For nearly three decades, a shadow hung over Scottish football – the agonizing near-misses, the cruel twists of fate that always seemed to deny them a place on the world’s biggest stage. It became a national narrative of glorious failure, a self-fulfilling prophecy woven into the fabric of supporting the national team.
I’d fallen into the trap myself, clinging to rituals and superstitions, desperately trying to conjure a different outcome. A kilt for crucial qualifiers, a debate over lucky underwear versus tradition – anything to break the cycle. Of course, it never worked. It couldn’t. Not for Scotland.
But last night felt different. The familiar sting of self-doubt, the moments of panic, the nail-biting tension – they were all there. Yet, something had shifted. For years, Scotland *received* the heartbreaking blows; now, they were delivering them.
We’ve become accustomed to watching others celebrate, to witnessing moments of brilliance that eluded our own players. The stunning overhead kicks, the improbable long-range goals – they always seemed to happen *to* us, not *for* us. That dynamic has irrevocably changed.
My earliest footballing memories are steeped in the euphoria of France 98. A freezing ferry journey, the joyous roar after Craig Burley’s goal against Norway, dancing with Cameroon fans in Nantes – those moments felt like a lifetime ago. As the years passed and the disappointments mounted, those memories became tinged with a painful nostalgia.
I found myself sounding like a veteran of a lost cause, warning younger fans they couldn’t possibly understand the depths of our suffering. The draws against Moldova, Lithuania, and Macedonia. The defeats to Wales, Slovakia, and Georgia – these were the visions that haunted my dreams.
Now, a new generation will forge their own memories, not of rueful regret, but of hazy, drunken joy. They’ll recall McTominay’s thunderous strike, McLean’s composed finish, and Robertson’s emotional interview with a smile, not a sigh.
Scotland’s recent returns to major tournaments in 2020 and 2024 were ultimately underwhelming. The battle cry of “No Scotland, no party” felt hollow when the partying was all we seemed capable of achieving. But with an expanded World Cup format, a sense of genuine possibility has emerged.
I was in Germany and London for those previous tournaments, battling a crippling fear of flying. But the prospect of North America is different. It’s a pull I can’t ignore. Perhaps, ironically, it was Kieran Tierney who finally convinced me to confront my aviophobia.
Last night, the stars aligned. The jinxes were broken. The cosmic stupidity that has plagued us for so long transformed into something resembling galactic intelligence. It was a night that turned the page on 28 years of hurt, and offered a glimpse of a brighter future.
I can’t wait for next year. Though, perhaps, just to be safe, I’ll give Kansas a miss.
