Football cannot help but deliver compelling, unique stories, grand plots of unforeseeable brilliance that inevitably conclude in crescendos of validation and desolation. But even in that context, Rangers’ journey to the 1972 European Cup Winners’ Cup was special, capturing so many dramatic staples as to be almost cliched. Tragedy, redemption, bizarre defeat and unexpected triumph, culminating in rammy, stooshie, stramash and swedge, it was not in the least bit realistic – and yet it was real.

On 2 January 1971, Ibrox Stadium hosted the Old Firm’s traditional New Year altercation. Close to time, Celtic went ahead, and then, even closer to time, Rangers equalised, before the ground emptied in significant commotion. As thousands of people streamed down stairway 13, in all likelihood, someone fell – perhaps a child from his father’s shoulders – causing a crush in which 66 people died. Official concern as to the safety of this particular exit had first been raised in 1963, two years after two people were crushed to death there, and there followed further incidents in 1967 and 1969 – but nothing was done.

So, again, British football was forced to deliberately learn nothing while pretending to learn everything. There was an inquiry, a report, Ibrox was rebuilt, and everyone else just got on.

In such circumstance, it seems crass to discuss on-pitch woes, yet, at the same time, not crass at all; more than 80,000 people were gathered that afternoon for the specific purpose of enjoying a football match, and subsequent attendances were as usual. People cared about the game before the disaster and people cared about the game after the disaster, because it was, and is, impossible for them not to.

At the time, things were not going at all well, the Bears’ trophy cabinet bare for its longest stretch since 1903-1911. Coinciding more or less with the departure of Jim Baxter, Rangers were without a league title in seven years – the run would stretch until 1975 – and the Cup had eluded them since 1966.

And if this weren’t aggravating enough, Glasgow’s east end was pure hoachin’ wi glory. In January 1965, the Daily Mail had sagely proclaimed that Celtic were “being left so far behind by Rangers that it is no longer a race”, but Jock Stein was appointed manager two months later, and things changed rapidly. In 1966, they won their first championship in 12 seasons, beginning a run of nine straight, and a year later, a team recruited from within a 30-mile radius of Parkhead won a quintuple of league, Cup, League Cup, Glasgow Cup and European Cup. Probably the greatest season in British football history, like its only serious rival, Manchester United’s 1999 treble, it was galling for rivals not solely on account of its unprecedented achievement, but because the circumstances in which it occurred were so obviously unrepeatable.

For Rangers, things would get yet worse; just a week later, they lost the Cup Winners’ Cup final to Bayern Munich, after extra-time, and in Nuremberg. And this was their second such failure; they’d lost the competition’s inaugural final to Fiorentina, in the process failing to make history as Britain’s first continental success story.

Scot Symon, the Rangers manager, was unable to rouse his players at the start of the following season, and with pressure exacerbated by Celtic’s momentum, he left the club in November. His replacement was the assistant he had appointed just five weeks previously, David White – pronounced “Chwite” – who lasted just two years, leaving as the only Rangers manager not to win a trophy, a feat since matched by Paul Le Guen.

During that short tenure, criticism of White was particularly strong in the Daily Express, in whose pages he was known as “the boy David” by Willie Waddell. An ex-pro, Waddell had played for and only for Rangers, debuting for the reserves at 15, the first team at 17, and appearing 201 times between 1939 and 1955. On his retirement, he took charge at Kilmarnock, where he seized upon a rare Rangers-Celtic interregnum to engineer the club’s only league title in 1965 – then left to become a journalist.

Not for long; it was Waddell who replaced White, and immediately, things changed. He instilled in players, said Sandy Jardine, who died earlier this year, “what it means to be a Ranger”, ensuring that they all “understood the tradition and the heritage”. Quite how it could ever be forgotten, given the frequency of its trumpeting, is unclear; but Waddell’s impact is not.

