Neil Lennon, the Celtic manager, knelt in his dugout, head bowed, eyes averted from the pitch, the ribbing of his padded coat looming like some terrifyingly bloated armadillo. In the anxious silence of Parkhead, a silence all the more notable for the intensity of the sound that had preceded it, he must have heard two noises. First, the clunk of ball on bar. For a fraction of a second, he must have feared the worst. And then came the roar as Kris Commons' penalty bounced down and hopped up into the roof of the net. Lennon turned, fists pumping, face creasing with satisfaction. With nine minutes remaining Celtic had taken the lead and was on its way to the last 16 of the Champions League.

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