This article was written By Martin Greig and appeared in the Scottish Daily Mail on May 25, 2012. It is reproduced with their kind permission.
IT IS 45 years to the day since Celtic beat Inter Milan to become the first British club to lift the European Cup. The passing of time has leant Lisbon a mythical quality, but it should be remembered for more than just the heart-tugging romance of the story.
Some of what we know about Lisbon has been exaggerated, but that is not to diminish the impact of what Celtic achieved. Rather, it demands a more refined appreciation.
The defeat of the Nerazzurri has been cast as the ultimate triumph of attack over defence; the day a ragtag bunch of swashbuckling Scots stuck their false teeth in a bonnet and sucked the life out of Inter's catenaccio system; out of the darkness and into the light, so the Lions ensured European football emerged from its defensive stranglehold.
It is an assessment that fails to do justice not only to the feat itself but, more importantly, the man most responsible for it. Without Jock Stein, there would have been no Lisbon. It is his story. And it is through him that many of the grand claims about it can be sustained.
Graeme Souness once spoke of 'the dawn of Stein', alluding to the profound influence he had on European football after his emergence. Sir Alex Ferguson, of course, is the most high-profile disciple.
In 2007, before his Manchester United team played Sporting Lisbon in the Champions League, the most successful club manager of all time made an emotional pilgrimage to the Estadio Nacional. It remains his touchstone. But Stein's legacy is much greater than those 90 minutes under the Portuguese sun.
Celtic's European record under him was remarkable. In the seven years after Lisbon, they reached the final of the European Cup once more (where they lost 2-1 after extra-time to Feyenoord in 1970) and also made the semi-finals (1972 — lost on penalties — and '74) and quarters ('69 and '71) twice apiece.
So what about Lisbon? To fully appreciate what Stein achieved, we must understand what came before. Most of the players who would go on to become legends were already at Celtic when he arrived in March 1965, but it was a club in disarray.
As Cyril Horne, of the Glasgow Herald, later wrote of the player who would be voted the greatest-ever Celt: 'Jimmy Johnstone was at such a low ebb early in 1965 that it was probable he would revert to Junior football again — and sink without a trace.' Billy McNeill had also thought seriously about abandoning a rudderless ship.
'To be honest, everything was a joke at Parkhead,' he later said. 'We did nothing that could be described as proper training or preparation.' Stein immediately began to use players in positions where their talents could be fully exploited. John Clark was moved from lefthalf to sweeper, beside McNeill. Bobby Murdoch was shifted from inside-right to wing-half. Bertie Auld was eventually moved from outside-left to form a formidable central partnership with Murdoch.
Bobby Lennox's role changed from being a traditional insideforward to an outside-left with a requirement to get into the box and score goals. Johnstone was told in no uncertain terms that his parlour tricks must contain end product and that he should occupy a more advanced role within the new 4-2-4 formation. Chalmers was told to play further forward to better utilise his lightning pace. They were all masterstrokes.
As far as Lisbon was concerned, Stein's genius was not in unearthing gems, but in polishing the ones who were already there. Very quickly, a team of world-beaters emerged.
With domestic supremacy achieved, he set his sights on Europe and the 1966-67 season represented a raising of the stakes. The dramatic win over Vojvodina in the quarter-final was later regarded as 'the final before the final' — several Lions claim the Yugoslavs were the best team they faced — but there could be no underestimating the challenge presented by Inter, who had won the trophy two out of the previous three seasons.
It has since been presented as the ultimate clash of ideologies — embodied by the attack-minded Stein and the defensive Helenio Herrera — but that was not strictly the case. For example, there were plenty of aspects that united Stein and Inter's Argentinian coach.
In November 1963, while manager of Dunfermline, Stein travelled to Herrera's Italian boot camp to observe his methods and left impressed by what he witnessed. It was a militaristic regime, with a strong emphasis on preparation and discipline — and it firmly established in Stein's mind the need for full autonomy as a coach. To a modern audience this may be a given but, as a player, Stein had watched on as the Celtic board picked the team ahead of boss Jimmy McGrory.
As Luis Suarez, Herrera's playmaker for Barcelona and Inter, said: '[Herrera's] emphasis on fitness and psychology had never been seen before. Until then, the manager was unimportant. He virtually slapped the best players, making them believe they weren't good enough, and praised the others.
They were all fired up — to prove him right or wrong.' Although Herrera did not invent catenaccio, he became its chief exponent. Contrary to popular belief, though, his version was not bereft of creativity. Neither was Herrera a defensive obsessive.
