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afewproblems · 7 months

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Season Two Halloween AU Part Six

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five

Synopsis: What if Eddie had been at Tina's Halloween Party in Season Two? Featuring Steve!Whump, Stancy Breakup, and Eddie just trying to keep up with all these new revelations about who King-Steve actually is...

As always, thank you thank you to the lovely Jess @strangersteddierthings for letting me inundate you with spoilers and general Stranger Things/Steddie screaming!

[CW: Period Typical Homophobia from the antagonist, violence, gore, bodily injury, Billy Hargrove is his own warning.]

***

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

Eddie takes a step closer to Steve, but Dustin is faster.

He pulls on the jacket sleeve, taking Steve to the window and Eddie can't even find the words to say to make him stop.

He wants to tell Dustin to give them a second, he wants to press pause on this whole horrible night and ask Steve to explain.

Because in what world did this make sense?

There is no possible way Steve is gay, and even if is, the guy is fresh off of being dumped by his girlfriend just days before.

On top of that, they're all running on fumes from a day searching for Dart, fortifying an old school bus, laying the Demodog trap in the junkyard, and finally coming back to the Byers to make their plan.

Eddie's stomach growls at the sudden thought and he realizes just how hungry he actually is after all the adrenalin and running around they've done.

If Eddie is this tired and hungry, he can't imagine Steve is faring much better, he's not thinking straight.

He can't be.

Because if he was, if he had meant it, and Eddie just--

"Oh shit," Steve says lowly from the edge of the intact window. He presses against the wall, keeping himself out of sight as much as he can, "what the fuck is Hargrove doing here?"

"That's what I'm saying," Dustin hisses, his eyes wide, he sticks close to Steve's side, away from the window and turns to Max, "what the hell is your brother doing here".

Max shoots Dustin a look and for a second Eddie thinks she's going to tell Dustin off before her face suddenly pales.

"He can't know I'm here, he'll kill me".

Lucas shifts closer to Max, knocking his shoulder into hers before turning his attention back to Steve, "he almost ran us over once, we were on our bikes".

Their bikes…Jesus.

It hits Eddie suddenly that they're just kids, all of thirteen years old, with an unpredictable asshole standing just outside their door.

Steve sighs suddenly and squares his shoulders, his big hazel eyes move from Max, to Lucas, to Dustin, and Mike, before finally landing on Eddie. His brow pinches in the middle as his expression shifts into the same determined one from the day before.

But this time there is no nail bat in his hands.

Shit.

"Steve, dont," Eddie says, darting across the room towards him, but Steve is too quick for him.

He reaches for the door and unlatches the bolt, "stay out of sight, all of you, I'll be right back".

It's a promise Eddie isn't sure Steve can make.

The kids immediately move towards the edge of the window before Eddie whispers out a sharp, "Go to the boarded one shitheads, he's going to see you".

Eddie shakes his head at the four identical eye rolls, but the kids do as he says and make their way to the far window he and Steve just closed up.

There are enough gaps between the wood slats that they can see Steve make his way to the path as Billy steps around his car.

"Am I dreaming or is that you Harrington?"

The cherry of his cigarette glows in the dark as Billy takes a long drag before flicking it into the street.

"Yeah it's me, don't cream your pants," Steve's voice is steady, the smooth lilt of his 'King' voice takes over and it's so different from what Eddie has come to realize is Steve's normal speaking voice that it throws him for a bit of a loop.

Just how much has Steve been pretending all this time.

Moonlight casts shadows over half of Billy's face but it doesn't hide the way his lip pulls over his teeth or the dark glint in his eye as he pulls off his jacket and tosses it through the open window of his Camaro.

"I'm looking for my step sister, little birdy told me she was here," Billy says, a sneer pulling at his mouth as his eyes scan the house before landing on Steve again, "which would already be weird enough, and now I find you here".

"I'm doing a favour for Mrs. Wheeler and Byers, babysitting, I don't think I've seen your step sister, what's she look like?"

Eddie can't see Steve's face from this angle but the words come out smoothly, no stumbles with the lie.

But Billy stares just a little too long for it to have properly landed.

"You do favours for people like that huh," Billy laughs, ignoring the question entirely as he takes another step closer. He and Steve are similar heights but Billy has a good twenty to thirty pounds of muscle on Steve and Eddie begins to sweat at the manic look on Billy's face.

"You're something else Harrington, I don't think I'd be able to stick around if my girl fucked someone else--"

"Your sister's Not Here," Steve bites out through gritted teeth. He steps into Billy's space, his shoulders high with tension and anger, "leave".

Billy laughs, a low dangerous sound, "you know, this whole night's been giving me a weird fucking feeling Harrington".

Billy tips his head back and leaves it there for just a moment and Eddie watches as Steve relaxes for just a second too long, tilting his head in confusion.

"And I think you're lying to me".

Billy punctuates the words by slamming his hands into Steve's shoulders, knocking him clean off his feet.

Steve hits the concrete hard, managing to roll enough for his shoulder to connect with the ground first rather than his head. He manages to sit up slightly, looking at Billy now with a mixture of surprise and fear in his wide eyes as he shifts to look back at the house.

Billy smirks and leans over Steve, "I'm just going to see for myself, told you to plant your feet pretty boy".

He stands up to his full height again and kicks Steve in the ribs. Hard.

Eddie curses quietly as Steve curls in on himself and makes a horrible retching sound, but there isn't time to worry about Steve as Billy comes lumbering up the front path towards the Byers front door.

Which is unlocked.

Eddie hadn't even thought to latch it.

"Hide. Now!" Eddie hisses at Max, she opens her mouth to argue but Lucas gives her a push to the shoulder and looks at her with pleading eyes.

"Just go okay?" Lucas whispers, pushing her again towards the kitchen.

