John Clark, Lisbon Lion and Celtic legend, was a man of substance whose life provided inspiration and carried lessons far beyond a football pitch, writes Hugh MacDonald

There is one enduring, glorious image of John Clark. It is, of course, of the young Lanarkshire player striding into the heat of Lisbon, sturdily confident of what he had to do and how he would do it.

That day in Jamor, on the outskirts of the Portuguese capital, ensured that Clark would remain an immortal but his death, aged 84, prompts other images to mind that protest gently that this character could not be defined by one day. He was a man of substance whose life provided inspiration and carried lessons far beyond a football pitch.

John may have quietly snorted at this statement, perhaps seeing pretension. He was never a man for the false or the pompous but it must be stated that this was a life of triumph but one of hardship, labour and consistent humility.

It is perhaps best to consider a series of snapshots formed over half a century of interviews from journalists or in personal chats. These may only give a glimpse of the man but they point to the aspects that made him both loved and respected.

The first may be the most significant. At 10 years of age, John became ‘the man of the house’ after his father died in a railway accident. He immediately embarked on a working life, taking ‘wee jobs’ to help provide for the family.

A Chapelhall lad, football was always his passion and it became his saviour. As a teenager, and relatively small, he played Junior football for Larkhall Thistle. 

This would now be regarded as worthy of a reference to social workers if not a breach of the Geneva convention given the violent nature of the game then. Clark later spoke quietly of these physical battles. He was an intelligent, technical footballer but no one ever questioned his toughness.

He spent more than half a century with Celtic, his longevity at the club only surpassed by the great Willy Maley. 

He was player, coach, assistant manager, and then kit manager. He managed at other clubs - Cowdenbeath, Stranraer, Clyde - but his link to the club he loved was strong, forged through tackles on the pitch, guidance for players and ultimately in his fiefdom in the laundry room at Lennoxtown where he would greet courtiers with a cup of tea, a slice of toast and a portion of his dry humour.

He was an extraordinary player. Signed by Celtic in 1958, he was energised by the arrival of Stein seven years later. He complemented his great friend, Billy McNeill, at the heart of the Celtic defence. 

John was the sweeper, covering the space behind McNeill and that left by the marauding full backs that Stein always employed. He was central to the glory years. He won six league titles, three Scottish Cups, five league cups and a European Cup.

Incredibly, this haul only hints at his importance to Celtic. He was a constant support to young players, first in his role as an assistant manager and later as the kit manager where he would be available for quiet counsel as well as more voluble banter. In his later years, after he had left his post as kit manager, he would attend the B matches in the Lowland League.

He was perceptive and knowledgeable on world football, always eager to learn and to pass on his views on what was occurring in the game. He was a faithful attender at UEFA youth matches and a reliable predictor of who or what would be the next big thing in the sport.

He sat at these games in relative anonymity. He was never one to proclaim his status but he was open to those of us who saw it as a privilege and pleasure to be in his company. He would stare at the game while giving his replies to my relentless questions in a staccato style out of the side of his mouth. John was brilliantly funny and could demolish any burgeoning ego with a line that had the cutting edge of a stiletto.

Another telling snapshot could be taken at a series of airports around the world. As players wandered around the luggage carousel with ear buds in, as journalists communicated with their offices on mobile phones, a sturdy gentleman was pulling crates and bags off the conveyor belt and dumping them on to a huge cage on castors.

Not only was John doing this past normal retirement age, he was working with commitment and discipline. This was his way whether on a pitch in Lisbon or in an arrivals hall in Milan. 

Yet there was absurdity to all of this, at least to this observer. It peaked on arrival in Glasgow after Celtic had qualified for the last 16 of the Champions League. There was rightfully an air of celebration among players and staff. But I yearned for a Tannoy announcement that would proclaim: ‘Congratulations Celtic. But the wee guy handling all the luggage has won the whole shebang.’

John, of course, would have no time for this sentiment. He knew what he had done and how he had done it and was glad to serve in another capacity. He lived his story and was always grateful. He never attained the riches of the modern footballer but knew that journey from Chapelhall had been long, sometimes arduous but ultimately rewarding in ways that cannot be counted in money.

He had a host of stories but there is one where he is the subject and it is telling. It runs as follows: John is in New York in 1981 on Celtic duties and Pele, promoting Escape to Victory in the Big Apple, enters the same lift. Edson Arantes do Nascimento proclaims: ‘No.6!’

This is the number John wore when the pair last met on the pitch at Hampden in a friendly match in 1966. Pele chats amiably and then leaves the lift at his floor.

Davie Provan, the Celtic player, witnesses all of this and is dumbstruck. John looks at him and says: ‘Do you know, I was just being polite. I have no idea who that was.’

There is a wondrous beauty in this and a hint of intrigue. Was John being humble, honest or mischievous? Or all three?

It was just one episode in a life full of encounters with the greats, whether it be Rod Stewart, Billy Connolly or Henrik Larsson. He was respected by all of them and by the mass of the Celtic support who were grateful for his long and distinguished service.

Older supporters, like me, will remember with quiet satisfaction the way the No.6 would glide over to snuff out danger with ease or pass briskly to set up an attack. There is an enduring moment, too, in Lisbon where he slaloms past the pride of Inter Milan with a practised fluidity.

He always proclaimed himself lucky. ‘Signing for Celtic was like winning the pools,’ he would say. It was, of course, much more than luck but it was indicative of how he looked back on his life with satisfaction.

There will be those who say that Celtic was the great love of his love. It wasn’t. That position was held by his family.

His wife, children and grandchildren will be in deep mourning. They may be consoled by the truth that anyone who met the great man will be feeling a portion of their pain.

The fatherless lad who toiled at odd jobs became a great man, feted on a Lisbon field and by one of the greatest players who ever lived.

His worth as never proclaimed by himself. But was recognised instinctively by those who saw him play or watched him in the very occasional interview. Those of us who had the pleasure of speaking to him, usually over a cup of tea with the day’s papers spread in front of him, knew what we were experiencing.

We were honoured by it.