To the Football!

And so, the time had come.

Twenty-eight years since Scotland’s last appearance at a World Cup. Three personal disappointments when they failed to qualify. Six months on from those four uncharacteristic world-class goals at Hampden that propelled us to this moment.

It was time, finally, for Scotland to rejoin the Cup.

And I was there to play my role with the Tartan Army as we marched to the stadium.

Well, sadly, unlike normal Scotland games, there wasn’t to be a march. Normally the Army parades to the stadium behind a phalanx of pipers. But with Foxborough some 25 miles from Boston, it would have been a very long march!

(As an aside, those fans staying over in Boston this weekend—allegedly 5,000 of them—have planned an actual pipe-band-led march to Fenway Park on Sunday afternoon to watch the Red Sox. Oh, how I would have liked to have been among that!)

No march then, just a simple train ride of about an hour to Gillette Stadium.

I was a little concerned about the journey, fearing disorganised chaos. While some reported problems—I suspect largely due to their own disorganisation!—our experience was exceptional.

Hats off to the Boston transit people, who marshalled us onto the trains with efficient ease. Very well done.

The train ride itself was comfortable and uneventful.

As a non-native to these shores, I probably shouldn’t comment, but I will, on the one American group that was last to join our carriage. Their loud, animated conversation rose well above the Scots contingent filling the rest of the car.

They weren’t being unkind or rude; they were simply having a good time. But in that confined space, the contrast between my birth country and my adopted country became particularly noticeable.

One of our number, I suspect finally having had enough of the volume, initiated a chorus of Flower of Scotland.

And that put an end to that.

Soon enough, we arrived at Gillette. The Tartan Army, having started on a slow burn that morning, was now in full voice, marching in unison towards the impressive stadium rising above us against the setting sun.

It was an awesome sight, one that stirred the soul and quickened our step towards the stadium.

Until, suddenly, the crowd came to an abrupt halt.

It seemed that someone had forgotten to unlock the entrance gate. Likely not, but that was certainly how it felt.

The crowd pressed forward and a crush began to form around the entrance.

It wasn’t the first time I had experienced crowd crush, and this crowd was reasonably well behaved, but it was not something I expected at a typically well-organised FIFA event.

The difference in queuing culture between the rule-following Scots and the rather more haphazard Haitians was clearly evident, leading to one or two moments of tension.

You can throw a beer over a Scot, but don’t you dare jump the queue.

For a wee while, I was a little intimidated, not least because Lorna and Andrew were with me. But they handled it well and, after thirty minutes—which felt more like an hour—we finally squeezed through the choke point and popped out into the final security check.

The final security check of four that I counted.

I understand and appreciate the focus on safety, but that may have been one checkpoint too many and likely contributed to the crush. They may want to rethink that before Morocco next week.

Enough grumbling.

Once inside, Gillette Stadium was magnificent.

A true cathedral of sport, switching denominations for one evening from football to, well, FOOTBALL.

We passed the bronze idol to Tom Brady, the Patriots’ legendary quarterback.

I was extremely disappointed to note that no traffic cone had been placed upon Tom’s head, in tribute to the ubiquitous cone that now sits permanently—despite the long-running objections of Glasgow City Council—atop the statue of the Duke of Wellington in George Square.

Perhaps that fourth security check was not searching for weapons or contraband at all, but rather for illicit traffic cones! There’s always next week!

For some, the moment of Scottish redemption was the singing of the anthem or the kick-off. For me, it was the walk to our seats.

Fortuitously, with the delay at the entrance, that happened just as the Scotland team emerged to warm up. The stadium went wild and the PA blasted out a playlist of Scottish tunes. You might have thought that if Craig’s arrival yesterday moved me to tears, I’d have been a weeping fool at that point. But no. The assault on the senses—the noise, the sights—was overwhelming. There was simply too much going on for tears.

I will forever remember that climb down the steps with Scots to my left and my right belting out Loch Lomond.

It wasn’t the moment of redemption for me, but Flower of Scotland was pretty damn good too. However, I must have a word with whoever chose the key for that song. My voice strained in one octave to reach the top tenor notes, but in the lower octave I couldn’t quite reach the baritone. You may know that I enjoy a sing-song, so it was frustrating to be unable to do justice to our anthem. And of course, everyone was paying attention to my voice alone!

Surprisingly, the Scots did not have complete dominance of the terraces. Given their complete absence on the streets of Boston, Haitians accounted for, I would guess, about a third of the crowd and made themselves very well known with their bright Caribbean colours and shrill chants of “Hai-Ti! Hai-Ti!”

