The Flight of the Phoenix is a WWII movie from 1965 starring Jimmy Stewart about a plane that crash-lands in the Sahara Desert, leaving its crew and passengers stranded. Fortunately, they discover that one of their number is an expert in aeronautics who believes they can salvage the wreckage, rebuild the aircraft, and fly it out of the unforgiving dunes to safety.

Unfortunately they soon discover that their saviour is an expert in the aeronautics of model aeroplanes. He’s never worked on a real aircraft. But with no other options, the desperate survivors pin all their hopes of salvation on the model-plane designer.

To ignite the engine they have seven—and only seven—starter cartridges. One by one they load them into the Coffman starter, each shot another precious chance to bring the Phoenix to life and carry them to safety from the vast, pitiless expanse of the Sahara.

Being a Scotland fan this week feels rather like waiting for the Phoenix to rise and fly us to the sanctuary of the next round. Despite the defeat to Brazil, remarkably, hope remains. Any number of permutations in the remaining matches could fire the engine and propel us out of the World Cup desert to new life in the tournament. But, like those souls stranded in the dunes, our hopes are pinned to a veritable model-plane engineer, and with each game that passes the permutations grow fewer, while the odds of survival—already slim—are swallowed, one by one, by the shifting sands.

Of course, the roots of the catastrophe are of our own making. Only one goal against Haiti, the minnows of our group. A horrendous, Sunday League-calibre goal conceded to Morocco in the very first minute. Then another Keystone Cops piece of defending to gift Brazil a goal. Granted, Scotland were unlucky to be drawn with two of the world’s top ten teams, and while the squad includes a smattering of genuine stars, they cannot carry an entire team. Too often it felt like Minor League defending against Champions League attack.

Our star players have received plenty of criticism for failing to show up. But it wasn’t the stars who choked in the crucial moments; it was the supporting cast. One more point—just one—or a couple more goals, just two, to improve the goal difference, and Scotland would not now be standing in the desert, desperately trying to fan the Phoenix into life.

So now the cartridges fire one by one in the hope of resurrection.

The first cartridge was Group A, where we needed the two top seeds to do Scotland a favor by beating the minnows, Czechia and South Africa, respectively. Mexico did their bit. But, inexplicably, South Africa—who had looked dreadful in the tournament opener against Mexico—caused an upset by taking all three points from South Korea, wiping the smile from the face of my boy, Heung-min Son. Consequently, South Africa, whom I had confidently penciled in to finish below Scotland in the third-place table, climbed to second in the group, while South Korea, thanks to a better result against Czechia, moved above us in the 3^rd place table.

Another dud cartridge. Bosnia, having already snatched an unexpected point from Canada, followed it up with an expected victory over Qatar, collecting three more points and vaulting themselves towards the top of the third-place standings.

It’s a rare set of circumstances when you find yourself supporting Germany, yet there I was cheering them on as the next cartridge was loaded for their match against Ecuador. Surely—surely—we could rely on the Germans to do us a favor and bury Ecuador in the sand.

They didn’t.

With top spot in the group already secured, Germany had little incentive to chase the win by stretching key players and risking injury.

Then there was Paraguay. Another banker to finish below Scotland. One of the tournament’s minnows, humbled by the USA in their opening match, surely they would lose to Australia. But no. Australia needed only a point to secure second place in the group, while Paraguay were perfectly content with a draw that would leave them third. The result was a drab, goalless stalemate. Satisfactory for them. Disheartening for the Scots.

Coming into this final round of fixtures, I failed to appreciate just how tactical they would become. Teams that had already secured top spot—or simply done enough to progress—rested players, settled for mutually acceptable draws, and generally took their foot off the gas. They had no reason to share Scotland’s desperate sense of urgency.

Finally, one cartridge caught.

Spain defeated Uruguay and, suddenly, at least one nation would finish beneath us. We needed only three more.

When I could no longer keep my eyes open, with Egypt dominating Iran—another third-place contender—in the late-night match, I went to bed with a flicker of optimism in my heart. Before turning off my phone, I checked who Scotland would face if the Phoenix flew.

Mexico.

At the Azteca Stadium in Mexico City, one of football’s great cathedrals.

I fell asleep picturing myself, one of the dwindling ranks of the Tartan Army, marching towards the stadium in proud defiance of the legions of Mexican supporters, secure in the knowledge that it would, without doubt, be the most memorable match I would ever attend.

Alas, my dreams were dashed.

I woke to discover that Iran had fought back to earn a point, leapfrogging us in the scramble for that coveted place in the high mountains of Mexico.

And now only three cartridges remain.

Ghana must beat Croatia. Austria must beat Algeria—by two goals. And DR Congo must not beat Uzbekistan.

All three must fire perfectly this time.

DraftKings are offering surprisingly attractive odds on that parlay: 17.5 to 1. I actually thought the odds would be much longer.

I may even have a flutter.

After all, Jimmy Stewart and the survivors were down to their last few starter cartridges, and they still believed the Phoenix could fly.

Ghana did not beat Croatia.

Of course they didn’t.

Croatia may be a little older than they were, but they were World Cup runners-up in 2018 and semi-finalists in 2022. Their team is still led by Luka Modrić. Yes, he turned 40 this week, but my God, what a player.

I was fortunate enough to see him in the flesh when Croatia played Russia in the 2018 quarter-final in Sochi. Television simply doesn’t do him justice. When you can watch him away from the ball, casually trotting around the center circle like a thoroughbred, barely breaking a sweat, before effortlessly pinging another inch-perfect pass, you begin to appreciate his genius.

Quarterback isn’t a position in my kind of football, but that’s essentially what he is. He drifts into that space between defense and attack and controls—no, dictates—the entire game.

Of course, Ghana couldn’t beat that.

And with that result, Scotland’s World Cup was officially over. Whatever happens to DR Congo or Algeria now is irrelevant. We’re going home.

I even found myself wondering whether the team had already packed their bags, knowing there was nothing more they could do to fan the Phoenix into life, leaving it stranded once again in the international desert for another four years.

As I write this, I’ve just read that Scotland manager Steve Clarke has stepped down. That’s a shame.

He lacks the larger-than-life charisma of some managers, it’s true. He’s a dour Scot. But I think he represents us well, and he achieved something that none of his predecessors managed over the previous twenty-odd years. He led Scotland to two European Championships and a World Cup, creating memories that will last a lifetime. Perhaps not quite so important for me, but every bit as life-shaping for the wee boys who stood on the terraces this past week cheering for Super John McGinn as they were for this wee boy standing at Hampden Park, roaring as Joe Jordan scored against Czechoslovakia to send Scotland to the 1974 World Cup.

Personally, Steve, I salute you. You did a remarkable job with the resources at your disposal, and I wish you nothing but success in whatever comes next.

I was in the car as England prepared to kick off their final group match against Panama today. The sports commentator introduced the game like this:

“England enter this match already certain of qualification, and a win tonight will secure top spot in the group—a position other nations can only envy. But England needs a statement victory to prove they’re genuine World Cup contenders. They’re not just here to party.”

A none-too-subtle dig at the Scots.

I laughed and shouted something rather less printable at the radio.

Because, for many of the smaller nations, the World Cup is about far more than wins and losses. It’s about the privilege of coming together with people from every corner of the world—with Haitians, Moroccans and Brazilians—to celebrate the game we all love, and to share a laugh, a beer and a memory that will last a lifetime.

As we partied with those fans, I looked into the distance and saw a flame rise from the ashes before disappearing into the sunsett

P.S. Come on, Morocco!!!!