She shoots Lucas a fierce glare over her shoulder and disappears around the corner.

Eddie steps back towards the kids, putting himself between them and the door, just in time for it to crash open.

Billy looks around the room, frowning slightly at the boarded up window and all of the drawings covering nearly every inch of the place like vines, before his gaze lands on Eddie and the kids behind him.

"Well, well, well, this is quite the party here huh boys," Billy sneers, kicking the door closed behind him.

"A private one," Eddie manages to keep his tone even as he takes a step closer, drawing Billy's eye away from the kids, "what do you want Hargrove".

Billy scoffs and tries to step around Eddie, yelling at the top of his voice as he moves, "Maxine! You got three seconds to get you skinny ass out here before I bring you out myself".

Eddie mirrors his path, blocking his movement.

"Who the fuck are you talking to man, I guess thats what happens when you take too many balls to face huh?" Eddie says with a mocking laugh in his voice, he lets the corner of his lip rise in a cold sneer.

Billy glares, "that's rich coming from a queer like you," he lifts his hand to shove Eddie's shoulder roughly, but Eddie's dealt with assholes like Billy time and time again and he’s expecting the push.

He stays standing, keeping himself between Billy and the kids.

Billy shakes his head, "I don't know why you're involved in this, are you revenge for Byers or something? I ain't here for you or your little boyfriend out there, freak".

"Just leave us alone!" Dustin shouts, drawing Billy's eye for the first time.

"Yeah fuck off!" Mike screams as Lucas stands up, glaring venomously at Billy. He has his wrist rocket raised, armed with a piece of jagged wood from the broken window.

"Sinclair," Billy's eyes narrow as they land on Lucas, "if I find out Maxine is here because of you--"

"You'll what?" Eddie growls, he hears a door open softly behind them but keeps his eyes on Billy, not taking any chances.

Billy seems to hesitate, his eyes dropping down to Eddie's fisted hands before rising again to meet his gaze, "Max already knows what happens when people don't listen, but I guess I'll have to show you the hard way Munson".

Billy moves like a viper, his fist rears back and swings forward so quickly that Eddie barely has time to react, catching the punch in the jaw as he tries to move out of the way.

"Sonovabitch," Eddie hisses, cradling his face. His vision swims as Billy reaches for his shirt collar, but the second blow never comes.

Billy's hand falls as Steve appears, barreling into Billy, shoulder first like a linebacker, sending them both crashing into the floor. Billy's head smacks into the linoleum, forcing a low groan out of him.

Steve recovers quicker, rolling off the other teen before rising to his knees. He’s breathing hard and holding his ribs with one hand while the other braces on the coffee table as he stands up.

"Holy shit," Dustin laughs out breathlessly as Steve limps closer, moving into Eddie's space.

"You guys okay?" Steve asks softly, he lifts his hand up towards Eddie's aching jaw but stops just shy of touching him. He blinks once and moves away again before turning to the kids.

They all freeze at the sound of a wild laugh behind them.

Billy runs a shaking hand through his mullet, slowly sitting up, scoffing when his fingers come away red.

"Finally!" Billy crows, "the King Steve I've been hearing about shows his face, where was he when I gave you that black eye yesterday huh?"

Billy wipes the blood from the side of his head on his jeans and laughs again, a horrible cackle that seems to echo around the small space of the living room. He paws at something on the floor as he manages to roll over onto his knees, breathing hard.

"Let me give you some advice Harrington,” Billy says through gritted teeth, bracing one hand on the coffee table while the other remains strangely hidden behind his back.

Steve says nothing, moving himself to stand in front of Eddie and the kids. Billy stumbles slightly and shakes his head as he manages to get his feet back under himself.

"If you're gonna hit someone, make sure they don't get back up".

By the time Eddie sees what Billy has clenched in his hand it's too late.

Billy swings his hand out and catches Steve in the temple with an ashtray, the ceramic shatters on impact sending pieces of pottery in all directions and embedding several into Billy’s hand.

Eddie's heart nearly stops at the wet crunch it makes as Steve's head whips back at the impact. He crumples limply to the floor, his head bouncing once against the linoleum before Steve lays still on the living room floor.

Eddie feels like he's underwater. Like time has slowed down and he's sinking.

He doesn't realize he's moving until he's in front of Billy, until he's gripping the edges of Billy's shirt in his hands, until he's shaking him like a ragdoll.

Eddie's never felt such overwhelming rage and fear, its coursing through him, burning him up from the inside out.

Steve isn't moving.

There's only coherent thought playing on a loop in his head.

He's dead, he's dead, he's dead.

"Billy!" A small voice cuts through Eddie's yelling, when had he started yelling, from the kitchen door.

Billy's face tips towards it, his dazed eyes widen slightly and his lip curls back in a feral smile.

"I fucking knew it," Billy slurs out as Eddie throws him to the floor.

He laughs again and again, his head bleeding freely now, red lines drip down his face.

Max takes a shaky step into the living room; she ignores Lucas yelling at her to run and continues forward, Will's second dose of sedative clutched in her left hand.

Max pushes past Eddie, drops to her knees and plunges the needle into Billy's neck with a roar. Eddie watches as Billy flinches at the impact and lifts his hands to frantically rip the needle out.

"What the fuck?!" He whispers, trying to sit up but his shaking arms only drop him back to the floor, "what did you do?"

"Made it so you can't hurt my friends," Max says lowly, she trembles as Eddie helps her stand and directs her towards the boys who immediately fold her into a hug between the three of them.

Eddie keeps his eyes on Billy until his breathing smooths out and his unfocused eyes finally close before he’s on his feet. He crosses the room in two strides and drops to his knees in front of Steve, letting his uncle's voice run through everything he ever taught him about first aid.

Don't move them, keep them talking, keep them warm.

