Borussia Mönchengladbach vs Celtic: Time for Brendan Rodgers's Celts to show they can go from good to great

For a club with our history, there is nothing quite like a night in European competition. 

There is the romance of facing the finest teams from across the continent, with their differing approaches to the game a fascinating contrast against which to test our style and quality of play. 

Not tainted by the disregard that over-familiarity can breed between domestic opponents, the mix of wonder, uncertainty and “what if” makes any European night something to be savoured, especially in the top competition. 

It is also a time for reflecting, for benchmarking ourselves, not just against our European contemporaries but against Celtic teams past. Different clubs from different countries prompt us to recall their own special memories. 

This week’s German opponents naturally bring back memories of their fellow countrymen, against whom Celtic have rarely fared well. And yet we did once enjoy a famous victory against a German team, against the odds. 

The early 1990s was no time for glory-hunters at Celtic Park. As a reaction to
Graeme Souness's success at Ibrox, an increasingly desperate board turned to Liam Brady. 

Brady was thought to fit the bill perfectly, even being compared to Souness in that he had played at the highest level in England, Italy and internationally -- and had no management experience. But he talked a wonderful game. 

SAFE HANS?: No, Bodo

Our first European outing under Brady had seen the team thrashed by Neuchatel Xamax and Brady's time had been marked by some swaggering performances against smaller teams before usually collapsing in the big games. 

Brady didn't have as much money to spend as Souness had but he managed to squander most of it, anyway. So, when we lost 2-0 to 1. FC Cologne in the first round, first leg of the UEFA Cup, there seemed to be a depressingly familiar feeling. 

We didn't give up because we were Celtic and to do so was anathema to us. So, we looked for what crumbs of hope we had, invoked the spirits of great Celtic heroes of the past for strength, and steeled ourselves for the challenge ahead. 

I was working in a pub at the time and, that day, two young German fans came in. 

We politely discussed the first leg and anticipated the second until one of them tired of the pleasantries. 

He stopped conversing in English and started making insulting-sounding comments in German, much to the embarrassment of his friend who nevertheless found it impossible not to laugh. 

This went on for some time with the meaning becoming increasingly clear. According to our Cologne fans, Celtic were sh*t and they were going to win easily. 

I bit my tongue, as I was working until 6pm and dreaded the bar chat from each new customer who wanted to talk about the game. 

Usually, I would have welcomed the chance to prove them wrong, pride coming before a fall and the gods of football dictating that crowing too loudly before a game was as good a sign of an imminent crash as a brash pre-match quote pinned on the dressing room wall. 

But I became increasingly unsettled, not least because this was one of the few times in which I hadn't been able to get a ticket for the Jungle but would take my place in what we still called the "Rangers End", in those days of binary choices. 

When my shift finished, it was my usual ritual of walking to the ground in my black brogues (I could go at a fair lick in those days) scoffing a sausage, black pudding, haggis or fish supper on the way, smarting from the uncomfortable afternoon I had endured and conjuring as much hope as I could muster. 

In the ground, however, there was that particular atmosphere that sometimes had a special flavour of optimism. The singing, swaying crowd seemed to be instilling confidence in each other. 

HEY, LITTBARSKI! Show us your medals

I remember lamenting the fact that I had chosen that night to be unable to get into the jungle but chastising myself with a reminder that I was lucky to be there – I felt that way every time. There was also that sense that the people around me felt we were going to pull something off. 

Cologne were a formidable team. Not at the highest level of European competition but boasting the likes of Bodo Illgner in goal –a West German international who would go on to play for Real Madrid until one Iker Casillas took over. 

They also had the wonderfully talented Pierre Littbarski, by then 32, who had 73 West German caps to his name. 

Whatever the Celtic fans were feeling must have transmitted itself to the players because the Celtic team that night started with a sense of purpose and belief – as if a statement to fans and opponents alike that "this is our home and nobody comes here to push us around".

The qualities of Cologne were still evident but Celtic were calling on the best traditions of attacking football and old-fashioned guts – hungry for the ball, using it with belief – with no question of shirts “shrinking to fit inferior players”.
My view of the first goal was poor – a wonderful left-foot strike by the imperious Paul McStay.

The second came from Gerry Creaney, a fact that I didn’t even know until after the game, believing that it had come from John Collins. Creaney had diverted Collins's shot in but the noise of the crowd often drowned out the stadium announcer.

At 2-2, we were level on aggregate but a Cologne goal would surely have sunk us.

Having been at Celtic Park on that infamous night when we scored five goals against Partizan Belgrade – but conceded four to go out of the tournament – that was a situation to fill me with concern.

