tae compete,
Bit graspin’ the trophy o’ Olympian gold,
Your conscience an’ ethics, would hae tae be sold.
Could you turn awa’, efter aw’ you hae done,
Keepin’ your faith, your Goal, left un-won?
Bit there was ae man, sae strang in his faith,
A Preacher an’ Athlete an’ proud tae be baith.
Atween God’s dictates an’ Glory, his choice,
Ignorin’ ambition, tae heed conscience’s voice!
In Chinese captivity, his principals shed,
For the sake o’ the bairns, played hockey instead,
When asked gin he ken’t it’s the Sabbath day,
Said “God wid forgie, tae see youngsters at play!”
Though Christ’s selfless servant bore martyrdom’s pains,
Foreswore spiritual pride, for the sake o’ the weans.
Liddel’s legend’s his glory, tae inspire every yin,
Intergity’s uncommon, when aw’s said an’ din!
That he ever existed, enhances Man’s lot,
Let his country ay’ mind the Great Flyin’ Scot!
Attention, aw’ Athletes, wha ken how it feels,
When runnin’ comes easy, wi’ wings oan your heels,
For rhythm an’ pace, you don’t have tae try,
You cruise, without effort, could reach for the sky!
Aye, your weel acquainted wi’ effort an’ pain,
Burstin’ your lungs, he’rt an’ muscle tae train!
Your sights oan some goal or jist the next stride,
Dig deep in reserves o’ courage an’ pride,
Self-centred devotion, motivatin’ your drive,
Tae achieve your desires, you struggle an’ strive.
Then picture yoursel’, yin o’ the Elite,
For Sport’s greatest prize, your picked tae compete,
Bit graspin’ the trophy o’ Olympian gold,
Your conscience an’ ethics, would hae tae be sold.
Could you turn awa’, efter aw’ you hae done,
Keepin’ your faith, your Goal, left un-won?
Bit there was ae man, sae strang in his faith,
A Preacher an’ Athlete an’ proud tae be baith.
Atween God’s dictates an’ Glory, his choice,
Ignorin’ ambition, tae heed conscience’s voice!
In Chinese captivity, his principals shed,
For the sake o’ the bairns, played hockey instead,
When asked gin he ken’t it’s the Sabbath day,
Said “God wid forgie, tae see youngsters at play!”
Though Christ’s selfless servant bore martyrdom’s pains,
Foreswore spiritual pride, for the sake o’ the weans.
Liddel’s legend’s his glory, tae inspire every yin,
Intergity’s uncommon, when aw’s said an’ din!
That he ever existed, enhances Man’s lot,
Let his country ay’ mind the Great Flyin’ Scot!
About the Author
Edinburgh-born Roger McKillop is a retired Sports Studies lecturer. He has been writing poetry in Scots for many years and has had his work published in The Scots Magazine. His pen name is Roger Ceann Maol Beag, which means Wee Roger with the Bald Head!