The death of a hero can prompt self-reflection. As I hurtle towards 70, these inquiries become more urgent, more focused. The passing of Denis Law has a profoundly individual significance for me but I am old enough to know that what one believes is deeply personal is, rather, shared by so many.
There is a common humanity and for those Scots of pensionable age Law was a fixed star, one that shone a light on the truths about fitba’, particularly in the era that we watched as weans then teenagers. This is not a lazy nod to the granda’ cliches of the days when football “had a soul” or when the game was somehow “pure.” To be a fan in the sixties and seventies was to face regular threats of violence and to spend time on terraces that were unsafe and unsanitary.
It did, though, offer moments of extraordinary excitement and distilled joy. It still does, of course. But in the old days one had to search for it. Football is now available on every phone, every app, almost every television station and on all social media. In the old days, one had to go to matches with only a hinterland of brief television highlights as an aid to anticipating the quality or otherwise of visiting players.
Denis was always a visitor to us. He was a Scot who lived in exile. He could only be glimpsed on Match of The Day highlights (and in those days they covered just a couple of matches) and on his expeditions to Hampden to play in dark blue. There was, of course, the opportunity to see him at Wembley for Scotland every second year.
‘I’m young and fit and ready for action, the sun is shining brightly and I have a Scotland shirt on my back. Who could ask for more?’ – Denis Law pic.twitter.com/o26lFq0Jjy
— PictureThis Scotland (@74frankfurt) February 11, 2025
Denis thus retained an air of mystery while always emanating an undeniable glamour. He was, too, almost impossibly dramatic. He was identifiable from hundreds of yards away. Swaying in the vastness of the Hampden terraces, one could immediately point out Denis. There he was far down below, gliding in that fluid movement, pouncing like the most ruthless predator as his distinctive plumage defied the Hampden wind. The trudge to Hampden, the climb up the broken sleepers, the stance in a spot that would make the Black Hole of Calcutta a contender for home of the year, all this and more was shrugged off because one was going to watch Denis.
The currency of genuine greatness has been devalued in recent years. The denomination of ‘world class’ is bestowed on someone who has just knocked one in at the back post for West Ham against Southampton. But Denis was great by any measure. The figures tell some of it: the medals, the goals, the Ballon D’or. But this is akin to describing the speed of a cheetah in miles per hour, the swoop of a hawk in vectors or the roar of a lion in decibels.
Denis was a force of nature. He had to be seen…
This is a preview of Hugh MacDonald’s full tribute to Denis Law, published in Issue 35 of Nutmeg. You can order your copy now, or take out a subscription to also gain full access to Nutmeg’s entire back catalogue.