Remember the St Patrick's Day massacre? It was all we had
Rangers displayed their small club mentality for all to see. We made the same mistake before
By Donal Glass
Ah, March. A time for daffodils, Guinness-fuelled optimism, and—if you're a Celtic fan of a certain vintage—hazy but vivid memories of the St Patrick’s Day Massacre back in ’91. A 2-0 Scottish Cup victory against Rangers that, if we're being embarrassingly honest, we remember so fondly because, well, it was about as close as we were getting to silverware at the time.
Derby days are peculiar animals, aren’t they? Everyone pretends they're above the pettiness until kick-off, at which point we're reduced to baying tribal warriors hurling insults (and occasionally pies). On that particular March afternoon, Celtic Park erupted with a joy usually reserved for clubs actually winning trophies, not just getting slightly closer to one.
Why does this game stand out so vividly? Possibly because, let's face it, at the time Celtic fans had little else to celebrate. Success back then was mostly theoretical—something we reminisced about or imagined achieving sometime in the future. Yet there we were, battering Rangers and feeling briefly invincible. Gerry Creaney and Dariusz Wdowczyk scored, and suddenly we believed miracles were possible. After all, Celtic scoring goals was rare enough that season; two in one game felt like we’d somehow cheated.
But what made this match iconic, what cemented it in folklore, was the absolute mayhem of the second half. Four red cards dished out like confetti, Rangers losing their collective minds, Celtic fans losing their collective dignity. Peter Grant was sent packing early, for the heinous crime of standing slightly too close to a Rangers free-kick. Rangers, determined not to be outdone, launched their own red-card competition: Terry Hurlock clobbered Tommy Coyne, Mark Walters tried to rearrange Coyne’s face, and Mark Hateley delivered the sort of tackle that would nowadays carry jail time rather than a simple dismissal.
And thus, the 'massacre' was born. Rangers collapsed spectacularly, gifting Celtic the victory we so desperately craved—and boy, did we milk it. It was our trophy, our European Cup final, our entire season compressed into one reckless afternoon of ecstasy. A club of winners would've perhaps taken the victory graciously, quietly planning the next step. But not us—we spent weeks parading that result like a newlywed showing off their wedding ring to anyone polite enough not to walk away.
In hindsight, celebrating so wildly was perhaps a bit embarrassing. Big clubs reserve that sort of hysteria for trophies; we were acting as if we’d won something meaningful, like the Eurovision Song Contest. Deep down, we knew we were clutching at straws, treating one sweet victory as a substitute for actual success. Yet, it remains oddly comforting, that moment of collective madness—a warm memory from a time when hope came from single results rather than sustained excellence.
Today, we look back with fond embarrassment—fond because, let's face it, we’ll take our joy wherever we can find it, and embarrassment because deep down we know it revealed our desperation. The St Patrick’s Day Massacre wasn’t just about beating Rangers—it was about briefly forgetting how far we’d fallen.
However, when a team not accustomed to consistent success secures a derby win, the celebrations can become disproportionately exuberant. This overexcitement can lead to a loss of focus, as the victory is treated as an end rather than a stepping stone.
We’ve all lived through these overexcited celebrations. We've smiled at their feverish antics, knowing full well how the story usually ends—back to the shadows, awaiting another fleeting afternoon of glory.
But here's the kicker: mature clubs move swiftly on. Celtic—winners, serial achievers, clubs with actual history—take the odd derby defeat squarely on the chin, shrugging, dusting ourselves off, and going again. We don’t let one afternoon define a season or validate our entire existence. Smaller clubs, though? One win and suddenly DVDs are rushed out, commemorative scarves are printed, and you’d think they’d discovered fire.
The psychology is fascinating. One solitary derby win becomes an adrenaline shot of relevance to a club desperate to taste genuine success. It's an easy trap: a false dawn mistaken for the real thing, temporary euphoria papering over serious structural flaws. But it never lasts. Reality always returns, and the hangover is brutal.
True football greatness isn’t measured in fleeting derby victories; it’s measured in sustained excellence. Big clubs get over setbacks quickly, precisely because they expect future triumphs. Smaller clubs cling to derby wins precisely because their cupboard of triumphs is generally bare.
Let them enjoy their moment, however disproportionate their joy. For us, such defeats are merely punctuation marks in an ongoing narrative of dominance. After all, that’s the true difference between clubs: some briefly celebrate, while others continually succeed.