At Barcelona, he won the Spanish title in 1959 and '60, with his team rippling the net 182 times. It was a side for the city to be proud of and, after the Argentinian was dismissed when Barcelona lost to Real Madrid in the 1960 European Cup semi-finals, he was carried down the Ramblas by appreciative fans.
He then moved to Inter later that year, where the country's defensive culture forced him back to the drawing board. With Serie A rivals intent on containment at all costs, Herrera set himself a challenge of beating them at their own game. Catenaccio — where four defenders mark the strikers and a sweeper is used as the launchpad for counterattacks — was his chosen system. There was attacking verve within it.
Giacinto Facchetti was transformed into a rampaging full-back. In season 1965-66, he scored 10 goals and netted a total of 75 times overall for the club. The Brazilian Jair brought pace to the right wing and Herrera also enticed Suarez to Inter from Barcelona in 1961 for a world-record fee of £142,000. Both Jair and Suarez would miss the '67 final. Then there was legendary Italian striker Sandro Mazzola. It was far from a team built only for defence.
Stein's victory over Herrera was tactical. He correctly identified the game would be won on the flanks. Midway through the 1966-67 season, he had switched Tommy Gemmell to the right and moved Jim Craig to the left. It was to prove the key change in finally breaking Inter. Up against two full-throttle wingbacks, Inter could not create in the wide areas.
For the first goal in Lisbon, rightback Craig squared for left-back Gemmell to unleash a venomous drive into the net. After that, and without Suarez, their creative font, Inter's system shut down. The outcome became inevitable, despite goalkeeper Giuliano Sarti's impressive show of resistance.
It is not as simple as saying that Celtic rescued European football from its defensive shackles. It was subtler than that, but their victory did mark an important shift in emphasis away from containment systems and back towards individual talents.
A year later, George Best scored in the 1968 final for Manchester United and was crowned European Footballer of the Year. Then came the Total Football era of Johan Cruyff's Ajax, who won three consecutive European Cups from 1971 to 1973.
Football was evolving. The spark was lit one evening in Lisbon.
Tuesday, 12 June 2012
Thursday, 24 May 2012
Bertie Auld and a bit of toilet humour
The launch of The Road to Lisbon took place in Glasgow last night. It was an enjoyable evening with a star turn by the legendary Bertie Auld (above right). At 74, the Lion remains evangelical in spreading his love for Celtic.
Bertie’s storytelling abilities now almost match the memory of his towering football talent. He is the ultimate raconteur but there is pathos as well as comedy.
He ended with a fantastic tale of accompanying Jinky – then in the throes of his battle with Motor Neurone – to visit Alfredo di Stefano in Madrid. The tale began in Viewpark, wound its way through Madrid and ended up in an airport toilet, where a giggling Jinky – who by then had started to lose power in his arms - insisted Bertie help him relieve himself.
As a reluctant Bertie did so, another traveller entered the toilet and stared at the scene in horror.
“It’s alright big man, we’re friends,” said Bertie.
“Aye, you’d bloody need to be!” quipped the man.
The audience erupted, but it was also a poignant tale of an enduring friendship.
Bertie’s storytelling abilities now almost match the memory of his towering football talent. He is the ultimate raconteur but there is pathos as well as comedy.
He ended with a fantastic tale of accompanying Jinky – then in the throes of his battle with Motor Neurone – to visit Alfredo di Stefano in Madrid. The tale began in Viewpark, wound its way through Madrid and ended up in an airport toilet, where a giggling Jinky – who by then had started to lose power in his arms - insisted Bertie help him relieve himself.
As a reluctant Bertie did so, another traveller entered the toilet and stared at the scene in horror.
“It’s alright big man, we’re friends,” said Bertie.
“Aye, you’d bloody need to be!” quipped the man.
The audience erupted, but it was also a poignant tale of an enduring friendship.
Saturday, 12 May 2012
How to co-write a novel without killing each other
I should point out that I’ve known Martin more or less all of his life (I am six years older than him, although I don’t look it!)
Our families were and are still close friends, ever since we lived across the back from each other in the west of Glasgow.
Martin has already written a book, ‘The Zen of Naka,’ which is an extremely engaging biography of former Celt Shunsuke Nakamura. It’s a great read, and not your average football book, often describing some of the cultural contexts of the beautiful game, which are particularly contrasting when it came to a player from Japan plying his trade in Western Europe.
