Martin Dowden sits in the press box at Celtic Park, he closes the Follow Follow tab and gets to work.
Mental strength. Organisation. Discipline. The unglamorous qualities champions tend to possess when circumstances demand it.
He was pushed into a room with the Celtic Fans Collective— who have had their fill of these disingenuous windbags who hold office atop the Celtic Way, surrounded by mahogany and sycophancy — entirely unbriefed on the matters to be discussed.
By disengaging from their dictated terms and refusing to be pacified by Haughey’s two-hundred-pound-a-head bounty, the support controls the tempo.
Then John Beaton arrives as VAR. McLean cites defenders. Beaton dismisses it — “I know, I know, I know” — before McLean finishes speaking.
On one hand, corporate Celtic is damaging the club from the top down. On the other hand, here’s the smiling photograph while the title race falls apart around them. That’s the optics; that’s the reality.
The man who arrived that October 2003 came from Clydeport. A ports and property company. Before that, Scottish Coal. ICI. Hoffman-La-Roche. Lawwell is an accountant. A capable, driven, intelligent accountant. But an accountant.
We go into Sunday’s game six points behind. Twenty-two games played each. When O’Neill first arrived in October, it was eight points. These aren’t insurmountable gaps. They never were.
And still, their floor has kept them level with Hearts’ ceiling. I am not being arrogant. It’s history, data, and lived reality. Even when Celtic aren’t right, they’re relentless in a way no one else in this league can sustain.
A fan when it’s handy, a fan when it makes him look good, a fan when it protects his little kingdom. But step out of line? Question what he’s saying? Criticize what he’s doing? Suddenly, the fan disappears. And the man, untouchable, remains.