I benefited from the FIFA ballot, but I had no control over the location of our seats, which thankfully were excellent—row six, just above the corner flag. Thanks to the lottery, however, we found ourselves mingling with the friendly and enthusiastic Haitians. That, to me, is the true spirit of the Cup.

Still, there was a tinge of regret that we were not embedded with the Tartan Army in the Scottish section behind the goal at the other end.

The planning, the cost, the controversies, the journey, the crush at the entrance—all were forgotten the moment Shankland nudged the ball from the centre spot and, finally, the football started.

Scotland were magnificent in those opening minutes and I anticipated a rout. Had we put away a couple of those early chances, it very well might have been. But Haiti weathered the initial storm and began their war of attrition. They were strong, fast, physical, and constantly niggled away at Scotland, disrupting the game. Not pretty, but effective.

The tactic certainly frustrated our fans, although Clarke’s game plan seemed to be to allow Haiti their fair share of possession and trust that they lacked quality in front of goal. In that regard, the plan worked. Haiti created plenty of chances but squandered every one of them.

Thankfully.

It is a risky strategy. One lucky break, a deflected shot, or a moment of uncharacteristic genius and they score.

Yes, Haiti were disruptive and lacked quality, but Scotland didn’t do themselves justice in this game. It was a very nervy performance, and key players—particularly McTominay, our star man—failed to show up for large parts of the match. Robertson and McGinn demonstrated their leadership qualities throughout and posed a real threat down the left, while young Gannon-Doak did the same on the right. There’s reason for optimism, but we’ll need to shake off the nerves and deliver a much better performance against Morocco and Brazil, I’m afraid.

I have almost nothing to say about our goal.

Andrew, to be honest, was becoming a little anxious with the noise, the lights, and the sheer number of people. At that precise moment, he announced that he needed to retreat to the restroom—his usual strategy for managing anxiety.

So that is where I was when I heard the stadium erupt to celebrate McGinn’s goal.

The day after, I still haven’t seen it.

The upside is that, at least in my imagination, the goal was every bit as glorious as Gemmill’s in the 1978 World Cup, whereas I believe it was actually a fortunate deflection!

Andrew’s anxiety increased throughout the game. He enjoys an adventure and did extremely well and, I think, genuinely enjoyed the experience. But these crowds, this energy, were a step above anything he had encountered before. Even our trip to Old Trafford last December paled in comparison. He cowered beneath the bucket hat I bartered for yesterday.

Anticipating real problems with the return train journey, we chose to leave ten minutes before the end to ensure we got on one of the first trains back to Boston. So I left my beloved Scots to battle out the final minutes and secure their first World Cup victory in 36 years, the noise diminishing over my shoulder as we headed early for the station.

I’d have liked have scored one or two more as goal difference will probably be the deciding factor in deciding which of the third places teams progress to the next round. Now we’ll likely need at least a point from Morocco or Brazil. Difficult, but certainly not impossible. But I’m happy. A win’s a win, especially after all this time, and, at least for now, we sit atop our group!

Our journey back to Boston was subdued but uneventful.

As it turned out, our decision was absolutely the right one. Horror stories abound this morning of waits of up to three hours for trains, queuing without water or toilet facilities. It could have been a nightmare for my boy.

I rarely—almost never—play the Andrew disability card expecting him to be treated inclusively alongside everyone else. But I knew the Boston train service had a separate line for people with special needs. In those circumstances, I would happily have played that ace.

Some poor souls did not get back to their hotels until after 3 a.m. Thanks to our pre-emptive departure, we were back in Boston shortly after midnight.

Exiting South Station, I noticed a line of Boston police motorcycles—the first significant police presence I had seen all day. Their distinctive motorcycles and peaked caps sparked a beloved but long-forgotten memory of a childhood comic strip featuring a Boston motorcycle cop. Sadly, even ChatGPT could not help me remember the name of that character. I would be interested if anyone else remembers.

Given the media’s reported concerns about the influx of foreign visitors, I expected a much more visible police presence. But no. Apart from these officers, the ball-juggling policeman you can find on YouTube, and the snipers on top of Gillette Stadium, security has been remarkably low-key.

And very well done to Boston law enforcement for that.

Arriving back at our hotel, we found ourselves competing with Knicks fans—whose team had just won its first NBA title in nearly fifty years—for the title of happiest sports supporters.

In my opinion, it was no contest.

No Scotland, No Party!

And the best news?

I get to do it all again next week for the Morocco game.