Anyway, I told Martin that I had written a screenplay about the Lisbon experience. It was basically an idea I’ve had for ten years or so, the idea of creating a road movie about a bunch of pals who travel from Glasgow to Lisbon to see the game.
I always thought it had dramatic potential – the physical journey reflecting an inner journey, etc., and I’ve lost count of how many versions I’ve written!
Anyway, back in 2009 I had dragged it up to a not-too-terrible standard, and Martin asked if he could read it. He really liked it and it helped fulminate an idea inside his head.
A while later he handed me a few A4 sheets, written in the first-person of Jock Stein. To say I was impressed by the standard of writing would be an understatement. In fact, I was completely blown away.
‘He’s going to do something similar to David Peace’s The Damned United,’ I thought. ‘But in the voice of Jock Stein (one of the most interesting and impressive human beings ever to have managed in football). What a brilliant idea.’
Little did I know that Martin wanted me to be involved! And so, on a dreich January afternoon in a deserted pub in Glasgow’s West End, Martin gave me a proposition: to co-write a novel charting the Lisbon experience, one half narrated by Jock, the other by Frank (which was the name of the lead man in my screenplay at that time).
I was very excited by the idea, if a little anxious as to whether I could match the standard of his initial Jock efforts.
Our families were and are still close friends, ever since we lived across the back from each other in the west of Glasgow.
Martin has already written a book, ‘The Zen of Naka,’ which is an extremely engaging biography of former Celt Shunsuke Nakamura. It’s a great read, and not your average football book, often describing some of the cultural contexts of the beautiful game, which are particularly contrasting when it came to a player from Japan plying his trade in Western Europe.
Anyway, I told Martin that I had written a screenplay about the Lisbon experience. It was basically an idea I’ve had for ten years or so, the idea of creating a road movie about a bunch of pals who travel from Glasgow to Lisbon to see the game.
I always thought it had dramatic potential – the physical journey reflecting an inner journey, etc., and I’ve lost count of how many versions I’ve written!
Anyway, back in 2009 I had dragged it up to a not-too-terrible standard, and Martin asked if he could read it. He really liked it and it helped fulminate an idea inside his head.
A while later he handed me a few A4 sheets, written in the first-person of Jock Stein. To say I was impressed by the standard of writing would be an understatement. In fact, I was completely blown away.
‘He’s going to do something similar to David Peace’s The Damned United,’ I thought. ‘But in the voice of Jock Stein (one of the most interesting and impressive human beings ever to have managed in football). What a brilliant idea.’
Little did I know that Martin wanted me to be involved! And so, on a dreich January afternoon in a deserted pub in Glasgow’s West End, Martin gave me a proposition: to co-write a novel charting the Lisbon experience, one half narrated by Jock, the other by Frank (which was the name of the lead man in my screenplay at that time).
I was very excited by the idea, if a little anxious as to whether I could match the standard of his initial Jock efforts.
Monday, 7 May 2012
The day a team died
HOW seismic were events in Lisbon on May 25, 1967?
For Celtic FC, It remains their crowning glory, an achievement that has echoed through the generations. But what were the implications of the defeat for the mighty Inter Milan? Did it bring the catennacio system crashing down, as has so often been claimed?
Well, if Herrera’s Inter were the embodiment of the defensive system that had begun to take hold throughout Europe then, yes, the impact of Celtic’s victory was colossal. Helenio Herrera’s legendary Inter were never the same again.Within a week of defeat in Lisbon, Inter had surrendered their Serie A title – claimed in three of the four preceding seasons – after a last-day defeat to minnows Mantova meant the title headed west to Turin and Juventus.
In little over 12 months, Herrera had departed the Nerazzurri, humbled by his failure to breathe life into an ageing team and helpless at halting their slide to fifth place in the championship.Sandro Mazzola, Inter’s iconic striker, reflected plaintively on that afternoon in Lisbon in later years.
"It all finished there. That week signalled the end of that great team, and was the worst time of my career. We lost everything: the European Cup, the Championship, the Italian Cup.
“Up to the match against Celtic, we thought we were unbeatable. As soon as that complex was destroyed, we were suddenly in the nightmare of not being up to winning, and the fear from Lisbon went with us to Mantova. Celtic ended up costing us two trophies, really, and it all went downhill from there."