Eddie's hands shake as he reaches out for Steve's neck and feels for a pulse, trying not to look at the blood coating Steve's face or the shards of ceramic in his hair.

"Is he…" Dustin says beside Eddie, startling him. The whole house has gone eerily silent as the kids finally make their way towards them, they don't crowd him the way Dustin has though.

Eddie swallows and moves his fingers slightly until he finds it, a thin reedy pulse.

He's alive.

Eddie feels his eyes sting and a wet hysterical laugh falls from his mouth. Steve is nowhere near okay, but he's alive.

He's alive.

Part Seven!

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dippedanddripped · 4 years

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“I’M SO OFF MY TITS ON COFFEE,” Stella McCartney admits, knocking back yet another cup in the foyer of a boutique hotel a stone’s throw from her home in London’s Notting Hill. “I had four school drop-offs this morning,” she explains. “I start at 6:30 a.m., and by the time I get to work [by bicycle], I feel like I’m literally done for the day. I’m a big hot sweaty mess, too,” she adds, having decided that a thick organic-cotton flying suit (no pesticides used in its production) was the way to dress for a Monday morning that started grimly overcast but soon turned sultry. “It’s just so difficult being in fashion, isn’t it?” McCartney sighs. “We have to pretend to be so perfect. I’m the one that comes in with a punk-rock kind of ‘fuck this perfection,’ ” says the woman who famously turned up, with Liv Tyler, to the Costume Institute’s 1999 “Rock Style” exhibition, both wearing jeans and custom T-shirts spelling out ROCK ROYALTY. “It’s not maintainable, it’s not wise, and it’s very old-fashioned. So there you go.”

McCartney does the school run five days a week with daughters Bailey, 13, and Reiley, 9, and sons Miller, 14, and Beckett, 11. “When you’ve got a job and you’ve got kids,” she says, “it’s when you get to see them, and you have to wake up super early and engage in that moment. Then I try and squeeze in some exercise, and then I go to work. And I try and get back for the bookending of being a mum.”

On weekends, McCartney spends more time with the family when they decamp to an estate in the wilds of unfashionable north Gloucestershire, the result of a house hunt born, as McCartney has explained, of “a desperate mission to find land so that I could ride my horse.”

McCartney married the dashing and protective Alasdhair Willis—the former publisher of Wallpaper and a creative guru himself—in the fall of 2003, and their aligned aesthetic passions run the gamut from the innovative indoor-outdoor architecture of the midcentury Sri Lankan architect Sir Geoffrey Bawa to old English roses. Over the past 15 years, the couple have transformed their handsome but once desolate Georgian manor house, sitting in bleak open farmland, into “a redbrick box within a garden within a garden within a garden,” as McCartney describes it, a breathtaking landscape of grand walled enclosures and allées of trees reflecting both her belief that “being out in a beautiful garden is nicer than sitting in a beautiful room” and her husband’s passion for such stately English flowering landscapes as Hidcote and Sissinghurst. “We planted a million trees,” McCartney told Vogue in 2010, “made another Eden.”

“You know what I was doing this weekend?” asks McCartney. “I was riding my horse barefoot and bareback, with my daughter [Reiley]. It was about as good as it gets.”

On a visit there in 2010 I was intrigued to discover—among the bridle paths, wild meadows, orchards, and Downton-scaled rose gardens and herbaceous borders—a series of reed-filled ponds that turned out to be the McCartney-Willises’ off-the-grid sewage system. “See?” says McCartney with her impish laugh. “Being an environmentalist can be sexy!”

McCartney has been environmentally conscious since childhood. “I was privileged,” she has admitted. “I grew up on an organic farm; I saw the seasons. My parents were vegetarians—they were change agents.” (That childhood idyll is evoked in her late mother, Linda McCartney’s, book The Polaroid Diaries, which also captures the world of McCartney’s American relatives, including her Eastman grandfather, who lunched at the exclusive Maidstone Club and hung de Koonings and Rothkos in his Billy Baldwin–decorated Fifth Avenue drawing room, where the infant McCartney amused herself with Joseph Cornell’s magical shadow boxes, alluringly placed on a child’s-height shelf.)

The great outdoors is also reflected in McCartney’s state-of-the-sustainable-arts London flagship store—which she designed herself, with a soundtrack that includes a three-hour loop of her father, Paul’s, demo tapes along with a Bob Roth meditation in the changing rooms. “The audio is important for me,” she says as she proudly walks me round it, “because it’s obviously such a big part of my upbringing.” There are papier-mâché walls made from “all of the shredded paper from the office,” along with a silver birch grove and a moss-covered rockery of giant granite rocks brought from the 1,100-acre McCartney family farm on Scotland’s Mull of Kintyre. “My personality is this sort of contrast between the hard and the soft, the masculine and feminine,” says McCartney. “I wanted to have life in the store—to bring nature into the experience of shopping,” she explains as she takes me up in the Stellevator to the floor where she fitted the Duchess of Sussex for the glamorous halter-neck dress she wore for the wedding reception following her marriage to Prince Harry. There are also pieces from McCartney’s “All Together Now” Beatles collaboration, inspired by a friends-and-family screening of Yellow Submarine that her father staged on the film’s 50th anniversary. “It just blew my brains because I hadn’t seen it since I was a kid,” she recalls. “It’s astonishing—just mental and so trippy and so childlike and so innocent and so heavy and so meaningful.”

Since McCartney’s 1995 Central Saint Martins graduation show, her brand has been defined by the urgent desire to do away with animal cruelty in the fashion industry. And while, 20 years ago, there were fake furs on the market, the only glues available were animal-based. “I imagine Vikings sitting around a pot, boiling down the last bones of the elk that they skinned for the fur,” says McCartney. “And I think, Wow—we’re still there.” Today McCartney uses renewable energy where it’s available for both her stores and offices; the eyewear she shows me in her store is bi-acetate, and her sneakers are made with biodegradable Loop technology; she uses regenerated nylon, polyester, and cashmere but also works with producers making innovative fashion fibers—building fake fur from sustainable corn fiber, for instance, producing vegan microsilk, and growing mycelium-based “leather.”