His reverence for the club made him its ideal manager. Though he would tolerate no criticism from outside of anything connected to it, this did not blind him to its faults, rather stirred him to set them right. He would peer over glasses and from raised desk to chastise his players, and it was he who oversaw the development of Ibrox into one of the world’s finest football grounds. But more important even than that was the compassion and grace he showed to those families directly affected by the stadium tragedy. When he was posthumously honoured with a lifetime contribution award, his widow Hilda observed that “everything was a joy to him”; never did he make it clearer.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Willie Johnston celebrates after scoring one of his two goals for Rangers in the European Cup Winners’ Cup final. Photograph: Colorsport/Rex Photograph: Colorsport/REX

In October 1970 Rangers finally won something, beating Celtic to the League Cup thanks to a goal from 16-year-old Derek Johnstone, who became the youngest scorer in a British final. But they finished the season in fourth place, 16 points shy of taking the top spot, and continued in similarly miserable vein at the start of the next. By the end of August, Rangers’ trophy defence was over, and they then lost four of their first five league games, the run including a record three Old Firm defeats in a month.

In the midst of it all, the Cup Winners’ Cup campaign began – a competition Rangers were in only by default. Celtic had beaten them in the Scottish Cup final replay – before the first game, their captain, John Greig was photographed exchanging what appeared to be a masonic handshake with Tiny Wharton, its referee – but as league champions, were busy elsewhere.

And Rangers faced a tricky opening assignment, drawn against the quick and technical Stade Rennais. Waddell, though, was fastidious in preparation, and prepared to adapt. So, in the away leg, his team employed a harrying style, strikers Willie Johnston and Colin Stein pressurising defenders in possession, while Willie Mathieson, Jardine and Alex MacDonald man-marked the wingers and midfield schemer respectively. The game finished 1-1.

“That was not football, it was anti-football,” said the Rennes manager of his team’s inability to cope. “They came here only to stop us playing football. We will come to Glasgow and show how football should be played.” But they did not, MacDonald’s 37th minute goal enough to settle matters.

In the second round, Rangers were paired with Sporting Lisbon, the competition favourites. Drawn at home first, two goals from Stein and one from Willie Henderson – each via a clever free-kick arrangement – put them three up by half-time. But Sporting rallied in the second period, scoring twice to set up a fascinating return.

A baggage handlers’ strike at Heathrow, compounded by fog, meant that Rangers’ journey to Portugal took a day and a half; they arrived in Lisbon just 24 hours before kick-off. By which time a crowd of 60,000 had created a febrile, intimidating atmosphere, with the help of drums, chants, fireworks and a stadium announcer who jeered the visiting players.

Nonetheless, Rangers started well enough, keeping Sporting at bay for the first quarter. But Héctor Yazalde then gave them the lead, and though Stein responded within a minute, João Laranjeira scored just before half-time. A minute into the second period, Stein equalised again, but Yazalde then broke Ronnie McKinnon’s leg – he’d miss the rest of the season – and then a late Manuel Pedro Gomes goal sent the contest into extra-time. Willie Henderson quickly put Rangers back ahead, but Fernando Peres gave Sporting a 4-3 win on the night and tied the tie 6-6 on aggregate to force a shoot-out.

As the players prepared themselves, excited locals spilled over the barriers and on to the apron of the pitch, after which Rangers folded. Three of their first four kickers missed – Davie Smith twice, after his was ordered to be retaken – while Sporting scored their first four, Damas, the goalkeeper, chaired off the pitch by invading fans. Rangers were out of the competition.

Except that Rangers weren’t out of the competition; in a quite magnificent display of dunderheadedness, Laurens van Ravens, the Dutch referee had failed to note that even away goals scored in extra-time counted double. “I remember sitting in the dressing room and the heads were down,” said Johnston. “Then the journalist John Fairgrieve came in and told us we were through.”

So, armed with his pal’s handbook, Waddell went looking for the relevant Uefa official to indicate the relevant point, and the result was quickly overturned. Not quickly enough for the morning papers, the Times reporting that Rangers had lost “on penalty goals”, but, it would be they, not Sporting, who met Torino in the quarter-finals.

This was no easy assignment, Torino challenging at the top of Serie A – or the Italian league, as it was known in those dark, ignorant days. And they played precisely as you might expect, eventually finishing third with a grand total of 39 goals in 30 games.

But the meticulous Waddell was ready for them, as Greig recounts in his autobiography: “The boss held up a photograph of one of the Torino players and said to me: ‘John, this is their number one player, Claudio Sala. He is just 19 and he is the new Italian wonderboy. I want you to put him out of the game. I asked: ‘Just for this one game, boss, or for good?’ ‘I’m serious, John,’ he rapped and I replied: ‘So am I, boss, so am I.’

