For nearly three decades, a shadow hung over Scottish football – the agonizing absence from the World Cup. It wasn’t simply a matter of losing; it was the *way* Scotland lost, a cruel choreography of near misses, improbable defeats, and self-inflicted wounds.
I, like countless others, fell into rituals of desperation, convinced that specific people, places, even garments held the key to unlocking success. One qualifier found me wrestling with tradition and comfort, attempting a bizarre compromise involving a kilt and a pair of supposedly lucky boxers. It didn’t work, of course. It never did.
The pattern was always the same: glorious failure, blaming referees, lamenting selection choices, or even the wrong choice of underwear. Something, anything, always intervened. Until last night. Something fundamentally shifted.
This match felt both familiar and utterly different. The self-defeating tactics, the moments of sheer panic, the nail-biting tension – all hallmarks of a Scotland game. But beneath the surface, a new resilience, a defiant spirit, was taking hold.
For years, Scotland was the team *to whom* things happened. We conceded last-minute goals, watched opponents score spectacular winners, and wondered why such talent didn’t emerge from our own ranks. Now, we were the architects of those moments, inflicting them on others.
My earliest footballing memories are steeped in the euphoria of France 98. A freezing ferry journey from Hull, the joyous celebration of Craig Burley’s goal against Norway, and dancing with Cameroon fans in Nantes – these were formative experiences. But as the years passed, those memories became tinged with a growing sadness.
I found myself sounding like a weary veteran, warning younger generations that they couldn’t possibly understand the depths of our disappointment. The litany of failures was brutal: draws against Moldova, Lithuania, and Macedonia; defeats to Wales, Slovakia, and Georgia. These weren’t losses against footballing giants; they were stabs in the heart.
But now, a new narrative is being written. Future generations will remember this era not with rueful regret, but with hazy, joyful recollections. They’ll recall McTominay’s stunning strike, McLean’s composed finish, and Andy Robertson’s emotionally charged interview.
Past returns to major tournaments in 2020 and 2024 felt like missed opportunities, reduced to little more than enthusiastic partying. This time, however, feels different. The expanded World Cup format, with opponents like Haiti and England awaiting, offers a genuine chance to progress.
I was present in Germany and London during those previous tournaments, and despite a lifelong fear of flying, I’m already planning a trip to North America. I always joked that I’d need to find someone I loved enough to get me on a plane. It seems that someone is Kieran Tierney.
Last night, the stars aligned. Luck, for once, was on our side. The decades-long jinx seemed to dissolve, replaced by a sense of cosmic intelligence. The weight of 28 years lifted, replaced by an exhilarating sense of possibility.
I’m already anticipating next year, though perhaps Kansas can wait. For now, I’ll savor this moment, a moment that felt, against all odds, gloriously, inexplicably, and undeniably Scottish.