“I was always a bit of a freak in the house of fashion,” McCartney says. “My regime, my culture, has been different from day one.” In Paris, where she was appointed creative director of Chloé in 1997, she struggled with the perception that at 26 she was too young and unqualified for the job (“The Beatles wrote Sgt. Pepper when they were 26,” she told Vogue tartly), and her working practice was “totally at odds with the rest of the industry,” as she recalls. Even now, she says, “every single day in our office is this sort of daily challenge—a way of trying to perfect and persist and find realistic solutions within the luxury-fashion sector—and even in a more broadstream way with the collaborations with Adidas [initiated in 2004]. Each day,” she says, “there are questions that I ask that we try to find an answer for. And if we can’t, we’ll try again tomorrow.”

Despite what she refers to as “a lot of resistance,” McCartney turned the Chloé gig (which lasted through the launch of her self-titled brand in 2001) into a triumph, tripling sales. Today, as we march inexorably to global Armageddon, her commitment to cruelty-free fashion and sustainability is fast becoming the industry norm. In recent years, for instance, luxury brands including Gucci, Prada, Michael Kors, Armani, and Chanel have declared themselves fur-free. “I’m hugely relieved,” says McCartney, “but I’m actually astounded that it’s taken so long.”

McCartney now gives scholarships at Central Saint Martins, her alma mater, for students who “adhere to our ethical charter,” and helps young designers navigate the complicated terrain of sustainability. “We’re in the farming industry in fashion,” she says. “We look at the biodiversity and the soil. It’s crazy. It’s basically exhausting. It’s much easier not to do it. So I kind of understand why the world hasn’t quite followed.”

BUT McCartney has far more ambitious goals for expanding her global industry reach. Last year, she bought back full ownership of her label from Kering, 17 years after the group’s then–creative director Tom Ford had urged the company to invest in McCartney’s fledgling brand. Following her move, “people began to show an interest quite quickly,” as McCartney recalls. “I was fortunate enough that Mr. Arnault was one of the people.” She’s speaking, of course, of Bernard Arnault, the all-powerful chairman and chief executive of LVMH, which acquired a minority share in Stella McCartney in July. “I think it’s incredibly exciting. It sends a big, big message to the industry if Mr. Arnault is asking me to be his personal adviser on sustainability at LVMH. I think that was one of the attractions for me—it is a big, timely statement, and hopefully game-changing for all of us.”

McCartney points out that the fashion brands with the biggest environmental impact in terms of scale are “the high-end luxury houses, and then the fast-fashion sector. They have massive impact in a negative way, and they can have a massive impact in a positive way.” These fast-fashion retailers, as she observes, turned from fur far earlier than luxury brands. “They’re more in touch with the youth,” she says, “and what the next generation of consumers actually wants. It’s a given for my children,” she notes, “that you have to show some kind of mindfulness or awareness.” (In recognition of the next generation’s activists, McCartney has launched the Stella McCartney Today for Tomorrow Award—video nominations via Instagram—“to celebrate,” as she says, “a new generation of change agents and eco-warriors under 25 who are kicking ass for Mother Earth.”)

She may have her work cut out for her. A week after our coffee klatch and four days before presenting her spring-summer 2020 show in Paris (“our most sustainable collection ever”), Arnault, addressing an LVMH sustainability event in Paris, called out 16-year-old activist Greta Thunberg for “indulging in an absolute catastrophism about the evolution of the world” in her electrifying appearance at the United Nations summit on climate change. “I find it demoralizing,” he added. It was perhaps no accident that McCartney raced to put together a sustainability panel (no questions, no photographs) of her own on the eve of her show at the Opéra Garnier—a panel that included Extinction Rebellion activist Clare Farrell, the legendary environmentalist and activist Yann Arthus-Bertrand, and author Dana Thomas (Fashionopolis: The Price of Fast Fashion and the Future of Clothes), who noted that “we wear our clothes seven times on average before throwing them away . . . we’re perpetuating this bulimia of buying, using, and throwing away.”

“What we’ve seen over the last few weeks and months,” McCartney said, pointedly, “is children and young people taking action.” The designer also addressed the issue of young activists’ rejecting the idea of consumerism. “If the youth of today stop buying into it,” McCartney added, “then obviously, the people at the top have got to deliver on that.”

Rayon, or viscose, an indispensable fashion fiber, for instance, is created from wood pulp. “This year alone,” McCartney says, “up to 150 million trees have been cut down just for viscose.” McCartney now sources hers from sustainable forests in Sweden. “I’m trying to create something that’s still sexy and desirable and luxurious that isn’t landfill,” she tells me. “Every single second, fast fashion is landfill.”

Does McCartney feel that she’s had an impact on the practices of other brands? “That’s not for me to say,” she demurs. “That would be so unchic of us. But we are a kind of incubator. I have sympathy for how hard it is to shift the massive Titanic ship away from the iceberg,” she says. “We’re a little agile sailboat, and we built the ship. And I think that’s easier than changing something that’s been going in one direction for so long.”

While she was at Kering, the company developed an environmental profit-and-loss tool that assigned a monetary value to environmental impact—something that led to McCartney’s decision (to give just one example) to stop the use of virgin cashmere, a material with 100 times the environmental impact of wool. (It takes four goats to make enough cashmere for a single sweater, resulting in a need for grazing land that has destroyed the steppes of Mongolia and led to desertification and sandstorms in northern China.) Her label now uses regenerated cashmere, made from factory scraps that are shredded and respun into new yarn, and focuses on alpaca (“a much more friendly material”) and traceable wool (four sweaters from one sheep).