More substantively, Rangers adapted Torino’s own catenaccio system into what no one called McCatenaccio, Johnstone joining Colin Jackson at centre-back with Smith deployed as the doorbolt behind them. And it was further fortified with a goal, Mathieson breaking down the right and crossing for Johnston to score.

Thereafter, Rangers were simply unable to escape their own half, but they conceded only once as Torinese tempers were mislaid. And then, at Ibrox, MacDonald’s goal 54 seconds into the second half was enough to see them through.

The reward for this achievement was more of a “reward”: a semi-final against Bayern Munich, or “Bay-urn”, as they were known. Since 1967, Sepp Maier, Franz Beckenbauer and Gerd Müller had developed into international superstars, with Paul Breitner, Hans-Georg Schwartzenbeck and Uli Hoeness arriving since; their team had narrowly eliminated Rangers from the previous season’s Inter-Cities Fairs Cup.

And, at the end of 71-72, they would win the first of three consecutive league titles, precipitating the first of three consecutive European Cups, during which period their principal players would lead Germany to a European Championship and a World Cup. Or, put another way, they were not simply one of the best sides around at the time, nor simply one of Bayern’s best ever sides, but one of the best sides in history.

The first leg was at Munich’s Grünwalder Stadion, also home of 1860 – Bayern took occupancy of the new Olympic Stadium for the crucial final game of the season, christening it by thrashing nearest challengers Schalke 5-1. And they flew at Rangers, too, every one of their outfield players taking a shot at goal in the first 20 minutes; “the biggest hiding I’ve ever got in my life”, said Jardine. But, fielding the same lineup that had bested Torino, Rangers were well-drilled, four men serried deep on the edge of the box and Johnstone detailed with dropping into midfield to mark Hoeness, “the spielmacher”. “They can’t afford to be without him, we can afford to be without you,” he was told. “If he goes off for a wee-wee at 20 minutes, you follow him into that toilet, make sure he stays there”.

Again, Rangers could barely clear their box, but escaped from the first half with just a one-goal deficit, Breitner putting Bayern ahead at its midway point. And then, three minutes after the break, Stein drove low across the box, for Rainer Zobel to deflect home the equaliser.

Rangers improved thereafter – Bayern “just shot their bolt”, explained Jardine. “We were exceptionally fit.” As you might expect, given the appointment of Jock Wallace as their coach, Jock Wallace being obsessed with fitness, and making Graeme Souness look like Kriss Akabusi.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Jock Wallace made the players rub their heads with a whisky-spirit solution before matches. Photograph: Bob Thomas/Getty Images

One of his more hinged schemes was the pre-match rubbing into heads of a whisky-spirit solution – nicely warming, until, to redress the cosmic balance, players were blasted with a hose of freezing water. Wallace also “used to murder” his players up and down sand hills, a ruse galvanised by the sadistic Staff Sergeant Williams in Sidney Lumet’s film, The Hill, and instituted a Tuesday running routine known as 40 minutes, the debut of which saw a group of 46 dwindle to five by its end and the deployment of both vomit and oxygen. Wallace himself had served in Korea, where, every Saturday, he would send a private up a tree with a radio antenna, to keep him abreast of how Rangers were doing. Even though Wallace, as goalkeeper-manager of Berwick Rangers in January 1967, had presided over perhaps Rangers’ most embarrassing defeat, a Scottish Cup first round loss, he remained the staunchest of the staunch.

So, Rangers escaped Munich with just a goal deficit, Mathieson, Jackson and Johnstone – the latter nominated as Waddell’s man of the match – all outstanding. “I think I had two kicks of the ball”, Johnstone later recalled, unlike Johnston, who even found time to sit on it.

Perhaps wary of Glaswegian hospitality, Bayern flew in for the return on the morning of the second leg. But nothing could have prepared them for Ibrox that evening, where 80,000 bams made the loudest noise in its history, while over at Parkhead, where Celtic met Internazionale, the same number did the same thing at the same time. Which is to say that 160,000 people, roughly 18% of Glasgow’s total population at the time, spent that night engaged in footballing activity.

