In a season of high drama, late goals symbolised Celtic’s will to win.

Celtic are champions. That is a fact. No hysteria. No hatred. No greeting is needed here. So stop yer pish, all pundits, pricks and media vultures. Just accept the fact that Celtic have the mentality of champions, and that is a skill many others find almost impossible to acquire. It is best summed up in all the late goals.

Celtic always give us moments of grief before turning them into triumph, joy and glory. This season, the late goals were crucial. They did not just win games. They helped decide the title. So let us go back to those moments.

There are seasons when Celtic simply win titles. Then there are seasons when Celtic drag the title over the line with bloody knuckles, a wild heart and that strange old magic only this club seems to possess. This was one of those seasons.

The kind where late goals do not just change scorelines. They change moods, nerves, history and sometimes even destiny itself.

All season long, Celtic kept doing what Celtic have so often done to opponents.

We broke them late. Absolutely broke them.

When legs were gone, when minds were wobbling, when the pressure became too much, Celtic found another gear. That is not luck. That is not coincidence. That is championship instinct. The kind of instinct every Celtic supporter can feel before it even happens.

I felt it. The Ginger witch senses were screaming all season long that this title race was not finished. Even when Hearts sat top for months. Even when people outside Celtic were desperate to write the story of some great romantic collapse. And on those occasions were we went late into a game and needed an extra shift, I always thought “We can. We will.”

Because Celtic have that ancient habit of surviving. We always seem to find one more moment, one more touch, one more goal when the world thinks we are done. The late goals became part of the identity of this campaign.

At Motherwell, with the title race hanging by a thread, Celtic refused to die. The pressure was suffocating, but we kept attacking until the breakthrough came. Kelechi Iheanacho’s stoppage-time penalty made it 3-2 and kept Celtic firmly in the title fight.

That game felt like a warning sign to the rest of Scotland that Celtic were still alive and still dangerous.

Hearts supporters and rival fans screamed about controversy afterwards, but the reality was simple: Celtic kept fighting while others were already dreaming of our downfall.

Then there were the matches where Callum McGregor dragged us forward through sheer force of will. Scrappy winners. Rebounds. Late pressure. Stoppage-time dominance.

Some of the goals were beautiful. Some were ugly. Celtic did not care.

Champions never apologise for surviving.

Daizen Maeda, in particular, became the symbol of that relentless mentality. He was everywhere this season. Sprinting, harassing, scoring, refusing to accept defeat. By springtime, it genuinely felt as though if Celtic needed a goal in the dying minutes, Maeda would somehow appear through smoke and fire to deliver it.

But nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to 16 May 2026.

That afternoon already felt haunted before a ball was kicked. The nerves around Glasgow were unlike anything I have felt in years. Hearts had spent months believing this was finally their time. The media had practically wrapped the story in ribbons already.

Celtic were supposed to stumble. Celtic were supposed to crack. Celtic were supposed to hand over the crown. Instead, Celtic reminded Scotland exactly who we are.

When Lawrence Shankland put Hearts ahead, you could feel the fear trying to creep in. You could hear rival supporters across the country beginning to believe. But Celtic never truly panicked. That is the thing about champions.

Even when the clock becomes your enemy, Celtic somehow make time bend to us.

Arne Engels’ penalty before half-time was massive. Ice cold. Proper bottle. It kept the heartbeat alive after Shankland had given Hearts the lead. But the real story came later, in those closing stages when the pressure became unbearable.

The clock was draining away. Hearts were clinging on. Every clearance from them was greeted like salvation. Every Celtic attack felt heavier than the last. Then it came.

The moment the whole season turned. Daizen Maeda. Of course it was him.

A goal initially flagged offside before VAR confirmed what every Celtic supporter was praying for: the goal stood. Maeda scored in the 87th minute, and Celtic Park exploded. Pure delirium. The kind of noise that rattles your bones.

Maeda had spent the season playing football like a man possessed, so there was something beautifully inevitable about him delivering the decisive blow.

Hearts broke right there. You could call them broken Hearts if you want.

You could see it instantly. Months of dreaming, months of believing, shattered in one moment by Celtic’s relentless refusal to die. Then came the final dagger.

Callum Osmand raced through in stoppage time with Hearts throwing absolutely everything forward. His finish into the empty net was more than a goal. It was release. It was confirmation. It was five in a row.

The Guardian recorded Osmand’s goal at 90+7:30, the moment Celtic sealed it.

At that point, Celtic Park completely lost its mind. Supporters flooded onto the pitch because emotionally there was nowhere else for that feeling to go. Five in a row had been secured in the dying minutes against the team trying to take it from us.

You could not script it any better.

Chaos. Emotion. Tears. Roaring. Absolute madness. Underneath all the noise, there was something else too. That old Celtic spirit. The one that runs through generations. The reason this club always feels bigger than football itself.

This title will be remembered because of the drama, the controversy and the madness surrounding it.

But for me, it should be remembered for Celtic’s resilience and all those late goals.

For all the games just like it when we won late; McCowan’s last minute winner. The screamer from Captain Callum. The beauty from Oxlade Chamberlain on his debut. Kelchi, getting big goals in more than just one big game. Arajuo at Kilmarnock, a goal I foolishly believed would be the most dramatic I would see in the campaign.

Hearts were good this season. They pushed us all the way. But Celtic’s mentality in the end was monstrous, because real champions do not always attack straight away. They wait. They ambush. They strike when the moment is right.

That is exactly what Celtic all season long, lurking in a green and white shadow, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.

That is why champions become champions.

Late goals are never just goals at Celtic. They become stories people carry forever. You remember where you were. Who you hugged. What you screamed. You remember the feeling in your chest when hope suddenly becomes certainty.

This season gave us those moments again and again. By the end, it felt almost supernatural. Celtic always finding something in the final moments. Always pulling another miracle out of the fire. Like the club itself simply refuses to accept defeat.

Five in a row was not handed to Celtic. We tore it out of opposition hands in the dying minutes again and again. Honestly? That makes it even sweeter.

Choose The CelticBlog as a ‘Preferred Source’ on Google News for quick access to the news you value.