McCartney also holds an annual forum for all of her suppliers to talk with them about what her company requires and to share information on recent advances. “A lot of people see change as something scary,” she says, “but the mills are interested in working with innovators.

“I think that in a sense we’re a project,” she adds. “We’re trying to prove that this is a viable way to do business in our industry—and that you don’t have to sacrifice any style or any edginess or coolness in order to work this way. At the end of the day,” she says, “we’re a fashion house trying to deliver on the promise of desirability. Without that, I can’t even have this conversation. So I have to try and find a healthy balance—and doing both jobs is a balance. It’s the same as being a mum. My other ‘family’ is work. And I have to find the balance between this conversation of fashion and the conversation of consciousness—and they have to complement each other.”

#stella mccartney #fashion blog #conscience fashion

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celticnoise · 4 years

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CQN continues its enthralling and EXCLUSIVE extracts from Alex Gordon’s book, ‘That Season In Paradise’, which takes us through the months that were the most momentous in Celtic’s proud history.

Today, we look at another dramatic step along the team’s destination towards their crowning glory.

JOCK STEIN was only too aware of the date as the Celtic coach transported his players from Seamill to Hampden for the Scottish Cup semi-final against Clyde on April 1, traditionally known, of course, as ‘April Fools Day’. It was a potential banana skin against part-time opponents who went into the encounter as 5/1 rank outsiders.

Davie White, the bold and aspiring thirty-three-year-old Clyde manager, was earning deserved acclaim for what he was achieving at the prudent Shawfield outfit. He made no brash or outrageous boasts before the match and merely announced he hoped his team would do enough to make their supporters proud. He wasn’t quite in the same class as Stein in the kidology stakes, but he had a fair stab at it, anyway. White, who spent his entire nine-year playing career at the homely Rutherglen club, was asked if he had anything special lined up for his team as they prepared for the big game. Producing the underdog card, he replied, ‘Well, if I could get all the players off their work at the same time that would be great.’

Stein, the master in the specialised art of deception, might even have smiled at the bluff by the ambitious young pretender. The shrewd Celtic manager would have been well primed about the form of Clyde during their 1-0 league win over Dunfermline at Shawfield the previous month. He wouldn’t have forgotten their 5-1 trouncing of a fine Hibs team in November. Nor would he have overlooked a 1-0 victory over full-time Morton at tricky Cappielow in an earlier round of the Scottish Cup.

There was more than just a ‘let’s-forget-about-the-ball-and-get-on-with-the-game’ approach from his last-four opponents. One newspaper scribe had watched in obvious awe at White’s assembled bunch of butchers, bakers and candlestick-makers and wrote, ‘Clyde move the ball out of defence into attack with the grace and accuracy of a conjurer opening his scarves to reveal a dove.’ Nobody’s fools, then.

Jock Stein wasn’t buying into the notion that the game was already a foregone conclusion. Emphasising that outlook was the fact the Celtic medical staff had worked all week in an effort to have Bobby Murdoch one hundred per cent fit to play after missing the Partick Thistle game with the ankle injury sustained the previous Saturday against Hearts. The broad-shouldered midfielder with the svelte touch underwent two x-rays before Stein reluctantly ruled him out and once again played Willie Wallace in the right-hand side of his midfield twosome. On this occasion, he would be partnered by Bertie Auld with Charlie Gallagher dropping onto the substitute’s bench.

Drizzle greeted Billy McNeill and Harry Glasgow, the respective captains, as they led their teams out of the tunnel, across the red ash running track and onto the drenched pitch. The infuriating Hampden Swirl was once more making its annoying presence known. This was to be Celtic’s seventeenth domestic Cup-tie of the season, including the League and Glasgow Cups, and Stein’s team had won the lot. Clyde, with combination of true grit, exceptional organisation and generous fortune, were ninety minutes away from ending the sequence. The encounter finished all-square without either keeper being invited to retrieve the ball from his net.

HEADS I WIN…Tommy Gemmell clears from a young Harry Hood in a rare Clyde attack.

HEADS YOU LOSE…Clyde defender John McHugh clears an effort from Billy McNeill effort off the line.

And, yet, Celtic claimed with validity for a penalty-kick four minutes from time; the proverbial stonewaller that was witnessed by everyone in the 56,704 crowd with the curious exception of the only man who mattered, referee John Gordon. The match official was no stranger to controversy and, in 1978, was banned by the Scottish Football Association after receiving gifts to the value of £1,000 from AC Milan before a UEFA Cup second leg tie which the Italians won 3-0 against Levski Sofia following a 1-1 draw in Bulgaria. The suspension was just twelve years too late for the frustrated Celtic contingent congregated around the vicinity of Mount Florida that afternoon.

Photographs in the following day’s newspapers showed incontrovertible proof that Clyde defender Davie Soutar had used an elbow to divert a goalscoring shot from Jimmy Johnstone off the line. Remarkably, Gordon waved play on to utter disbelief of the Celtic players and obvious relief of their Clyde counterparts. It would be trite to imply the part-timers did not deserve something following their superhuman efforts, but it is difficult to ignore the fact that luck intervened on sporadic occasions to keep them interested in the national competition. Billy McNeill twice powered headers beyond Tommy McCulloch and resolute defender Glasgow cleared the first and, moments later, John McHugh performed another last-ditch rescue from under the crossbar.

One watching scribe observed, ‘To be truthful, it was a dour battle, fought without marked inspiration by either side. The general standard of passing and finishing was deplorably low and, although there was perhaps more excitement in the second-half during which Clyde were facing into a troublesome wind, it was fleeting and, as often than not, completely unproductive. It is perhaps indicative of the afternoon’s trend of events that all the players who passed muster were in defence. Billy McNeill, as well as being a masterful centre-half, was the game’s most effective attacker, even if he did confine his efforts in that sphere to corner-kicks.’

