Field of Dreams

Published on Saturday 30 August 2008 19:35

Rantic was a terrific concept. You'll never forget the rationale behind it. Fantastic.

HE'LL be watching today. In his home in the schemes of Easterhouse, he'll be watching. John Docherty will pull his chair up close to the television, turn up the volume and sit back to watch the first Old Firm game of the new season, and as he does so, little memories will drift back to him. They always do on days like this. Distant memories now, of course, but still there, indelible in the mind of a man who is closer to his 80th year than his 70th. His own small contribution to the Old Firm story. Ah yes, he'll think about that.

There was a bunch of them in the beginning, the Doc and maybe seven others, strolling around Easterhouse and wondering what was becoming of their young people. Their own backyard was a troubled place; all that fighting and all that hate. The territorial gangs – Dentoi, Drummy, Pak – fought battles in the street. The place had become notorious far beyond the borders of Glasgow. The singer, Frankie Vaughan, himself a product of street gangs in his youth, was so appalled at the stories he heard, he came to Easterhouse to plead with gang leaders to lay down their weapons. Vaughan, God bless him, pledged money to projects that would help the area. The Doc remembers him in the schemes, doing his best.

What future did their children have? What chance them growing up without bitterness? The Doc took a stand that day. He'd try and make it better. Him and his pals. They'd attempt to do something that would bridge the divide in the community. Something small that might help the younger kids. And they'd do it quickly.

Rantic Football Club was born. Rangers and Celtic united. Protestant kids and Catholic kids bonded in one jersey. It was brave and imaginative and pure in a poisonous time. "We had two teams, U-13s and U-15s," says the Doc. "We maybe had 35 boys in all and some of them were right good players. I mind Billy McNeill coming down to present our trophies one year. Billy one year and, if I'm correct, big Ron McKinnon of Rangers the next. Billy loved what he saw, loved the thinking behind it and the way people here embraced it. He says, "John, you should have told me more about what you're doing, I'd have brought the newspaper men and got you some coverage'. I said, 'we're no' worried about that, Billy. We don't want our pictures taken. We just want to get on, you know?'"

They got on. In a small way, sure, but they made a difference. Frank McGarvey played for them. Cranky Frankie. He was always moaning, always close to tears whenever things didn't go his way. But the boy could play. They'd have to drag him in off the park at night, such was his love for the game. McGarvey went on to become a Celtic legend.

One day a little pipsqueak turned up looking for a game. The Doc took one look at him, figured he was no more than nine years old, and said maybe next year. The boy returned a week later and was sent away once more. He reappeared a third time, frail and pale but undaunted. "What's your name, son?" asked the Doc.

"Bobby Russell, sir."

"Okay, Bobby. Get yourself in there and have some fun."

Bobby Russell was a revelation. Size didn't matter after all. "Oh, you could see the class in him straight away. By God, he was a player. I went to see his dad after. I said, "Mr Russell, you really have to come down to the park and see your boy play."

Mr Russell, who had shown no interest in the game his entire life, went to watch – and was hooked. His lad was a natural, a little thing of wonder. He went on to become a Rangers mainstay, making his debut at 20, winning trophies and the hearts of the fans for the 10 years he spent there and the five years he gave to Motherwell later on. "Rantic was the start of it for me," he says. "I didn't appreciate what the Doc was doing at the time, being so young, but looking back on it now? What a brilliant thing he did. What an impression he made."

Heroes. The Old Firm is full of them. In the hothouse of Parkhead this afternoon a new legend may be created, with a goal or a save or a piece of trickery not easily forgotten. But there are other kinds of heroes. The Doc is one. Andy Hanlon is another.

The original Rantic spawned some imitations. In another corner of Easterhouse a team called Rancel was founded and hung around for a while before disappearing into thin air. In another part of Glasgow there was a different Rantic; Hanlon's Rantic. And, as it happened, Alex McLeish's Rantic, too.

They played on the old Fifty Pitches area of the city, near Hillington. "It's now the flyovers between Paisley and Glasgow," says McLeish. "We played in lots of places but that's where I remember the most. Fifty Pitches and Andy organising everything. He was a brilliant leader in fairness to him."