And, within 45 seconds, the racked became even more intense, because there was Sandy, Sandy, Sandy in royal blue, cutting in from the right to snap a finish into the far corner from 20-odd yards. “And it’s there! A sensation!” yelped Archie Macpherson, the roar of the crowd, it is claimed, audible as far away as Kinning Park Subway..

Shortly afterwards, Stein cracked the bar with a header, before, on 22 minutes, young Derek Parlane – man-marking Franz Roth in place of the injured Greig – put Rangers ahead on aggregate. This prompted a spectacular to-do between Beckenbauer and Maier, heartily enjoyed by all, and the remainder of the game was seen out without undue alarm.

Particularly outstanding that night was Smith, again relocated from midfield into defence. A player of versatility and purity given to congratulating those who got the better of him, he was booked not once during his career, eventually leaving Rangers for Arbroath in protest at Wallace’s instructions to boot his opponents.

“I always liked to play the game within the rectangle and even now am amazed when a full-back gets applause for a hoof out the park,” he told the Scotsman in 2012. “Whenever I saw Willie Mathieson draw back his leg I’d offer to take the ball off him. Without being big-headed, I knew what to do with it. I thought I was as good as anybody I came up against.”

And, for one night at least, that included Franz Beckenbauer. “I’ve got a photo of the Kaiser and myself exchanging pennants which he’s signed ‘to my friend Dave Smith’,” he said. “He was a better player than me, no question, but that time I maybe had the edge.”

The previous year, Smith had broken his leg twice, the lustre of his comeback acknowledged by Scotland’s football writers, who voted him their player of the year – and yet, he only won two international caps. “Well, there were plenty of good players around,” he explained. “My brother Doug was better than me and he was never capped. Maybe I didn’t promote myself. Guys back then would tell the press how good they were but that wasn’t me.”

Rangers, on the other hand, were desperate to tell everyone exactly how good they were, and as such, desperately needed that first European trophy. Renown was not enough, reckoned Greig – they needed to establish themselves as a serious football club, and now had further opportunity to do that, at the same time as repaying their supporters for hanging in there “during the dark seasons”.

In the final, they would face Dinamo Moscow – or Moscow Dinamo as they were known by the cosmopolitans who knew that to correctly decipher a foreign name, you simply reverse it. The first Russian team to reach a European final, Dinamo had drawn 2-2 with Rangers when visiting the UK in 1945 – but this time, they would meet at Barcelona’s Camp Nou.

As you’d expect, this arrangement set 16,000 gadges and radges tanning their various ways to Barcelona, a journey immortalised more sedately in song by David MacIntosh and Eric Carswell. Then, on arrival, they availed themselves of all that the historic, picturesque city had to offer, namely booze and novelty sombreros; all was well with the world.

All apart from the stress fracture of the right foot still afflicting John Greig. Rangers’ dominant force on pitch and in dressing room, he was somehow both grave and suave, the kind of bloke clearly able to detach head from shoulders, but equally likely to supply details of a trustworthy plumber.

The youngest of six and by a distance, Greig had grown up in Edinburgh. He was a Hearts fan, rejected by one of their scouts because he was too small. Rangers, though, employed a cannier operator, who, after noting the situation, waited outside the siblings’ place of work, to discover a level of strapping that negated any concern.

So, after signing apprentice forms, Greig travelled in from home every day – a journey he had the good fortune to make alongside Rangers greats Ralph Brand and Jimmy Millar, who would regale him with tales of the club’s past. At the time, he was an inside-forward, making the first of his record 755 appearances at the age of 19, against Airdrie; he scored, as he did in his first Old Firm game, because certain types find a way. Certain types who say and mean things like: “When you play for a club like Rangers, you’re expected to win trophies. I was disappointed that we didn’t win the treble every year, I know it’s impossible, but I was really disappointed”.

The statue of John Greig, who played 755 times for Rangers and captained the side, at Ibrox stadium. Photograph: Danny Lawson/PA

Over the course of his career, Greig moved backwards, first into midfield and then to left-back. But this was secondary, his importance measured in inspiration, not location. Nowhere near the most talented player to have excelled at Ibrox, his contribution was encapsulated by the speech that followed his election as the greatest ever Ranger, in which he referred not to the final period of his life, but to “however many years I’ve got left to serve the club”.