In 1972, Inter achieved a revenge of sorts when they denied Celtic a third European Cup final appearance by winning a penalty shoot-out in Glasgow after two 0-0 draw. “Even then I spent the whole night battering my scalp off Billy McNeill’s chin, with him winning every single header,” added Mazzola. “And nobody except me wanted to take a penalty.”
For Celtic FC, It remains their crowning glory, an achievement that has echoed through the generations. But what were the implications of the defeat for the mighty Inter Milan? Did it bring the catennacio system crashing down, as has so often been claimed?
Well, if Herrera’s Inter were the embodiment of the defensive system that had begun to take hold throughout Europe then, yes, the impact of Celtic’s victory was colossal. Helenio Herrera’s legendary Inter were never the same again.Within a week of defeat in Lisbon, Inter had surrendered their Serie A title – claimed in three of the four preceding seasons – after a last-day defeat to minnows Mantova meant the title headed west to Turin and Juventus.
In little over 12 months, Herrera had departed the Nerazzurri, humbled by his failure to breathe life into an ageing team and helpless at halting their slide to fifth place in the championship.Sandro Mazzola, Inter’s iconic striker, reflected plaintively on that afternoon in Lisbon in later years.
"It all finished there. That week signalled the end of that great team, and was the worst time of my career. We lost everything: the European Cup, the Championship, the Italian Cup.
“Up to the match against Celtic, we thought we were unbeatable. As soon as that complex was destroyed, we were suddenly in the nightmare of not being up to winning, and the fear from Lisbon went with us to Mantova. Celtic ended up costing us two trophies, really, and it all went downhill from there."
In 1972, Inter achieved a revenge of sorts when they denied Celtic a third European Cup final appearance by winning a penalty shoot-out in Glasgow after two 0-0 draw. “Even then I spent the whole night battering my scalp off Billy McNeill’s chin, with him winning every single header,” added Mazzola. “And nobody except me wanted to take a penalty.”
Glasgow in 1967 - a city in flux
One of the sub-themes in Tim’s narrative is that of flux, specifically the changes that affected working-class people during the post-war years.
One significant change was in housing, and this is discussed in the early part of the novel. The old Victorian slums were being demolished and replaced by outlying housing schemes or, in the case of the Gorbals, modern high-rise developments. This process was actually well underway by 1967, and the old Gorbals was by then a rapidly diminishing reality that was about to disappear forever.
This change provoked strong views at the time. Many people, notably activists in the Labour Party, were instrumental in making it come about. While their motivations were noble – to end the misery of overcrowded slum living, sadly much of the housing that replaced the old tenements was inadequate, and has all either been demolished, such as the notorious damp-ridded Hutcheson C flats which were inhabited for less than 30 years, or is earmarked for demolition. It is fashionable to knock the competence of the city fathers who drove this process; certainly in the case of the outlying schemes they were guilty of wildly over-optimistic socialist idealism, supposing that they could create brand-new, instantly functioning communities from scratch, but perhaps the scale of the problem they faced was simply too huge, and the monies realistically available to them inadequate. And remember what they were striving to replace: slums in which people, often youngsters, died from entirely preventable diseases due to poor sanitation and squalid living conditions. This in the middle of the twentieth century, with space exploration in full flow, was considered, quite rightly, as unacceptable. It is easy to be nostalgic for poverty, much harder to live amid it.
Yet the process was a controversial one. Some people, like Tim’s friend Mark, who still had to endure Gorbals living, couldn’t wait to get out. The promise of a spacious, clean apartment with an inside bathroom was too much to resist. Yet others, such as Tim (somewhat hypocritically considering he had moved out of the Gorbals a year before into such an apartment in nearby Toryglen) mourned the end to the vibrant, colourful Gorbals character, with its warmth, humour and strong sense of community spirit.
This debate has become something of a cliché in my hometown, but the impact of the slum clearances changed Glasgow forever, and it is worth considering what was lost, as well as what was gained. I was born in 1972, therefore more or less at the moment ‘old’ Glasgow – a place of smog and shipbuilding, shillings and half crowns, slums and steamies, trams and razor gangs, fish teas and dance halls – died. Yet the idea of that place, passed on by my parents’ generation, casts a long shadow. It lives on in the sharp patter of Glasgow’s inhabitants, which is in a way a memorial for a lost world; my generation possesses a strange, sentimental nostalgia for something we never really knew.
As Tim tells Mark on page 13: ‘Understand this. An entire era is about to end, auld Glasgow is about to slip over the horizon. And something precious will be lost forever.’