McLeish was only 11 at the time; tuned into the rivalry between Rangers and Celtic but not blinded by it. He was born into a mixed family, a father with a strong devotion to Rangers, a mother with Celtic in her blood. Every week there'd be trips to see the grannies, Granny Rangers one week, Granny Celtic the next. You might say their lives had a certain balance.

There was no fear of McLeish getting sucked into the bile of sectarianism, but Rantic had great appeal to his father all the same. "My father was a big Rangers fan when he was younger. A real fanatic. He was one of the Rangers-itis sufferers. There was never any bitterness towards Celtic but he just couldn't see anything else but Rangers. When I came along, he now had responsibilities and he didn't want a son of his being caught up in the Old Firm thing, didn't want me to be one-eyed about my football. I'd say that's why he wanted me to play for Rantic. He would have liked what it represented.

"He was a good man. He was only 43 when he died, just a boy really. Six years younger than I am now, which is scary. He was a shipyard guy. Shipyards all his life. Shop steward, conscientious man, always cared about the job and what the future was going to be like, passionate about the men and a little bit worried about the apathy of the younger generation round about him. He could see some bad things coming I think. A good leader I'd say.

"From a young age, from basically the time I joined Rantic I suppose, he was telling me to look at the big picture on the park, not just one team but both teams, study them, see what they're doing and what they're not doing. Maybe I got a bit of my management skills from him way back then. He'd always say it's better to play than to watch. I had friends from both sides of the religious divide and most of them would get on supporters' buses every Saturday and go off and see Rangers and Celtic play. They couldn't see by their own teams. But I just wanted a game. I didn't understand what Rantic meant and to be honest I struggle even to remember what colours we wore. I think neutral but possibly with some kind of acknowledgment of the Old Firm in some shape or form. I've forgotten what. But it was a terrific concept. You'll never forget the rationale behind it. Fantastic."

For the young McLeish, all Rantic represented at the time was a chance to play. Nothing more, nothing less. At 11, he wasn't going to see the deep meaning behind the club's creation, didn't see in Hanlon anything other than a coach who seemed to love the game almost as much as he did. "It was always the ash pitches. If we ever saw a grass pitch it was like a luxury to us. Boys' teams would come down from Aberdeen to play us and once they saw the pitch we'd be playing on they were already beat. They didn't fancy it at all. We loved it. I was a striker then. Absolutely loved it."

The Doc reckons that his Rantic ceased to exist in 1984 or thereabouts. That year the medics found a tumour in his lungs and carted him into hospital for a spell. By the time he made a recovery Rantic had faded away. From his bed he'd ring around and try and keep the show on the road but it was no good. People would promise to act as coach or referee or kit man or bus driver but then they'd look out their window on the morning of a game and see the heavens opening and suddenly they wouldn't fancy it so much. There was just nobody around with the time and the inclination to keep it going.

"Oh, we got lots of offers of help but on the bad days when the rain would be dripping off your nose, nobody wanted to know. So it came to an end. It was disappointing but that's life, isn't it? It was great while it lasted. I think we achieved something."

McLeish's Rantic went quietly, too. When? He isn't sure. Mid 1970s, perhaps. Why? He'd only be guessing. He'd moved on to Barrhead United by then. Had taken a second step on a ladder that would eventually bring him fame and fortune. The demise, he says, was most likely a time and money thing. Hanlon couldn't do it forever and it can't have been cheap. Buses, kit, bits and bobs. It all added up. He is grateful for Hanlon for doing it for so long, grateful to his father for bringing him to Hanlon in the first place.

Big strides have been made in educating the generations about the evils of sectarianism but on such days we tend to hold our breath and hope for the best. "It's better now than it was in my day," says the Doc. "I think the young people are getting the message that it's not human singing some of the things that have been sung in the name of the Old Firm. It's not gone completely, the chanting, but I believe it's going and the clubs deserve great credit for the work they're doing." You don't hear much about Rantic in the story of the Old Firm but there will be men at Parkhead today who will be grateful for what the club, in its various guises, did for them and plenty more watching on television, like the Doc and Russell and McLeish, who will not forget."