I met Ricky outside the gym in the University of East Anlgia, Norwich. I was standing outside the gym entrance, texting someone before I went inside, when I heard a loud voice shouting.
“Hail, Hail!”
I didn’t look up. The voice shouted again.
“Hail, Hail!”
I still didn’t look up. The person shouting could have been shouting to anyone, I assumed. And campus was packed. It was seven in the evening, still rush hour, and students crowded the paths and bus stops as the evening grew darker.
The voice shouted again.
“Hey! Hail, Hail!”
This time I looked up. That’s when I saw Ricky. He was standing at the bus stop outside the gym looking straight at me, a big smile on his face.
When our eyes met he shouted “Hail, Hail!” again at me, then unzipped his jacket, revealing a green and white Celtic jersey. He kissed the crest and shouted “Hail, Hail!” again.
He pointed at my chest, and kissed the crest on his jersey again and sang “We love you Celtic, we do!” with his arms in the air. This was all because I had worn my Celtic jersey to the gym. I just smiled and gave him the thumbs up, half-thinking he was some loony.
Ricky started walking towards me. He wasn’t the typical person you find on a university campus. Ricky was in his 50s, short, chubby, and had the pink face of an alcoholic. He was wearing cheap black formal shoes – the sort priests wear – baggy stained tracksuits, a Celtic jersey, and an old raincoat. As he moved towards me, he shuffled rather than walked – slightly hunched – and was carrying a plastic Tesco bag with clothes inside.
Although his appearance was rough, his demeanor was upbeat and friendly. His face beamed as he reached me, pointing at my Celtic jersey.
Without hesitating, Ricky put his hand out to shake mine, then introduced himself.
“It’s good to finally meet a fellow Celtic man,” he said in a thick Glasgow accent. He looked thrilled, as if he’d spent his entire life searching for me.
I’m not a Celtic fan. But like any Irish football fan, Celtic holds a place in my heart. Also, half of my family on my mother’s side are Glaswegian. My granny grew up in Glasgow. So, half of my family are Celtic fans. But they’re not die hards though, like Ricky.
Ricky and I spoke for about thirty minutes standing outside the gym, mostly about Celtic and Glasgow. He assumed I was a much bigger Celtic fan than I am, but I didn’t let on otherwise. I didn’t want to tell him I wasn’t actually a big fan, because he seemed so genuinely happy to be talking to someone about Celtic that I didn’t want to burst his bubble. In fact, he just seemed genuinely happy to be talking to someone.
Eventually I told Ricky I needed to get to the gym. I said it was nice talking to him. As we were shaking hands goodbye, Ricky looked me in the eyes and said “Hail, Hail!” again. I had no idea what he was talking about. Then he kissed his Celtic crest and pointed to the sky, before turning around and walking back to the bus stop.
I walked towards the gym. I looked back at Ricky one last time before going inside. He was looking at me and immediately gave me two thumbs up.
Two hours later, after I had been to the gym for an hour, used the pool, showered and changed, I was leaving the gym when I heard the voice again.
“Hail, Hail!”
Ricky was sitting on a bench near the gym doors but he jumped up straight away when he saw me and scurried over excitedly. He told me he’d enjoyed talking with me so much that he had waited for me to come out so he could ask if I’d like to go for a pint with him some time.
There was nothing strange or creepy about him. He just seemed like a man who really wanted someone else’s company. Someone to talk to. I was flattered, and said yes. To be honest I felt sorry for him. He came across as happy, but his eyes were the only part of his face that didn’t smile.
Ricky suggested Saturday afternoon for a pint, so we could watch the game. I didn’t know what game he was referring to, but I said yes and gave him my phone so he could put his number in. He put it in as “Ricky Hoops!”
Then we shook hands goodbye once more. He kissed his badge again and shouted “Hail, Hail!” as we parted ways.
On my way home I texted my mate Ruairà back in Dublin. He’s a Celtic diehard. I asked him what the fuck “Hail, Hail!” meant. He told me it’s a Celtic chant and a common fan phrase for praising The Bhoys.
When I got home I spent a few hours reading about Celtic – the current squad and recent victories. I wanted to be able to hold my own and be able to have an informed conversation with Ricky when we met in the pub on Saturday.
I don’t know why I didn’t just tell Ricky the truth, that I’m not the diehard Celtic fan he thought I was. But there was something about Ricky. A sadness. A loneliness. I felt like by keeping up the charade, he would be happy, because he might feel connected to someone. It was strange, I know.
I got a text from Ricky later that night.
“Nice 2 meet u. C u Sat. Hail hail.”
Aaron500 