This morning began like any other: a quiet breakfast, the promise of a day spent with my youngest son, Harvey. With Kindergarten closed for the Easter holidays, we had the rare gift of uninterrupted father-son time. While his older brother Lennox was away at school Harvey and I surrendered ourselves to the simple joys of childhood, constructing Lego train lines, chasing imaginary aeroplanes through the living room. It was a morning filled with laughter, with love, with life.
Then came a pause. A casual scroll through Twitter. And there it was, the news that Billy McNeill had passed. My heart dropped. I scooped Harvey into my arms, held him close, and let a quiet tear fall. The lightness of the morning suddenly felt heavier, tinged with sorrow.
Throughout my broadcasting career, I have had the privilege of meeting many icons of the game. But Billy McNeill stood apart. I first encountered him not at a stadium, nor at a press event, but in the modest canteen of the old Scottish Television studios in Cowcaddens. I was idly chatting with Lisbon Lion Jim Craig over a game of pool when the room shifted. In walked this colossus of a man. Even in repose, Billy carried an aura. Jim laid his cue down mid-frame and embraced his old teammate with the affection of a brother. In that instant, I understood for these men, football was more than a profession. It was a bond, forged in sweat and sacrifice, victory and defeat.
Billy extended his hand to introduce himself, as if he needed to. That was the kind of man he was. Humble. Gracious. Class.
Over the years, I would use my grandfather’s name to build bridges in the football world. John Begg, an esteemed journalist, loved by players and colleagues alike was my touchstone. Upon hearing the name, Billy’s eyes lit up. Like Jim before him, he took me under his wing. It was an act of kindness I would come to cherish more with each passing year.
During that first meeting, I steered our conversation toward his time at Aberdeen. Jim chuckled. But Billy, ever generous, spoke warmly of his spell at Pittodrie. He had taken over in the summer of ’77, stepping into the shoes of Ally MacLeod following his appointment as Scotland manager. His first match in charge saw Aberdeen beat Rangers 3-1 – an emphatic start that set the tone for a remarkable campaign.
Billy’s eye for talent was sharp. In November, he signed a wiry midfielder from Dundee called Gordon Strachan. Months later, he brought in Stevie Archibald from Clyde. But perhaps more influential were the quieter moves, the debut he handed to a young Alex McLeish, the signing of Neil Simpson, and the five-pound contract uplift that convinced Willie Miller to stay. That extra fiver helped anchor a legacy.
In his one and only season at Aberdeen, Billy led the club to second place in the League and the Scottish Cup Final. Just five league defeats all year, yet the title eluded them by a mere two points. A week later, the cup slipped through their fingers as well, as the team, unbeaten in 23 matches, uncharacteristically froze at Hampden. Despite the bitter finale, what Billy built endures. It was no coincidence that Sir Alex Ferguson, stepping into his shoes, found a foundation strong enough to build an empire upon.
The call back to Celtic Park, his spiritual home, came that summer. Not even the combined efforts of Chris Anderson and Dick Donald could keep him in the Granite City. He left with dignity, with gratitude, and with his work admired by all.
But beyond the pitch, Billy McNeill was simply a wonderful man. I remember a dark day in the early days of Celtic TV, when I received a cruel letter from a fan, critical of my presence as an Aberdeen supporter. I was shaken. Billy, sensing my distress, read the letter and offered a choice: let it destroy you, or use it to grow. “Your club doesn’t matter here,” he told me. “Your professionalism does.” I chose growth. I chose belief. Because Billy believed in me.
He supported me not just during that time, but through life’s heavier trials. When my father passed away in June 2007, Billy was one of the first to reach out. His voice was calm, steady, and full of compassion. Later, when I was offered a role in Singapore, it was Billy who encouraged me to take the leap. “New doors,” he said. And he was right, I found a new life. I owe much of it to his encouragement.
I will never forget the way he greeted people in the office, no matter their role. He always stopped at my desk, rested his hands on my shoulders in that fatherly way, and with a glint in his eye would say, “Alrightie, Sheepie?” before teasing me about Aberdeen’s latest result. Even in pain, his knees, his hips visibly troubling him Billy never let it dull his warmth.
His final years, marked by the cruel grip of dementia, were deeply painful to witness. My mother suffered from the same disease. I know the toll. And I hold nothing but admiration for Liz, his rock, and their children, who walked beside him with unbreakable love.
Billy McNeill was a warrior on the pitch and a gentleman off it. Captain of the first British team to lift the European Cup. A leader of men. A husband. A father. A friend.
And for me, a mentor.
Rest easy, Cesar.