The reporter continued, ‘Such was the ineffectiveness of the forwards that it was not until thirty-one minutes had elapsed that either goalkeeper had to make a save of any consequence and, even then, it was by a defender, Tommy Gemmell, who brought out the best in Tommy McCulloch with a tremendous shot from twenty yards which looked netbound all the way until the goalkeeper miraculously turned the ball over the crossbar one-handed.’

Jock Stein left immediately after the game to catch a plane bound for Czechoslovakia to watch European Cup semi-final opponents Dukla Prague. He admitted, ‘Yes, it’s disappointing not to finish the tie and we had the chances that would have gone in on another day. An extra fixture at this stage of the season is something we could do without, but we are still in the tournament and we will just have to win the replay.’

The second game would have to be played again on the following Wednesday which would give the Celtic manager, scheduled to return from the Czechoslovakian capital on Monday, forty-eight hours to prepare his players for another Hampden tilt. His mood was heightened somewhat when he was informed Rangers had lost 1-0 to Dunfermline at Ibrox and Celtic were now two points ahead at the top of the table with a game in hand and only five matches left to play. The Parkhead side were now massive favourites to achieve their second successive championship.

In front of a crowd of 55,138 in the replay, Celtic were two goals ahead by the twenty-second minute, courtesy of efforts from Bobby Lennox and Bertie Auld, and had as good as booked their third successive Scottish Cup Final berth during Jock Stein’s reign and their fifth in seven years. Willie Wallace again lined up in the No.4 shorts, but, on this occasion, was hardly a direct replacement for Bobby Murdoch. Stein gave that position to Charlie Gallagher with Auld playing beside him on the left. By the time Davie White had cottoned on, his team were heading for the exit.

The opening goal arrived as early as the second minute when Stevie Chalmers had a shot blocked and Lennox swooped on the rebound. And Auld, displaying his usual quick thinking, claimed the second after Chalmers had nodded the ball into his path. The midfielder flummoxed his marker Stan Anderson with a swift shuffle of his feet and a change of direction before belting an effort high past Tommy McCulloch. Jimmy Johnstone had looked out of sorts and it was no surprise he was replaced by John Hughes just before the hour mark. It was later discovered the winger had been suffering flu symptoms and he wasn’t even considered for inclusion to the squad for the game against Motherwell three days later as Celtic travelled to Fir Park, the scene of the previous season’s joyous title celebrations.

NINETY MINUTES FROM GLORY…Celtic players John Clark, Tommy Gemmell, Ronnie Simpson and Billy McNeill line up before the European Cup semi-final against Dukla Prague.

The players may have had their focus somewhat blurred with the European Cup semi-final first leg against Dukla Prague at Parkhead due the following Wednesday, but they failed to spark on this occasion. It was a fairly dismal confrontation and the nearest Celtic came to breaking the deadlock in the first-half was a trademark header from Billy McNeill that was knocked off the line by Davie Whiteford with his goalkeeper, Peter McCloy, out of position and in distress. Charlie Gallagher limped out of proceedings at half-time and was replaced by Jim Brogan, whose forte was more destructive than constructive, but it didn’t prevent the champions from winning 2-0 to keep their place at the pinnacle of the First Division with four games remaining and a match in hand.

The barrier-breaking goal arrived just before the hour mark when Bertie Auld crossed for Willie Wallace to strike an awesome volley wide of McCloy. Tommy Gemmell made certain in the seventieth minute with another blistering penalty-kick. It was a vital win to put Jock Stein’s team on fifty-four points while the best Rangers could have managed was a total of fifty-eight. Celtic also had the distinct edge on goal average, with one hundred and five strikes compared to the Ibrox side’s ninety-eight while Ronnie Simpson had conceded twenty-eight as opposed to their twenty-seven.

On a crisp, still Wednesday evening of April 12, Celtic moved within an hour-and-a-half of a place in the European Cup Final. Jock Stein’s pre-match requirement was stark: a two-goal advantage to take to Czechoslovakia. The players responded and Dukla Prague were dismissed 3-1 in front of 74,406 excited supporters who were beginning to believe their team just might be in with a chance of conquering Europe. The thought would have been disregarded as a combination of irrational, unreasonable and absurd only eight months beforehand.

JINKY’S DINK…Jimmy Johnstone lifts the ball over Dukla Prague keeper Ivo Viktor for the opening goal.

Willie Wallace went some way to replay his £30,000 transfer fee with two splendid goals in his debut appearance in Europe’s premier trophy. Jimmy Johnstone, a source of inspiration on this occasion, claimed the other. But the encounter kicked off in controversial fashion when Stevie Chalmers had a goal disallowed. Tommy Gemmell flighted an inviting ball downfield, Wallace got a touch to Chalmers, he slipped it to Johnstone coming in from the right and the little winger chipped it back for Chalmers to nod in at the near post. The referee ruled Johnstone’s foot was dangerously high while collecting the ball and cancelled the effort.

Dukla, it must be pointed out, were no dummies on an evening that was perfect for football. Josef Masopust would never be invited to blow out the candles on a thirtieth birthday cake again, but he was looking very comfortable in his team’s engine room as he dictated the flow of the game with masterly poise. In the gangly Stanislav Strunc he had a willing accomplice in making life a trifle uneasy for the Celtic defence. Ronnie Simpson had to look lively on two occasions before he actually set in motion the game’s opening goal in the twenty-eighth minute.

