You can measure the affection you hold for a player by how bad you felt when he left Celtic. 

I remember I was halfway up the Campsie Hills when Kenny Dalglish left us on August 4, 1977. Even though his departure had seemed inevitable from the moment we knew he had skipped Celtic’s pre-season tour of Australia, it was still sickening. 

I think also that this was the first time that it didn’t seem that Celtic were omnipotent. Before then, all I’d known was that Celtic could obtain any player of their choosing and that no player who had ever worn the Hoops would ever voluntarily leave.

Kenny changed all that and thus his transfer became one of those gateways between adolescence and adulthood. 

I’d also felt a queasy feeling of helplessness when it became clear that George Connelly wouldn’t be playing for Celtic ever again around about 1973-74.

I was only 10 years old at the time but had eavesdropped on snatched conversations of the adults in my family. They whispered things about problems away from football that belonged in an adult world. And being a sensitive child I gleaned that all was not well with poor George and that his time with us was up. 

And, of course, there was the Charlie Nicholas saga in 1983 that ended with his departure to Arsenal. There was always something about that transfer that didn’t quite seem right.

The supporters were led to believe that Charlie was determined to go south and that there was nothing that Celtic could have done to prevent it. Many years later though, Charlie swore blind to me that he would have been happy to stay for another season at least but that the Celtic chairman, Desmond White, had more or less offered to drive him to the airport when Arsenal came calling with the biggest transfer cheque in Celtic’s history.

And then there was the Frank McGarvey departure. That one really tugged at the heart. Frank had just scored one of Celtic’s best Scottish Cup-winning goals against Dundee United in 1985, only to be told a few days later that his services would no longer be required at Parkhead. 

That one’s never been adequately explained to me. Was it simply an error of judgment by David Hay, the then Celtic manager? Or had this come from a notoriously parsimonious board of directors who perhaps felt that they could save on a substantial wage when Brian McClair and Maurice Johnson were also at the club. Frank had come from Liverpool and so Celtic would have been paying him a decent recompense. 

The foolishness of that decision almost cost Celtic dearly the following season when we exited both domestic cups very meekly and won the title at Love Street after an eight-game winning streak at the end of the season.

If Frank had been in the squad to give the team another striking option they would never have been in the perilous position of having to rely on an unlikely Dundee victory against Hearts on the last day.

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Last week it was announced by his family that Frank had become ill and faced a battle with cancer. Thousands of Celtic supporters like me immediately offered a prayer for him and his family.

McGarvey is one of those Celtic players who retains a special place in the hearts of the support.

He was certainly a very good striker and scored plenty of goals, but there was an added X-factor that turned admiration into deep affection. 

Other players who had this effect on us, I think, are John Hughes, Murdo MacLeod, Dixie Deans, Roy Aitken and, latterly, Gary Hooper. You assume that every player in a Celtic shirt is giving everything for you and leaving it all on the park. But there was something about these players that seemed to make it more obvious than with others that they were giving you everything they had. 

Frank’s goal in that 1985 cup final will never be forgotten. Dundee United had been excellent opponents in an entertaining game and would have been worthy winners themselves.

Then Roy Aitken simply bulldozed United out of the way before delivering a hammered cross the right that was travelling so quickly that anyone seeking to get his head on it might risk concussion. But Frank had a go with a diving header that, really, no one else on that park could have delivered. It epitomised his style and effort for Celtic. 

After Celtic, Frank re-joined St Mirren with whom he’d begun his senior career. But I never stopped willing him to do well. Two years later I did what I’ve rarely done before or since: paid money to watch a game between two teams other than Celtic.

This was the 1987 Scottish Cup semi-final between St Mirren and Hearts, a game in which the Tynecastle side were clear favourites, having already defeated Celtic earlier in the competition. 

Frank was outstanding for St Mirren that day and scored the winner in a 2-1 victory. And I celebrated it as wildly as if he’d been wearing Celtic’s colours. The following month, he and St Mirren would go on to lift the trophy, the last time the Paisley team lifted the Scottish Cup.

I had the privilege of meeting Frank’s son at one of Gerry Cinnamon’s concerts during the summer.

It was clear that Frank’s family love their dad very much and I bored him silly talking about Frank’s goal on that turf 37 years ago. I’m thinking of all of them at this time.