There are games where Celtic impose themselves, play the football we like to think defines us and walk away with the points.
And then there are days like Sunday at Ibrox.
This wasn’t about style. It wasn’t about patterns of play or the aesthetics of Ange-ball reborn. Anyone looking for a celebration of the ‘Celtic way’ would have been better off switching channels early and saving themselves two hours of agricultural football.
Because that’s what it was.
One hundred and twenty minutes of blood, snotters and hopeful punts. Long balls launched skyward, second balls fought over like a scramble at a wedding, and the sort of physical slog that supposedly plays right into the hands of the home team.
Yorkie football.
The irony, of course, is that Celtic went to their place, played them at their own game, and they still couldn’t beat us.
Let’s put this into proper context.
Celtic went into that match stripped to the bone. No captain, no recognised left back. No striker. A squad already stretched to its limits asked to walk into Ibrox and navigate the kind of game the home side claim to relish.
If ever there was a moment for the much-vaunted squad depth of the Ibrox squad and their expensive collection of talent to step forward, this was it.
Instead, what followed was two hours of frustration for them and something far more interesting from Celtic.
Resilience.
CELTIC STRIPPED TO THE BARE BONES
Every hopeful cross dealt with, every second ball contested. Every moment of pressure met by defenders and midfielders quite prepared to throw themselves into the ugly side of the game. This wasn’t Celtic trying to outplay their opponents.
This was Celtic refusing to be out-fought by them.
And that’s a very different thing.
Because for years we’ve heard the same tired narrative. Celtic, apparently, need the game played a certain way. The Ibrox mob, on the other hand, are the hard men — the side who thrive when the football disappears and things get messy.
Well the football disappeared here.
And when it did, Celtic were the ones who looked comfortable with the chaos.
By the time the match crawled its way to penalties, the atmosphere inside Ibrox had shifted noticeably. The early bluster had long since drained away, replaced by that creeping anxiety which tends to arrive when the script refuses to cooperate.
Penalties are supposed to be a lottery.
But sometimes they’re also a test of nerve.
Celtic stepped up and buried all four of ours with the calm assurance of a team that believed the job was already half done. The home side, with all that supposed quality on the park, missed two of their penalties..
Just like that it was over.
HOW TO COME OUT ON TOP OF ‘THE LOTTERY’
0-0 after 120 minutes.
4-2 on penalties.
And Celtic walking off their pitch with the result.
That’s the part that will hurt them most. Not just that they lost, but the manner of it. Celtic went to Ibrox depleted, exposed and forced to abandon any notion of pretty football.
Instead we rolled up our sleeves and played the kind of ugly, attritional game they’ve spent years claiming as their territory.
Then we beat them at it.
Mental strength. Organisation. Discipline. The unglamorous qualities champions tend to possess when circumstances demand it.
Forty million pounds worth of ‘superstars’ on the other side of the pitch couldn’t find a way through a patched-up Celtic side missing half its spine.
Sometimes football is about beauty.
Sometimes it’s about character.
And sometimes it’s about going into your city rival’s backyard, surviving their version of football for two grinding hours, and calmly sticking four penalties past them while they fall apart in front of their own support.
Yorkie, it’s not for serial losers at Ibrox.
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