Supporting Celtic isn’t a hobby, a pastime, or something you can switch off from. When you buy in, it inexplicably becomes an intrinsic part of your life—an emotional attachment to something intangible, difficult to explain to anyone who isn’t living it themselves.

The memories we make on the terraces—the good and the bad—become so closely tied to our psyche. Making the pilgrimage to Celtic Park with friends and family might seem like nothing on any given Saturday, but as you get older, those memories become everything.

On September 7th, 2022, I lost the man who introduced me to it all. My father passed away suddenly—well before his time. As I write these words, I’m second-guessing whether I should even be writing this piece. It’s still very raw. But if you’ll indulge me, I’d like to pay tribute to the man who gave me Celtic.

My earliest memories are of going to Celtic Park with my dad. We’d park at the Forge, and he’d make me get out with the scarves at the corner while he drove off to park at the bingo hall, which had no attendant—an old-school cheat to get a space on match days. Walking up to the stadium, he’d turn me into a walking corner shop, stuffing snacks and drinks into my jacket because he wasn’t paying those prices inside the ground.

With three other siblings, football was my time with my dad. At first, it wasn’t even about the football—I just loved having that one-on-one time with him.

Introducing your son to Celtic in the mid-90s must have been a tough gig. We were on our knees, both on and off the pitch. But watching Tommy Burns’ side play was always entertaining. I remember little bits from that time, but it was the 1997/98 season that brought my first proper Celtic memories.

Celtic vs Rangers, 1997, at Celtic Park. We were toiling again—1-0 down to our old rivals, who were chasing ten in a row. Andy Goram was putting on another goalkeeping clinic, and Wim Jansen’s side looked like slipping six points behind. I remember my dad being angry and upset—it was the first time I saw his emotions get the better of him at the football.

In the 90th minute, he took me from our seats and brought me down to the entrance of the stand to make a quick getaway at full-time. Celtic put a corner in. It was cleared. I remember my dad turning to me and saying, “I’ve had enough, we’re not coming back.” As a kid, you take those things literally. I was gutted.

But low and behold, the ball came back into the box. Alan Stubbs rose and headed home an equaliser to send the stadium into meltdown. My dad picked me up and was throwing me around while the fans around us went absolutely nuts. Alan Stubbs had saved the day—I could come back to Celtic Park.

At the end of that season, we were back in our seats on the final day, needing a win over St Johnstone to stop ten in a row. By then, I understood why the idea of Rangers winning ten was so abhorrent. Celtic had passed up the chance to win the league the week before, and having never seen us lift the title in my first nine years on earth, I didn’t know what to expect.

The stands were bulging. Fans were sneaking in without tickets. When Henrik Larsson scored a fantastic early goal right in front of us, a surge of fans from behind came tumbling forward. My dad had to shelter me as people fell all around. It was madness—and a little scary.

The rest of the game was anxiety-inducing. If St Johnstone equalised, we were done. Then Harold Brattbakk scored, and Celtic Park exploded. A helicopter carrying the old SPL trophy flew overhead to more roars. My dad had already picked me up before Tom Boyd lined up for a free-kick. But the referee picked up the ball and pointed to the tunnel—the game was over.

Grown men, including my dad, were hugging and tearing up. Celtic had won their first title in ten seasons, four years after the doors were nearly closed. Somewhere during that season, the passion and emotion my dad showed had rubbed off on me. It’s a feeling I’ve never been able to shake—not that I’d want to.

We watched Henrik together in his prime, saw Martin O’Neill deliver the first treble since Jock Stein, and that unforgettable run to Seville. As I got older and my dad had to work more, my sisters would take me to games until I was old enough to go myself. Then I took my little brother, who now shows the same signs of Celtic fanaticism my dad passed down.

Over the years, we’d still go to games together when we could. Now, I head to Celtic Park with my brother, brother-in-law, and nephew.

As he got older, me and him would get into heated debates about the team and the club’s direction. He knew best—and so did I!

Celtic was what bonded us more than anything. I know so many will relate to those dad phone calls that didn’t start with, “How are you?” but rather, “Have you seen that imposter…” [insert whipping Bhoy of the day]. I remember talking him down during the early Ange days, then smugly saying, “Told you so,” when we lifted the league title.

All those memories I cherished when he was here take on greater meaning now that he’s gone. They aren’t just memories—they are my dad. They represent everything I loved about him, and the platform he gave me and my siblings to pass on to the next generation.

My nephews are already well on their way to having that same irrational attachment to this club.

And this November, I’ll become a father myself. My wife and I are expecting a baby boy. While it’s painful knowing the two will never meet, my dad’s influence will live on in our relationship and our own trips to Celtic Park. We’ll create new memories—and I’ll tell him the stories I’ve shared here.

Thank you, Dad, for giving me Celtic.

If I could leave you with his final social media post, after watching his last Celtic game—Celtic 4-0 Rangers:

“A f**king doing.”

He wasn’t wrong.