Accordingly, when Jackson “called off” the day before the final after breaking down in training, it became even more important that Greig and his goatee – grown for the Lisbon home game to cover a nasty gash, retained thereafter for luck – be available to play. So, though he couldn’t walk, he took an injection, and he was.

But his desire was personal as well as communal. “Roger Hynd hurled his runners-up medal into the crowd. I bounced mine off every wall in the dressing room”, he recalled of the ’67 aftermath, and, given the five years that had elapsed since, knew that this might be his last chance.

Dinamo, though, were not inclined to make things easy; when Wallace travelled over to scout them, along with more general hassle, he was forced to pay in. The players, on the other hand, were promised by the state the title of Master of Sport if they won, and prior to departure, were motivated by a succession of nakachkas – speeches on communist ideology. Meanwhile, in Spain, there were concerns as to how these sentiments might manifest, the country still controlled by Franco’s fascist regime.

Though Dinamo generally played an attacking style with three or four strikers, two of them were injured, so they planned to sit back. “A very powerful looking team”, asserted Macpherson while they were kicking-in, Eastern Europeans being the West Africans of the day.

“I was emotionally gone,” recalled Greig of the game’s opening stages, “seeing so many Rangers supporters desperate for us to win.” So much so that within seconds, he had no option but to rattle the nearest opponent . “Yozhef Sabo goes down heavily, John Greig behind him”, was the curious coincidence reported by Macpherson. “John Greig no doubt will be looking after Sabo tonight.” A man of rare benevolence.

And Rangers continued their assault on “The Russians”, Johnstone in particular imposing himself in the first quarter-hour. “The inside-left I was playing against was a slow reader of the ball, I just got in front of him all the time”, he explained.

Then, on 23 minutes, Smith dispatched a long ball, and suddenly Stein was in, spanking into the roof of the net with his laces . “And woof! In it goes!” yelped Archie, Rangers supporters celebrating by dancing on the pitch.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Rangers fans invade the pitch after Colin Stein scores their side’s first goal. Photograph: Colorsport/Rex Photograph: Colorsport/REX

And, five minutes before half-time, things got even better, Dynamo conceding a free-kick out on the right, deep inside their own half. “He’s right over beside the Rangers supporters”, said Archie of the perpetrator, “who would look hostile at The Russians if they even sneezed at Stein.” Justice at the imagined infraction was served from the free-kick; though it was cleared, Smith glided forward, clipped in a high ball, and Johnston headed home.

So, at half-time, Rangers were two-up, and then, four minutes into the second half, a hump forwards was missed by Stein and two defenders. Suddenly, Johnston was in again, and equally suddenly, had scored again; 3-0!

But what of Dinamo? “I don’t think we were weaker than the famous Scottish club,” their goalkeeper, Vladimir Pilguy, told the Guardian in 2008. “But not having experience of such matches we were overly worried and as a result froze before our appearance on the pitch. We were affected by the usual atmosphere in Barcelona before the game, and in Moscow before we left there were nakachkas. For instance we were spoken to by the vice-president of the Sportkomitet of the USSR who believed that by slogans and appeals he would lift the moral spirit of the team to a new level. We didn’t need it. We knew how much was at stake – the honour of Soviet football. For the defeat we have nobody to blame but ourselves. We didn’t manage to show over the 90 minutes the sort of football we were capable of playing.”

Accordingly, Rangers were convinced that the trophy was theirs – even Greig admitted to considering the game over – but Konstantin Beskov, the Dinamo manager, brought on Vladimir Eshtrekov, who reduced their arrears within four minutes. There followed a desperate rearguard, and then, with just three minutes left, an error by Mathieson allowed Makhovikov to score; suddenly, coats were hanging on decidedly shoogly pegs.

Neither the Rangers fans nor players dealt well with their tiredness and nerves, so, when the referee blew for offside with a minute remaining, Johnston thunked the ball into the crowd and a pitch invasion followed. “The majority of them were drunk,” said Pilguy. “They had mad faces, with bulging eyes. They had to be cleared from the field and although they didn’t really do us any harm, it meant the game was held up, and that was a big advantage for our opponents. They were exhausted by that stage and could hardly drag their legs, and I’m sure in that final four minutes we’d have scored a third.”

