Hugh Keevins: Truly the greatest Celt of all

I would say, "Well, in my day it was different because the ball would come into the penalty area, big Billy McNeill would head it clear, and we'd all get on with the rest of the game."

It was an accurate description of events. Horribly accurate as it now turns out.

But it was a phrase intended for use as a homage to Billy's majestic domination of the air space around whoever was near him in the penalty box. His penalty box or the other side's.

Like it was at Hampden on April 24, 1965, when Billy rose to meet Charlie Gallagher's corner kick and headed the goal which beat Dunfermline in the Scottish Cup final and began the modern day Celtic under Jock Stein's management.

Two years later Billy's headed goal against Vodjvodina Novi Sad helped propel Celtic towards the Estadio Nacional in Lisbon, where they defeated Inter Milan in the final of the European Cup on May 25, 1967.

But there is another date which stands out for me on a personal basis, and that is January 6, 1970. It was then, precisely two days into my journalistic career, that I interviewed Billy for the first time.

I was so wet behind the ears you could have rinsed them out like a chamois. The man standing in front of me, and towering above me, was the first Briton to ever to have lifted the European Cup.

There were no P.R. departments attached to football clubs in those days. No need to e-mail your questions in advance to see if there was any possibility of an answer or two.

I just stood there on the step outside of the old front door at Celtic Park and got introduced to Billy by a colleague as the "new boy in the office."

They say you should never meet your heroes for fear of experiencing disappointment if they don't live up to the image you have of them.

That certainly wasn't the case where Billy was concerned. Not at all.

He simply stood there and gave me the courteous attention he would have given if it had been Hughie McIlvanney and not Hughie Keevins standing in front of him.

I got my story. He got into his car. And a long standing friendship was born.

I used to remind him that he had been my boyhood hero. He used to tell me to shut up. Modesty and humility were always at the core of Billy McNeill's being, even though he had a lot not to be modest or humble about.

When Celtic got to the UEFA Cup final against Porto in Seville in 2003 fate had me sitting beside Billy and his devoted wife, Liz, on the flight from Glasgow to Spain.

The hotel we stayed in seemed only to house supporters who wore Celtic's hooped jersey and stood to reverential attention whenever Billy moved among them.

"What does it feel like to be a living legend?" I asked him. "Old," he replied, using the modest man's diversionary tactic.

Now he is approaching his 77th birthday next month and Liz has made public the extent of the illness which has left Billy without the power of speech and unable to recall all of the moments of greatness on the pitch which inspired Celtic to commission a statue in his honour.

But neither age nor infirmity will ever diminish Billy's reputation in the eyes of those who saw him play, or even those who have accepted our word for his exceptional ability in the form of stories passed down from generation to generation.

Jimmy Johnstone is officially the greatest Celtic player of all time, as voted for by the club's fans.

Henrik Larsson is un-officially the greatest player to have represented the club in the estimation of those too young to remember Jimmy.

But Billy is enshrined in a place of his own as the man who epitomised what Celtic Football Club stands for.

No wonder John Greig could lead the tributes paid to his old friend over the weekend because the same phrase could be applied to him where Rangers are concerned.

The par of them will forever be synonymous with the only clubs they ever played for and the dignified way in which they conducted themselves in the execution of their managerial as well as playing duties.

And before the mean spirited rush to recall that Billy was once involved in a fracas with a journalist, Gerry McNee, in a London hotel in 1980, let me say one thing in response as a witness to that evening.

Billy was the greatest Celt of all but he never claimed, or asked for, sainthood.

Jinky drifted out to sea in a rowing boat without oars once famous night on the Ayrshire coast.

Henrik was once injured during what is popularly described as a training ground bust-up.

They were all men in a man's world where falls from grace can be commonplace and did not weaken the contribution they made to the game.

A total of thirty-one of the one hundred major honours won by Celtic in their history were gained while Billy played for the team or managed them. It is a statistic which puts flesh and blood on the bones of his reputation.

He may have difficulty now in bringing those moments back to life but there are tens of thousands who will carry those memories for him and feel no sense of burden.

Billy doesn't want, or need, maudlin sentimentality. But it is allowable to wish him and his family peace and contentment as they approach the fiftieth anniversary of his crowning glory on the pitch in Lisbon.

Who knew then what the effect of heading a ball could have on a players' health?

Now we know better and have our deep regrets with the benefit of hindsight.

But what an innocent time it was when big Billy headed the ball clear and we all got on with the game.

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