time, they were misquoting or misunderstanding what I had said in an interview some weeks before the match. I had said that a team drawn from all of Ireland’s thirty-two counties would do better than the two separate teams. In saying that I was only recognizing that in rugby union, all Ireland played as one and did so very successfully. But at no point did I say the two countries should unite, in football or politically. In fact, I was only stating the same position as the late George Best, the greatest of all Northern Irish players. But then he didn’t play for Celtic.
In the aftermath, much was made of the fact that the call was apparently a hoax. Two detectives from the PSNI came to Glasgow to interview me and said it was probably a hoax, but they had taken it seriously enough to trace the call and found it came from a phone box in Rathcoole in north Belfast. But how does anyone actually know that it was a hoax? How can anyone prove 100 per cent that the caller was not some deranged lunatic with a gun? In Northern Ireland and elsewhere I had seen players assaulted on the pitch by fans—what if one of them had a gun and wanted to make a name for himself?
One English journalist wrote I was a ‘big girl’s blouse’ for not risking death. Funnily enough, he never had the courage to say that to my face…
Maybe I could have gone out and played but what kind of focus would I have had? How could anyone perform to their best in such a situation? The fact is that I did not play that night and have never played for Northern Ireland since, and therefore the caller did not need to carry out the threat, so we will never know for certain whether or not it was a hoax. That reasoning seems to have been lost on the alleged intellect of people like that English journo.
What might have been the most upsetting speculation was that pulling out of the game served some sort of hidden agenda on my part. But I did not let that nonsense upset me because you cannot reason with idiocy like that. It’s the sort of biased reasoning which has seen me burned in effigy on the tops of bonfires across Northern Ireland on 12 July, the great Unionist and Protestant day of celebration—I must be rivalling Guy Fawkes for being ‘toasted’.
After that weekend, things did die down a little, and I was left to pick up the pieces. I took a long time to recover fully and it did affect my form for Celtic. But in the long run it may have been a blessing as quitting the international game may have prolonged my club career. I long ago concluded that I was correct to make my decision to quit, even though I have had tinges of regret—though I have never missed the exhausting trips to out-of-the-way places like Moldova.
It had been an awful experience, not least because it was my first real contact with the people and issues of ‘the Troubles’. I had never made public my political views or my religious leanings, but here was I, a footballer, being treated as some sort of public hate figure, not because I was making statements but because I was a Catholic who wore the green and white hoops of Celtic.
What message did it send to young Catholics in Northern Ireland that they could be singled out for such treatment if they ever played for Celtic? A lot of Catholics will not attend matches at Windsor Park—after what happened to me, can you blame them?
The plan for a new national stadium, principally for football, to be built elsewhere in Northern Ireland could be a good start in uniting the country behind its sportspeople, as used to happen with our football team and individuals like Olympic champion Mary Peters and world champion boxer Barry McGuigan. I think that a new stadium will be a big step forward for sport in Northern Ireland.
In the meantime there is undoubtedly a cancer in the society of Northern Ireland and it will take a long time to excise. But that cancer should not be allowed to infect sport.
You can argue that the Old Firm have profited from being on the two sides of the sectarian divide, and I would not disagree. But events have often been way beyond their control and what happened to me was a wholly different matter—the incidents took place in the international arena while I was playing for my country; they were seen by the whole world as disgraceful; and they damaged me as a person.
I have to confess I was scarred by those events. I will admit now that I really and truly was in fear for my life at times. No one can undergo such an experience and not be affected. And yes, it made me bitter against the ‘other side’ for a time, something I had never been before. But I have accepted things and in time I have lost that bitterness. I believe it all made me a stronger person in the long run.
I had to be strong, for it was not to be the last time I would be assailed and indeed assaulted because I played for Celtic.
There is a noise that occasionally haunts me. It is the noise of the Troubles in the 1970s and 1980s, the time when I was growing up in a country that was trying to tear itself apart. The particular sounds I recall are those of whistles blowing, women wailing and metal clashing. It was the noise that signified death, and is one of the strongest memories from my childhood.
I was born in Carlton Home, Portadown, Northern Ireland, on 25 June 1971, the second child of Gerry and Ursula Lennon, née Moore, of Lurgan in County Armagh. I was christened Neil, but it might well have been Cornelius as I was called after my grandfather on my mother’s side who owned a grocer’s shop in the town. His ‘Sunday name’ was Cornelius but he was always known as Nealie Moore, so that’s how I got my name. I took after him in other ways as he was a talented footballer of the Gaelic variety. My middle name is Francis, after my paternal grandfather.
My elder sister Orla and I were later joined by my sisters Aileen and Jane to complete what has always been a very close and loving family.
Situated in the Craigavon district, roughly halfway between the town of that name and Lisburn, Lurgan at that time had a population in excess of 22,000. A market town that was once a leading player in the linen industry, in the 1970s Lurgan had mainly light engineering, textile and agricultural industries.
The town was founded by the Brownlow family and properly planned and laid out in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. The biggest building in the area is Brownlow House, otherwise known as Lurgan Castle. To the north of Lurgan lies Lough Neagh, by area the largest expanse of fresh water in the British Isles. To the south east can be seen the famed Mountains of Mourne, and everywhere south run the roads to the Republic of Ireland. It is a beautiful part of the world, and I remain a frequent visitor despite having lived on mainland Britain for nearly twenty years.
Like many towns in Northern Ireland, Lurgan’s population consisted of two distinct sectors, defined by religious and political leanings. No individual should be stereotyped, but across Northern Ireland generally at that time it is safe to say that on one side were Protestants who wanted the country to stay part of the United Kingdom, the Unionists or Loyalists, and on the other side were Roman Catholics who wanted Northern Ireland to be part of a united Ireland, the Republicans or Nationalists. The island of Ireland had experienced civil wars before and in the late 1960s, pressure for social change somehow transformed into the violent era called the Troubles which lasted for more than three decades. Yet thanks to my wonderful parents, I was largely insulated from the horrendous consequences of what was almost another civil war.
Both my parents were warm and sociable people with a wide circle of friends and I am sure that it is from them that I get my love of sharing a good time with family and companions. My mother says I was a brilliant baby who slept and ate well, and was no trouble at all—nice to know I haven’t changed…
As any man who has been brought up in a household with three sisters will tell you, they spoil you and drive you daft in equal proportions. For instance, I don’t think I’ve ever won an argument with Orla in my life. But then she is a superb debater and orator, and in 1985 she reached the Northern Ireland final of the All-Ireland Public Speaking Championships. When she was fifteen she went on a trip to Bangladesh for three weeks as a prize for winning a speaking contest at school. Orla’s feats were reported in all the local newspapers and for a time she got bigger headlines than her wee brother. She later became a very fine teacher and is now married with two boys.
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