Yet my fellow fans were having none of it – we were going through and I wasn’t going to question them. In fact, I’m sure I must have heard the familiar cry of encouragement: “This mob are sh*te!” (Which they assuredly were not).

11 minutes from the end, I had cause to thank the fates that had allowed me to view Collins lashing home the third. (It was Collins’s night – make no mistake about that.) It was met with a rapture all too rarely seen in those days.

The kind of eruption that has you shredding your throat with cries of joy, grabbing hold of the nearest fan for embraces and to try to somehow stay on your feet as the surge of the crowd sent your feet stumbling over terracing steps.

Joyful arms whacking you in the face, the adrenaline too high for you to properly feel it and the rapture so great that you wouldn’t just forgive it but welcome a bruised reminder of the moment preceding its infliction.

One more goal from Cologne? It was never going to happen. Everyone in the ground knew it.

However fine their players were, they were butterflies in a storm and we were thunderous and electric. The final whistle was more of a herald’s trumpet: “Hey, Europe, never, EVER, write off Celtic!”

It was a moment to dive into and swim in, arms flailing, body battered by the tumultuous waves of fellow Celtic fans to whom these nights were becoming all too rare.

What could you do but roar until the strains of the Celtic Song called you into a choir, your vocal chords savaged but your heart and lungs pumping it out anyway.

Men too proud to cry, bellowing all the louder and more ferociously lest anyone think they were “having a moment”.

This was what you lived for. To show the world that, on your night, you were a match for anyone. Disrespect us at your peril because, even when we’re down, we’re still Celtic.

When we eventually filed through the exits, I knew where I was going. Back to the pub to enjoy the glory, hopefully catch the highlights and renew an acquaintance.

Anyone who has made that journey from Celtic Park on foot, along the Gallowgate, down Argyle Street, knows that, on such a night, if you’re fit and able, your strides fairly eat up the ground before you.

I can still feel the cold air punishing my lungs, my hair and face drenched with sweat.

I’ve never been one to openly gloat about victories when with fellow fans, feeling that “rubbing it in” lacked class and was unnecessary. But, perhaps what had bothered me most was that I had always had the utmost respect for German football, as I do now.

When some commentators were calling it “efficient”, “clinical”, even “boring”, I was watching teams that seemed to apply values of doing things the right way – being tactically astute, fit and strong, but emphasisng technique and practised patterns that could produce the most incisive football.

So, maybe my uncomfortable afternoon smarted more because my antagonist was a supporter of a German team.

Whatever, they were already in the bar, both humble and chastened this time, when I ordered a Lowenbrau and asked them what they had thought of the game. There were muttered answers saying very little. “And what do you think of Celtic now? Do you think we’re any good?”

No answer was necessary. The afternoon had been theirs, but the evening was mine.

More than two decades later, Celtic played an excellent Borussia Mönchengladbach team which fully deserved their 2-0 victory at Celtic Park.

They played with style, class and courage, drawing on the atmosphere, instead of being shocked or cowed by it as so many teams have been in the past.

Their fans also made a lot of friends due to their passionate support of their team while displaying a spirit towards their opponents that has, I suspect, engendered a fondness for their club that will endure.
Celtic face a huge task on Tuesday. But this is what we are made for.

We have a good team and some excellent players. We know that we are not where we want to be and Brendan Rodgers says as much at every opportunity.
We are not a “great” team. Yet.

But one of the markers of a team that can develop to greatness is its ability to exceed expectations.

To refuse to accept any wisdom that says what they can’t do on any given night. There could be no better time for Celtic to pass the first of those tests towards that goal than on Tuesday.

Borussia Mönchengladbach are, in my opinion, a far better team than the Cologne side we faced in 1992. On the other hand, when I look through the Celtic players from that time, only McStay, Collins and arguably Boyd would have got into our current first eleven.

As Pep Guardiola noted after our 3-3 draw, Celtic players wear the shirt knowing they are expected to win every week.

In its own way, the task facing our winning team of talented players is similar in scale to the one that that team that was on a downward trajectory was presented with, 24 years ago. Good teams do what is expected of them.

Great teams do a bit more – they surprise people, make them sit up and take notice.

We will learn a lot about the heart and courage of our players on Tuesday. Can they exceed expectations?

Can they go to Mönchengladbach on their own ground and show that they are never to be written-off, never underestimated, because they are Celtic and filling a shirt that does not shrink? I believe they can.

Because I believe that the direction this team is going in is to be better than good or very good. The proof of that will be seen on the field of play.

It’s up to the players now to define their own place in our club’s history – good or great.

I can’t wait to see their answer.