One significant change was in housing, and this is discussed in the early part of the novel. The old Victorian slums were being demolished and replaced by outlying housing schemes or, in the case of the Gorbals, modern high-rise developments. This process was actually well underway by 1967, and the old Gorbals was by then a rapidly diminishing reality that was about to disappear forever.
This change provoked strong views at the time. Many people, notably activists in the Labour Party, were instrumental in making it come about. While their motivations were noble – to end the misery of overcrowded slum living, sadly much of the housing that replaced the old tenements was inadequate, and has all either been demolished, such as the notorious damp-ridded Hutcheson C flats which were inhabited for less than 30 years, or is earmarked for demolition. It is fashionable to knock the competence of the city fathers who drove this process; certainly in the case of the outlying schemes they were guilty of wildly over-optimistic socialist idealism, supposing that they could create brand-new, instantly functioning communities from scratch, but perhaps the scale of the problem they faced was simply too huge, and the monies realistically available to them inadequate. And remember what they were striving to replace: slums in which people, often youngsters, died from entirely preventable diseases due to poor sanitation and squalid living conditions. This in the middle of the twentieth century, with space exploration in full flow, was considered, quite rightly, as unacceptable. It is easy to be nostalgic for poverty, much harder to live amid it.
Yet the process was a controversial one. Some people, like Tim’s friend Mark, who still had to endure Gorbals living, couldn’t wait to get out. The promise of a spacious, clean apartment with an inside bathroom was too much to resist. Yet others, such as Tim (somewhat hypocritically considering he had moved out of the Gorbals a year before into such an apartment in nearby Toryglen) mourned the end to the vibrant, colourful Gorbals character, with its warmth, humour and strong sense of community spirit.
This debate has become something of a cliché in my hometown, but the impact of the slum clearances changed Glasgow forever, and it is worth considering what was lost, as well as what was gained. I was born in 1972, therefore more or less at the moment ‘old’ Glasgow – a place of smog and shipbuilding, shillings and half crowns, slums and steamies, trams and razor gangs, fish teas and dance halls – died. Yet the idea of that place, passed on by my parents’ generation, casts a long shadow. It lives on in the sharp patter of Glasgow’s inhabitants, which is in a way a memorial for a lost world; my generation possesses a strange, sentimental nostalgia for something we never really knew.
As Tim tells Mark on page 13: ‘Understand this. An entire era is about to end, auld Glasgow is about to slip over the horizon. And something precious will be lost forever.’
Thursday, 3 May 2012
Writing Tim's narrative
I HAD a few abortive starts to the novel, in which I tried to come at the project from a radical angle, but neither did I just want to regurgitate the screenplay…
I guess I didn’t want to tire of the same characters and situations, but also writing prose is really quite different from screenwriting. The two don’t necessarily lend themselves to each other.
Therefore I really evolved a host of new characters out of the screenplay, and it seemed to work really well. Lots of people ask me what it’s like co-writing a novel, but to be honest it went incredibly smoothly, and there wasn’t any conflict between Martin and me.
In fact, you could argue that it was half as difficult as writing a novel by yourself, in that I only had to write half a book!
The fact is that the narratives were distinct; Jock and his men are preparing for the match while Tim and his pals are on the road, so, as I already said, there wasn’t that much scope for overlap. Having a co-author meant that we could bounce ideas off one another, and, just as importantly, edit each other’s text.
The fact that we are both experienced editors (we work in newspapers) meant that this was meat and drink to us, and it meant that any submission was liable to be of a cleaner, better structured standard than usual.
The fact is that if you have a clear, shared vision, and you are naturally respectful towards folk, the process needn’t be a difficult one, and it wasn’t.
In terms of that vision, as we are from Celtic-supporting families, we both understood at quite a profound emotional level what Lisbon actually represented. That’s a matter for later blogs (and the book itself!) but suffice to say that we were both writing on the same emotional pitch.
I should also mention Mark ‘Stan’ Stanton, who is an agent with Jenny Brown. Stan told us that he ‘loved’ our initial offerings, and obviously he went on to sell the book to Birlinn.
In fact, Stan had given initial encouragement not long after Martin had come up with the idea, and even before I had come on board.
I also have to mention Pete Burns at Birlinn, who, like Stan, saw the merit of the idea, and it’s been a pleasure working with him. Clearly Stan and Pete have excellent taste!
Charles McGarry
I guess I didn’t want to tire of the same characters and situations, but also writing prose is really quite different from screenwriting. The two don’t necessarily lend themselves to each other.