The keeper, who normally initiated attacks with throw-outs, mainly to Bobby Murdoch and Bertie Auld, elected to launch a clearance down the middle. Chalmers got a flick and it fell for Auld who teed it up for Wallace. His shot deflected off a defender into the path of Johnstone and he gleefully lifted it over the head of the outrushing Ivo Viktor, another internationally-acclaimed goalkeeper. However, that effort was nullified on the stroke of half-time when the Celtic central defence got into a real muddle on their own eighteen-yard line. Strunc pounced and stroked the ball away from Simpson. Celtic Park was struck dumb.

PARKHEAD SILENCED…Stanislav Strunc levels for the Czechs just before the interval.

Simpson remembered, ‘Masopust created the opening with a through pass to Nedorost. The inside-left slipped and looked as though he had handled the ball, but he managed to flick it to Strunc, the tall, ungainly outside-right, who fairly crashed it where I didn’t want it to go.’

Tommy Gemmell said, ‘In the dressing room, we got the usual pep talk from Big Jock and, rather obviously, conceding a goal just before the interval is horrible timing. But you can’t come off the pitch feeling sorry for yourself.

‘You must not dwell on it; you have to concentrate fully on what is still to come. “Just play like you did in the first-half and you’ll win,” urged the Boss. Actually, we were already thinking along those lines, anyway. I know I was.’

Just before the hour mark, the left-back punted the ball forward and Wallace was running free of the Czech defence to get a wonderful touch off the outside of his right boot to send the ball soaring into the net for the second goal.

PICK IT OUT…Willie Wallace flashes an effort high over Ivo Viktor for the second goal.

Five minutes later, a desperate Ladislav Novak pawed away a high ball from Bobby Murdoch and received a booking for his goalkeeping tendencies. It didn’t get any better when Bertie Auld stepped up to take the resultant free-kick. He dithered a bit to unsettle the defensive wall and then touched the ball sideways to Wallace who bulleted an unstoppable first-time drive past Viktor. The ball was stretching the netting before he even had the opportunity to twitch a muscle.

With twenty-five minutes still to go, the Czech champions were on the verge of collapse and surrender. They were there for the taking as Celtic rolled forward in numbers, the fans urging them on for more goals. Chalmers slashed one past the post, Wallace wasn’t far off target with another and Murdoch sent a left-foot belter just over the crossbar. Wallace even knocked one against the face of the bar from a Chalmers cross.

Masopust the maestro had disappeared under the onslaught, but he and his team-mates held out until the end and Celtic had to be content with a 3-1 advantage to take to Prague.

Willie Wallace said, ‘There has always been the suggestion I should have taken my European bow in the quarter-final ties against Vojvodina. I have heard that, although I was registered to play in the domestic competitions, someone had been a little late in getting the forms to UEFA to allow me to play in the European tournament. I signed for Celtic on December 10 1966 and the first leg against the Yugoslavians was on March 1 1967. That’s a fair period between signing and that game and, to be completely honest, I don’t know how long you had to be registered back then to allow you to play in Europe.

‘I am not complaining, though. You never know what might have happened if I had played against Vojvodina – maybe we wouldn’t have got through! As it was, I was more than delighted to play against Dukla Prague in the following round. I had been sitting alongside the injured Joe McBride in the stand at Celtic Park to witness that astounding quarter-final against the Slavs and I thought, “Wispy, this is the place for you!” I wanted a slice of that, believe me. I know the other lads would all say the same thing, but the atmosphere generated by our support during those European occasions was just breathtaking. Quite staggering, really.

‘I was well up for the Dukla game. I had anticipated it for weeks and just hoped I would get the go-ahead from Big Jock to play. You never took anything for granted with the Boss because that would have been a huge mistake. But everything just went so well for me on my European Cup debut. I couldn’t have scripted it better myself. A 3-1 victory and two goals from me.

‘Okay, it would have been nice to have claimed a hat-trick, but I wasn’t grumbling. I came close, you know. I actually hit the crossbar near the end. Big Jock had told us beforehand, “Get a two-goal advantage and I’m sure we’ll get through.” My first goal came just before the hour mark when Big Tommy launched one downfield. It might have been a clearance, but he has always assured me it was an inch-perfect pass! Anyway, suddenly I had a bit of freedom in the Dukla penalty area, and managed to flick the ball with the outside of my foot and it carried past their keeper.

‘About five minutes or so later, Celtic Park just went crazy when I scored again. It was all down to the cunning antics of Bertie Auld. He stepped up to take a free-kick, paused and looked as though he was about to recentre it. I knew what was coming next, though. Bertie merely slipped the ball to the side and I was coming in behind him to hit it first time. The ball flew through their defensive wall and was in the net before Ivo Viktor could move. It looked like an impromptu bit of skill from Wee Bertie, but, take my word for it, that little bit of trickery came straight off the training ground. We practised that move every day.

‘It was an idea from Big Jock who was always looking at ways of developing free-kicks and corner-kicks. He continually urged us to put variety into deadball situations and Wee Bertie seized the moment against Dukla Prague. The Czechs were startled. They began pointing at Stevie Chalmers and claiming offside. Stevie had followed my shot into the net, but there was no way he had been off. It was just his speed getting round the back of the wall that got him into that position. When I connected with the ball, I can assure everyone that Stevie was well onside.’

TOMORROW: Celtic’s Wembley wonders and stalemate in Prague.

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flauntpage · 6 years

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“I Thought it Was Cov’s Best Game of the Year” – Observations from Sixers 105, Hornets 103

Short recap for this one since the Eagles’ London game is messing up my routine.

The Sixers won at home against an average Eastern Conference team.

It wasn’t an amazing performance, but they got nice nights from Joel Embiid and Robert Covington, who paced the first unit with 27 and 18 points, respectively. Embiid added 14 rebounds and shot 10-22 from the floor.

In other words, he did what he does, which is quietly drop double-doubles in the 30 and 12 range, which is what he’s been doing all season long. I don’t know how you quietly drop those numbers, but that’s how Embiid operates.

