THERE’S a feeling you get when watching Celtic trying to hang on for a win or draw away from home in Europe. It happens when the lights are beginning to go out. It’s a process that starts about 15 minutes from safety.

A prayer comes first; then another and then, maybe, an entire decade of the rosary.

Soon you find yourself trying to reason with God. “Look at these supporters. They’re mainly good people. It’s just the one victory. I don’t mind if we get beaten in the other games. Just this one. We do loads for charity. Look at the foodbanks. We come from Ireland. You’ve always loved the Irish. It’s your country. We’re not greedy.”

You even promise to go easy on the post-match Bacardis if we escape. But even as you’re saying this you that He knows that this is a big, fat lie.

And then you stop because often the fans of the other team – especially if they’re Portuguese or Italian or Spanish – are doing the same thing. And they’ve probably got more leverage with God. They’re probably poorer than us and their countries will be absolutely hoaching with statues to God’s mum. Which kind of gives them an advantage that you can never match.

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I even did a prayer to St Andrew once. I think it was in the Olympic stadium in Munich in 2003 when we were actually within touching distance of a win. Against Bayern Munich. And I thought that maybe St Andrew, being an actual apostle and the brother of St Peter, the first Pope, might give us an edge. And he’s Scotland’s champion in heaven. I mean I know he’s also Greek, but we’ve only played Greek sides twice. Andrew would even have been in that tavern when Jesus turned the water into wine. Of all the saints in heaven, St Andrew is at least in the top 12; 11 once you’ve taken Judas out the picture (not that I’m judging).

And then you’ve exhausted the prayers and a sinking feeling begins in the well of your stomach. You fall silent and you can’t even bring yourself to look at your friends. You look at the opposition. Most of them are just better than your players. Or at least more technically gifted. They move as if on casters; them with their demonic wee triangles. And our players look like men in quicksand and help isn’t coming.

And then, after the desperation and the silence comes the rationalising and the self-delusion: we’re not far away, are we? And besides; if it was a level playing field we’d have skelped them. The Lisbon Lions would have walked all over them. While smoking cigars.

You can’t even shout abuse at the referees for being masons. I mean they might be masons, but probably those sleek, continental, Catholic masons who’re in the business of influencing governments; not golf clubs. And so you target a player: Hedman in Munich; Balde in Lyon; Maloney for that shocking corner in Seville; Moyes in Turin. And then you’re remorseful for being disloyal. And then it’s the defiant Walk On. And you take solace in it. And the healing begins. I’ve been desperate and anxious in Milan and Barcelona and Munich and Turin (the 2001 game; not the 1981 game).

I didn’t actually feel too bad after that first visit to Turin. It was my first European away game and I was too busy being euphoric about just being there and getting home safely. And I loved Roberto Bettega. And they had Liam Brady too. And we met some brilliant Juventus boys who paid for our pizzas after the game.

I think Munich was the worst. For about 60 minutes we’d actually out-played Bayern Munich at their legendary home. The actual stadium where West Germany won the World Cup in 1974. At half-time about 15,000 of us sang ‘I Would Walk 500 Miles’. We were dead Scottish that night. I don’t think I’ve ever felt prouder away from home in Europe than in those 15 minutes. Alan Thompson had scored a great goal; a very technical and confident goal which would have elicited approval across the continent on all their highlights shows. This was the team of Larsson, Sutton; Hartson; Lennon, Petrov. We were a really good team and we were skelping Bayern Munich. And then Magnus Hedman happened. And the lights grew dim once more.

Barcelona in 2012 was filthy too. We were that away from a draw in the Nou Camp against probably the most technically gifted team the world has ever seen. We only had about 8% of the possession. And in those last 10 minutes, down near the touchline, you were kind of stupefied.

As your eyes tried to follow Messi and Xavi and Iniesta you were getting a headache. You were exhausted. Big Lustig must have had to lie down for two days in a dark room after that. But it was the best he’d ever played. Even though he hardly touched the ball. He just ran all night to cut off space and reduce options.

So, Leverkusen the other night was a movie you’d seen before. Lots of times. But there was something about this game that made you optimistic. And nor was this delusional. In Spain and Italy this season we’ve played smart, technical, quick football against two sides who are considered to be among the most proficient in two of Europe’s fanciest leagues.

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So they might not be Bayern Munich or Real Madrid, but you can’t measure yourself against clubs with the budgets of entire nation states. Real Betis and Bayer Leverkusen are teams we can measure progress against. For the first time since the Lisbon era a Celtic team has tried to compete with good German and Spanish teams away from home by playing smart, elegant football: triangles; one-touch; quick feet; building from the back; the lot. All the stuff the sexy teams do.

This has been achieved with a team that’s still evolving under a manager who’s only been in the door for a few months. Ange hasn’t even had a proper transfer window to call his own. The players are getting him and his system.

And I’m not having any criticism of the defence. That was one of the youngest back fours we’ve fielded at this level. It’ll happen. There were no big, obvious errors leading to any of their goals. You can work on positional sense; on the geometry of your backline. This will come.

So, it’s all about the league now. And not just any league. This one is more important than the Ten. Much more important. Automatic entry into the Champions League groups. The outcome will define our next ten years. And we’re well ahead of where I’d expected us to be at this stage.

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