Therefore I really evolved a host of new characters out of the screenplay, and it seemed to work really well. Lots of people ask me what it’s like co-writing a novel, but to be honest it went incredibly smoothly, and there wasn’t any conflict between Martin and me.
In fact, you could argue that it was half as difficult as writing a novel by yourself, in that I only had to write half a book!
The fact is that the narratives were distinct; Jock and his men are preparing for the match while Tim and his pals are on the road, so, as I already said, there wasn’t that much scope for overlap. Having a co-author meant that we could bounce ideas off one another, and, just as importantly, edit each other’s text.
The fact that we are both experienced editors (we work in newspapers) meant that this was meat and drink to us, and it meant that any submission was liable to be of a cleaner, better structured standard than usual.
The fact is that if you have a clear, shared vision, and you are naturally respectful towards folk, the process needn’t be a difficult one, and it wasn’t.
In terms of that vision, as we are from Celtic-supporting families, we both understood at quite a profound emotional level what Lisbon actually represented. That’s a matter for later blogs (and the book itself!) but suffice to say that we were both writing on the same emotional pitch.
I should also mention Mark ‘Stan’ Stanton, who is an agent with Jenny Brown. Stan told us that he ‘loved’ our initial offerings, and obviously he went on to sell the book to Birlinn.
In fact, Stan had given initial encouragement not long after Martin had come up with the idea, and even before I had come on board.
I also have to mention Pete Burns at Birlinn, who, like Stan, saw the merit of the idea, and it’s been a pleasure working with him. Clearly Stan and Pete have excellent taste!
Charles McGarry
Monday, 30 April 2012
Sex, drugs, rock 'n' roll ... and football
THE night Jock Stein died on the touchline at Ninian Park, Cardiff, I was seven-years-old and in Yorkhill hospital in Glasgow having my tonsils removed. I remember my dad mentioning it, but its significance passed me by until I was much older.
I loved playing football, but was not so interested in any one team or player (Star Wars figures were my passion in 1985), a feeling that has not changed much over the years.
So, age prohibited me having any personal experience of Stein. Does this disqualify me from dramatising parts of his life in a novel? Some might say, but people's opinion should be based on having read the book rather than preconceptions.
In researching, I have immersed myself in almost everything that has ever been written or recorded about Jock Stein. I read about 30 books - some of which had been out of print for decades - and watched every interview, pored over newspaper cuttings and talked to dozens of people who knew him. From coming up with the idea to the finished manuscript took three-and-a-half years.
His life has been well-documented, no question. So why, in my arrogance, did I think I could add to the body of work on Stein? Well, his life may be down in black and white, but I felt there was colour missing. The complexities of his character, the drama of his achievements, there deserved to be many more splashes on the canvas, I felt.
We were also aware of the cultural, social and political context. Society was changing rapidly in 1967. It was the Summer of Love - a hippie counterculture movement that found its expression in an explosion of creativity, politics, sexual freedom, drugs and music (Sergeant Pepper was released exactly a week after Lisbon).
We wanted to get all that into the novel.
Sex, drugs, rock 'n' roll ... and football. Something for everyone.
Martin Greig
I loved playing football, but was not so interested in any one team or player (Star Wars figures were my passion in 1985), a feeling that has not changed much over the years.
So, age prohibited me having any personal experience of Stein. Does this disqualify me from dramatising parts of his life in a novel? Some might say, but people's opinion should be based on having read the book rather than preconceptions.
In researching, I have immersed myself in almost everything that has ever been written or recorded about Jock Stein. I read about 30 books - some of which had been out of print for decades - and watched every interview, pored over newspaper cuttings and talked to dozens of people who knew him. From coming up with the idea to the finished manuscript took three-and-a-half years.
His life has been well-documented, no question. So why, in my arrogance, did I think I could add to the body of work on Stein? Well, his life may be down in black and white, but I felt there was colour missing. The complexities of his character, the drama of his achievements, there deserved to be many more splashes on the canvas, I felt.
We were also aware of the cultural, social and political context. Society was changing rapidly in 1967. It was the Summer of Love - a hippie counterculture movement that found its expression in an explosion of creativity, politics, sexual freedom, drugs and music (Sergeant Pepper was released exactly a week after Lisbon).
We wanted to get all that into the novel.
Sex, drugs, rock 'n' roll ... and football. Something for everyone.
Martin Greig
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