Whether the encroachment was because the match was believed to be over (Rangers said aye, Dinamo said nyet) or to obstruct its flow (Rangers said naw, Dinamo said da) made no difference to Franco’s police. Primed for a ruck with some lefties, they were opportunists at heart, so got stuck in, then again at actual full-time, Rangers fans keen to disprove the slanderous suggestion that Dinamo’s supporters were the more likely source of pagger.

But the majority celebrated in more usual fashion, cavorting and the like. The first person to reach Johnstone was his older brother, given a shirt to stuff up his jumper – a wise move. Because, by the end, all he had left was the tie-ups on his socks – “everything else was ripped off” – while others were hoisted on shoulders, Greig slapping hand over eyes as the enormity of the achievement dawned on him.

Then, in the tunnel, he met his manager, Greig taking Waddell by the neck, Waddell taking Greig by the ear, Greig burying his face in Waddell’s shoulder, and each shaking the other. It had been done.

But there would be no presentation. Shortly after returning to the dressing room, captain and manager were summoned to what former described as “a 10 by 10 room”, where the chairman of Uefa quickly handed the trophy over, “as if to say here it is, now get out”.

“I always visualised winning a European trophy, picking up the cup and being able to go around the park showing all the supporters, who had travelled halfway over Europe to see it,” said Greig later – an aspect of especial importance as no laps of honour were permitted in Hampden games that featured the Old Firm. “But I walked into a room … and there was a big table … the Uefa committee stood at the back of it, the cup in the middle and they said ‘Rangers Football Club, winners’ handed me the cup and I walked back along a corridor.” This did not go down well. “I think it was a bigger disappointment for the supporters … I’m just the captain, I was the person with 11 players who had to go and get it, but we were winning it for thousands of people”.

The footage, though, shows him having a fine time, because, despite it all, one essential fact remained: in Barcelona, in 1972, Colin Stein scored one, Willie Johnston two. Greig returned to the dressing room, trophy strangulated by the neck of its base, to find a bathful of players who hadn’t even noticed he’d gone. As they capered, he tossed the trophy among them and they continued in similar vein, “throwing this little toy about”.

There followed the usual dancing and spraying, then a reception – with wives and types, including the Torino coach, Gustavo Giagnoni – before they all went home the next day. “We got up in the morning, we sat at the pool and it was absolutely scorching, and we were up quite high, wee wind, breeze, brilliant, no problem”, recalls Alex MacDonald. “We get on the plane, I said to the doctor: ‘Doc, I’m really struggling, I’ve got, y’know.’ And he says: ‘You’ve probably got a hangover, Alec.’ And I say: ‘Well I think there’s a fair chance o’ that.’” His first one, as it happened; it’d be unfair to speculate as to how many he’s enjoyed since.

Greig, meanwhile, was dressed in sunglasses, light three-piece suit, dark shirt, right hand still choking the trophy – held either by his side or straight above his head like the Statue of Liberty’s torch. After the usual cockpit shot, it was passed around the plane, the press also posing for photos.

That evening, a crowd gathered at Ibrox, where the trophy was displayed properly – though medals weren’t presented until the first home game of the following season. In the meantime, the players paraded in fetching royal blue trackies stood on the back of a pick-up truck, all very genteel.

Dinamo, meanwhile, appealed against the result on account of the pitch invasions. And the president of Uefa, Gustav Wiederkehr, felt that they had a case, proclaiming: “the behaviour of the Scottish fans [was] shocking and ugly. I support Dinamo’s protest, but the question of whether the game can be replayed can only be decided at a formal Uefa meeting.”

The various suits met the following week, following the European Cup final, but no verdict was returned. So, Nikolay Ryashentsev, the chairman of the Soviet Football Federation, raised his objections when the executive committee next convened, and, three weeks after the fact, the result was upheld. Rangers, though, were banned from European competition for two years, reduced to one on appeal – led, of course by Waddell, who subsequently left his post to become general manager. This meant that the club could not defend its title, not that anyone cared all that much – they had their trophy, but, more than that, they had one of the most spectacular, ridiculous football stories ever experienced.