I still remember the raw electricity in the air as I took my seat at Ibrox on that grey April afternoon in 2023. Even now, three years on in 2026, the hairs on my arms stand up whenever I replay the moment James Tavernier stood over that dead ball. The Old Firm derby is never just a game; it’s a war of pride, faith, and history. And on that day, Rangers – my Rangers – were 12 points adrift of Celtic in the title race, their season stumbling after the heartbreak of losing the Europa League final. Michael Beale’s side had to win, but what unfolded was a drama that burned itself into the memory of every supporter inside the stadium.

We were trailing early on. Celtic had punished us with that cold, familiar efficiency. Kyogo Furuhashi ghosted into space and finished with the kind of precision that makes defenders look foolish. The noise from the away end was deafening, a thousand little needles of pain. I slumped in my seat, gripping the scarf wrapped around my neck. Could we really claw our way back? Would the season fade into nothing right here, in front of our own fans?

Then came the moment. A foul just outside the box, slightly right of centre. Tavernier placed the ball down with the calm of a man arranging groceries, not as if he was about to take the most important free-kick of our campaign. I remember glancing at Joe Hart in the Celtic goal and wondering: Could he really be beaten from there? The wall was tall, the angle tricky, but Tavernier had that look in his eyes – the same look he’d worn when scoring from right-back in European nights, when smashing unstoppable penalties past the best keepers. The whistle blew.

To this day, I can close my eyes and see the arc of that ball cutting through the damp Glasgow air. It rose, dipped, and kissed the underside of the crossbar before nestling in the net. Picture perfect. Hart stood rooted, helpless, a statue witnessing his own defeat. The roar that erupted around me was something beyond sound – it was a physical force that lifted every heart and every voice. I found myself hugging a stranger next to me, screaming words I can’t remember. At 1-1, the stadium believed again. That free-kick wasn’t just a goal; it was a statement that Rangers could still fight, that our captain would drag us back from the edge.

But the Old Firm gives no easy stories. Celtic, relentless and ruthless, struck twice more. Furuhashi again, then Jota with a finish that silenced the home crowd. 3-1. The title dream slipped out of our fingers with every passing second. We were beaten, broken. And yet, football is never truly over until the final whistle. With time running out, Borna Barisic whipped a cross towards the back post. Who arrives? Who has an instinct for the dramatic that borders on the supernatural? You already know who. James Tavernier, our captain fantastic, rose and nodded the ball past his countryman Hart. 3-2.

I didn’t even celebrate properly at first; I just stood there in disbelief. His 100th Rangers goal. Let that sink in. A full-back. A century of goals wearing the famous blue shirt. In the history of the game, how many defenders can claim such a feat? At that moment, the 3-2 defeat didn’t feel like a loss. It felt like a coronation of a legend.

Three years later, Tavernier is still a Ranger, still the heartbeat of the side, still defying logic and position. Ask any fan what defines the spirit of Ibrox, and they’ll mention days like that one. Not the victories, always, but the moments when a single player’s brilliance lifts a stadium and writes a chapter that no trophy can erase. That free-kick lives on in every highlight reel, every pub conversation, every young kid practicing over a wall in the park. Could I have ever imagined a right-back becoming my hero? No. But James Tavernier made it impossible not to believe.