So I want to talk about Covington, who I think had his best game of the year. Brett Brown thought the same:

“You know you look at it and Kemba Walker ends up with 37 points. But what we’re looking at is the stats in the second half, the fact that he’s 11-for-31, and 3-for-15 (from three) to get those 37. I thought it was Cov’s best game of the year… he ended up being our bell ringer, he had 10 rebounds along with that, hit that big three that really sealed the game. He was very good tonight.”

That three was a 26-footer with 1:44 remaining to give the Sixers a four-point lead and essentially put the game out of reach. Covington shot 6-11 from the floor and 4-7 from deep, improving his three point percentage to 43.6 this season.

Defensively he added four blocks and two steals while only turning the ball over once. It was an excellent all-around game from him.

I think one of the problems with Covington is that casuals just don’t understand his defensive game, which is not predicated on stout 1v1 defense. We’ve said a million times before that he’s not Bruce Bowen. Most people are going to struggle to lock down Kemba Walker and will get beat off the dribble.

But what he does is switch and rotate fluidly, defend point guards and power forwards, steal the ball and deflect passes – all things that don’t jump off the page at you. The optics of what he does well don’t pop while the optics of what he doesn’t do well are more apparent.

So I asked him about that after the game. Can people properly qualify your defensive contributions?

Covington:

“From the outside looking in, a lot of people don’t understand what all goes into it. You can’t get caught up in that. The people that understand the way the game is and how everything goes can get a better feel for it, for how everything happens. You can’t get caught up in what they’re saying, you just have to focus in.”

More or less.

This is the most Covington play of all time:

Some people will look at that and say, “what a block!”

Others will say, “well he was easily beat off the dribble.”

I think he makes a nice recovery play after keeping Kemba Walker off the three point line and funneling him into one of the league’s best rim protectors, so I guess my take is somewhere in the middle. I don’t know what he’s being coached to do in that situation by Brett Brown and Billy Lange.

Covington is a hard player to accurately rate. He does a lot of small things well and when his shot is falling he’s among the best three and D wings in the NBA. Last night was one of those nights.

An off-night

Ben Simmons rated his performance as a D.

He just wasn’t getting anything to fall as he constantly attacked the rim, oftentimes when a short jump shot was the easier path to points.

Look at this shot chart:

Just one attempt outside the paint, and that was an elbow-ish jumper that he tried with 2:40 left in the fourth quarter. He finished with three assists, so it wasn’t just the shooting – he looked off all night long.

I asked Brown what he saw from Simmons on Saturday night and if he felt like he was forcing his shots:

“I’m always trying to get him to be in attack mode, be proactive. Maybe tonight a few times it was forced situations where I still like his spirit. I like his spirit, and it’s taking that spirit and putting it in the right environment, trying to help him find those driving lanes and opportunities. We are always challenging him. With offensive rebounds, I think he can be incredibly elite, gifted, featured on other teams scout tapes as a committed offensive rebounder. He had six tonight, I thought that was an excellent part of his game tonight. In general, statistically, you look at it, it wasn’t one of his better games. But the mindset to attack is something we want to encourage, just in the right environment.”

True, but he can be an elite, top-10 NBA player even if he just develops a short pull-up instead of having to take the ball to the rim on every drive.

Easy buckets

I really liked this design that they used twice last night to get Joel Embiid easy looks at the rim.

They set up the two-man game with JJ Redick, but instead of running a dribble hand-off, it’s really a back screen or inverted pick and roll if you want to call it that, with the smaller guy operating as the screener:

You see Michael Kidd-Gilchrist playing Redick really aggressively there, so Redick just walks him into Bismack Biyombo and Embiid rolls right off it for the easy dunk.

They ran another just before halftime but Embiid clanked his dunk off the back iron.

Markelle Fultz

Ten points on 4-9 shooting and 2-2 from the foul line. He didn’t try a three pointer in this game but he had some really nice moments attacking the rim and pushing the ball in transition:

SPINNIN'

Fultz gets a little fancy to get to the cup for a pair.

And the bench approves. pic.twitter.com/WpW2kvGdS9

— NBC Sports Philadelphia (@NBCSPhilly) October 28, 2018

He’s clearly most comfortable in those positions, especially with the ball in his hands.

The half-court game is not there, and it’s not even close to being there, but you see the flashes of brilliance every so often, which tells me that “it” is in there, it’s just a matter of making Markelle more assertive and getting his shot totals up.

Brown on Fultz:

“I thought he was really good tonight. Pushing the ball in the open court, I thought he had a few good finds on Joel. When we can get him in early offense, in open court, and he’s thinking ‘attack the rim, get to the paint, and go there to dunk.’ Instead of getting in there to try to pass, I want him, and I told him this: ‘Go like you’re going to get 50, go like you’re going to dunk everything, and then the world will make sense. The game will speak to you.’ Preconceived notions on where people are going to be, it doesn’t work. Like, put your own thumbprint on the rim, get to the rim. I thought he did that tonight, and, you know, he helped us.”

That’s all good, but remember that the endgame here is to get Fultz and Simmons to learn how to play together, and someone is gonna have to start knocking down jumpers at some point.

Other notes:

Mike Muscala isn’t giving the Sixers enough off the bench. Two points on 0-3 shooting and six rebounds last night.

Joel Embiid is 7-28 from three this season. That’s 25%.

11 points on 4-9 shooting for Dario Saric, who is still pushing through that annual early slump

83% from the foul line is much better than how the Sixers had been shooting free throws earlier this month

Why in God’s name does 97.5 the Fanatic air that syndicated esports radio show on Saturday nights? I flipped on both stations and WIP had Andrew Porter on talking Eagles and Sixers, and 97.5, the Sixers’ rights holder, had that goofy ass video game show on. Talk about tone deaf.

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