The Recovery Crew

J. J. Whelan

It was a cold October Saturday morning in 1987. Charlie stood over the bed, carefully laying out his armour for the day, the Stone Island trench coat, the Next jumper, Lois denims, and, pride of place, a fresh pair of Adidas ZX600s. He wasn’t just dressing for football, he was preparing for battle.

Soccer hooliganism was at its height, and Charlie was a committed member of the Celtic Soccer Crew. The match itself was only half the attraction. The other half was the ruck, the clashes with rivals that had become ritual, almost expected.

Despite the violence, there was a strange order to it all. The top boys from each crew knew each other and worked by an unspoken code. Respect ran both ways, even as fists flew on Saturdays.

For Charlie, the day began as it always did, an early meet at Bairds Bar. Pints were poured, tactics discussed, and the table scattered with lines to keep the lads marching well into the afternoon.

By midday the streets around the Gallowgate were buzzing. The air smelled of fried onions, cigarette smoke, and tension. Charlie and the crew moved in a pack, sharp-eyed and restless, blending with the flow of ordinary fans but marked out by their swagger and clobber.

Every Saturday was a ritual. The march to the ground, no matter what city, the songs, the stares exchanged with whoever dared cross their path. But the day wasn’t just about Celtic. It was about who was waiting at the other end, a rival firm hungry for a scrap, just as eager to prove themselves.

Word filtered through, as it always did, by whispers and phone calls. The meet was set. Away from the glare of the police, away from the prying eyes of the press. A dance, as the old hands called it. Both sides knew the score. No weapons, no rules but their own. Just fists, boots, and pride.

Charlie’s heart thumped as the lads drained their last pints and filed out into the grey city daylight. The chatter died down. Coats buttoned up, collars up trying to obscure their face. Somewhere, on some patch of forgotten ground, respect and rivalry were about to collide once more.

These crews rivalled for years, each determined to come out on top, not just in battle but in clobber too. Stone Island, Gabicci, Lois, Adidas: the uniform of war, and the unspoken competition of who wore it best. It wasn’t just fighting; it was a culture, a way of life.

But the game came at a cost. For some, it messed with their heads, rewired the way they thought. To this day, many are still living in those memories of the ’90s, replaying them like old highlight reels in their minds.

A lot of the lads eventually settled down, swapped Saturday scrapping for mortgages, school runs, and quieter lives. But not everyone found peace. For some, the come-down was too hard. The chaos of those years left scars, and when the buzz of the battles faded, they filled the silence with drink, drugs, or both. A few never made it out at all.

Charlie, Frogger, Choppy, and Davy , lads who once squared up against each other from rival crews all over the country, began to see the same thing. There was a gap, a void, where no one was reaching out to the men who had lived that life, men like them. The scars weren’t always visible, but they were there, the sleepless nights, the guilt, the bottles emptied to quiet the noise.

So they did something no one expected. They came together and formed a men’s mental health group, fittingly called “Keep The Heid.” What started as a few voices round a table grew into something bigger. Old friends, old enemies, lads who once traded blows on railway platforms and backstreets, now sat side by side, talking openly about the battles in their own heads.

The group struck a chord. Word spread. Keep The Heid became a lifeline for many, a place where the hard men of the terraces could finally admit they weren’t bulletproof. They were young men full of fear ego and bravado. Rivalries melted into respect. By talking, by listening, by keeping the heid, they managed to save lives that might otherwise have been lost.