THIS WEEK I'VE been mostly thinking about Joe Baker. Not Hibs Legend Mk 1, I was too young for him, but Mk 2 who spent the years away from Easter Road searching for something different in the footwear department, while at the same time growing his sideboards. He returned with magnificent sideys (below) – even more lustrous than those sported by the singer in Mungo Jerry – and a pair of shimmering white boots.
I thought of Joe last Wednesday when Edwin van der Sar's new British record for shut-outs ended in fumbly embarrassment for the Man Utd keeper. The old record-holder was Bobby Clark and at least the Aberdeen man had the consolation of being beaten b
y two brilliant goals, the Hibees' winner coming from Joe. I was privileged to witness my first white boots that January afternoon back in 1971, and my first diving header, though technically the great man may have used one of his sideys to power the muddy ball home.
That same night Wednesday night also saw Inverness CT beat Rangers at Ibrox and I thought of Joe again. Ian Black was Caley Thistle's match-winner and the reaction of the away fans fascinated me; at Castle Greyskull it always has – right from the thrilling/terrifying moment when I saw my team score in Govan for the first time, the week after beating Aberdeen, with another header from the fabulous Baker boy.
When Black struck, he ran round the back of the goal, right past the bears in the Broomloan. His disorientation was understandable: penalty-kick winners at Ibrox deep into injury-time are more rare than hen's dentures; indeed no one – not Gail Trimble, the brainy bird off University Challenge, not Mr Memory in The 39 Steps, not elephants who never forget – can remember when it last happened. Eventually Black found the 'snecky supporters: a tiny clump in the designated corner with its rubbish sight-lines, all of them bouncing and going extensively mental.
Back in '71, there was no segregation of visiting fans – at least not for diddy teams – so you took your chances on the old terraces. My father chose the one across from the main stand, reasoning that it would contain fewer bampots. On the walk up we passed the closed-off stairway 13, horribly buckled in the disaster. A Rangers News vendor advertised his publication in his shout-out as "erra Rangers Protestant News!" So I was pretty scared long before Hibs minced on to the pitch.
Baker's header went in off one of the square Ibrox crossbars and seemed to take an eternity to cross the line. I can't remember if I cheered but, for the sake of argument, let's say I slunk even further into my parka and tried to make myself invisible. It's perfectly possible I pretended to be a Rangers fan, feigning disgust, threatening to boot a Tennent's Lager Lovely down the steps. Other Hibbies present probably did cheer, but the reaction to the goal still sounded like utter, dread-filled silence to my sappy middle-class ears. There's nothing like that Ibrox silence in all football.
Or there wasn't. These days, away fans are emboldened by having their own pen where, surrounded by their own kind, they can sing and shout and draw as much attention to themselves as possible. Ibrox has lost a lot of its fear. The diddy teams go there believing they can nick at least a point; their supporters can behave like auditionees as if they're auditioning for The X Factor, exhibition-centre exhibitionists one and all.
A good thing? Oh probably, but I can't help feeling that a useful rite of passage in Scottish life has been lost. The other day, I was interested to read the tennis player Jamie Murray recounting trips to Ibrox as a young lad when he and brother Andy had time on Saturdays to follow Hibs. The noise of the crowd, the Rangers hordes in growly acclamation of their team, made Jamie burst into tears. But you could hardly say this has impaired his future development.
I cherish my first visit to Ibrox, my first Hibs goal witnessed there, and my first experience of that special deep-space silence. Joe's header didn't clinch the Hibees another famous victory – the match was drawn – but the boy who pretended to kick that beer can was also taking his first tentative step towards becoming a man.
