Third Time Lucky

When the suits lost the map and the ship hit the swell, when the club drifted hard under boardroom spells, they didn’t call prophets or kids chasing fame,
they called a humble man who remembers the name.

Third time back, no nonsense, no show, just scars on his hands and a fire burning slow.

He knows this club’s built on hunger and fight, not by balance sheets or power and might.

Let the storm rage on, let the critics squeal, Celtic fans around the world will march with O’Neill.

By J.J. Whelan