The pair sat in Scotland shirts on the train to Stuttgart but were speaking in German so I had to find out their story. It turned out Maciej was from Poland and had visited London, bumped into some Scots there and found himself drawn. And Lars, a German from Bochum, was taken to Stirling on holiday as a child by his English teacher mum. “From then I am like this for Scotland,” he announced, conveying addiction by miming injecting something into his arm.
Two middle-aged European guys, somehow emotionally to the auld country, crossing Germany to enlist in the Tartan Army — what could be more beautiful than that? Well, winning. But let’s not be daft. That would be too much to ask.
How to convey what happened at the Stuttgart Arena? The bare fact is it happened again. Scotland are 12 from 12 now. Twelve major tournaments, 12 group stage exits. But, we’re never boring — no us, no party, remember — and so Scotland of course found yet another novel way to break hearts: exiting to the latest goal (excluding extra time) in European Championship history. Good one, lads.
But what did we expect? Or, more accurately, what did Scots have a right to expect? The team gave every drop, living up to the extraordinary support of the Tartan Army in the stadium and around the city. They had courage to dominate the ball, completing more passes in the first half than in any half of tournament football in Scotland’s history, and they were the side pushing much the hardest to win in the ten absolutely chaotic minutes of stoppage time.
But, for all that, Scotland were still prisoners of their crushing limitations. These include having no pace in forward areas, nobody who can beat a man, no striker, and a few players who struggle for technique. Steve Clarke will face an inquest after his side equalled the all-time record for fewest shots in a tournament but he was not wrong to say, in his morbid way: “That’s what we are. That’s the way we are.”
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And so, sore heads and splintered hearts again. Einstein was wrong. Doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results is not the definition of insanity. It’s the definition of Scottishness.
Before kick-off, like a hologram of the nation’s own Obi-Wan Kenobi, Sir Alex Ferguson appeared on a video on the stadium’s big screens. He had a message for the Tartan Army. “Most of all, enjoy it.”
Really? As an Aberdeen supporter I’d do anything for Fergie but that was a big ask. Enjoy what was probably coming? The Tartan Army tried, patting balloons and beach balls to each other during the preamble and bouncing along to The Fratellis.
Scotland’s challenge was living up to those fans. Against Germany that had felt too much, leading to a performance full of ineptitude and stress. However, against Switzerland the team remembered to see the backing they receive as not a burden, but a privilege. And in Stuttgart they tried to harness it, bossing the ball in the early stages and reaching half-time with more than 60 per cent possession. For a little while, Billy Gilmour was Xavi and Callum McGregor was Xabi Alonso. Well, up to a point.
Everywhere there were Saltires. They told us lads from Port Glasgow, Grantown, Larbert, Kinross and Caithness were in town. That the Duncans were here. That their pubs, groups of pals, workplaces were represented. Something counterintuitive can happen when Scotland are going well. The Tartan Army goes quiet as if — because there are never any guarantees when Scotland are playing — they don’t want to break the spell.
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It was only when Clarke’s side hit its first lull that Flower of Scotland sprung up again. There followed the McTominay song, the John McGinn song, Doe A Deer and when the stadium DJ made the shocking call to play Sweet Caroline at half-time, it was drowned by whistles and jeers. Pipers, at either end of the main stand, played.
When, after 99 minutes and 32 seconds, Hungary’s goal came, Lawrence Shankland sank to his knees. Jack Hendry bent over like he was going to vomit. McTominay stood, a thousand-yard stare and hands on hips. Big Grant Hanley, who had spent most of the added period as an auxiliary striker and seconds earlier nearly scored with a dunt of his meaty head, now walked the slowest, sorest, saddest walk from deep in Hungary’s half back to his own.
I thought of Maciej and Lars. Did they listen to Fergie? Did they enjoy it? The way hope turns to acid, fun into pain? They seemed to have a pretty good handle on what Scotland are about when we spoke on the train. So I suspect they felt their guts twist and tear in that unique “why us again?” way. But that before too long they’d also be back in town, sipping something cold and realising they would be fine.
