IT was the morning after the night before and as we sat down to breakfast, the serving staff put down fresh paper mats at our places.
“Breakfast for European Champions” they read. It seemed unnecessarily cruel – just as the Germans even-scoring our only goal had some 10 hours previously. And then popped in their fifth as the strains of Flower Of Scotland died in the throats of the Tartan Army.
In truth, our army made a rather better fist of things than the folk on the pitch. They had taken Marienplatz Square during the day with some ease, the German fans knowing better than to mingle with a crowd of blue-shirted Scots some of whom were no strangers to the local beer gardens in Munich.
In fact, having acquired last-minute tickets for the match thanks to some assiduous scrolling of the Uefa website by my travelling companion, we took the advice of the Tartan Army high command and assembled at one such open-air watering hole. From whence, we were assured, there would be shuttle buses to the stadium.
Our path was signalled by a posse of extremely friendly stewards with giant foam hands. The shuttle bus journey was never less than epic. Crammed to the gunwales with footsoldiers, not a ditty in the tartan songbook was left unmurdered. I’ve been left, more than a week later, with a persistent earworm of No Scotland, No Party, twinned with We’ll Be Coming Down The Road.
If pre-match enthusiasm from the fanbase could have won the day, we’d have routed that German team. Alas, our team managed to drop the script. Our seats gave us an almost perfect view of the ensuing demolition, a fate made slightly more unbearable by the fact that our tickets seemed to have made their way back to Uefa via German hospitality sponsors. We were a tiny tartan bridgehead amidst a sea of Deutschland support.
We sought balm the day after via some of that city’s very fine galleries and on day three of the odyssey sampled one of those hop-on-hop-off bus tours for some local flavour. Since it included a stop at the Olympic Park, home of the fan zone, we took a gander at where we’d have been had we still been ticketless at kick-off.
Frankly, it was a disappointment. No seats anywhere, just shelves of grass on which to park your backside hoping that the overnight rain might have dried off. Apparently, on the night of the game, it was so oversubscribed it had to be closed off. So some fellow footsoldiers must have missed the rout completely.
Following Scotland, however, represents the ultimate sporting triumph of hope over experience. The squad who made it to Cologne demonstrated the same brand of dewy-eyed optimism we’d encountered in Munich, including robust predictions of totally unrealistic score lines.
These went viral, as did footage of a river craft hired by some of the more adventurous/better-heeled regiments which was swiftly transformed into a tartan naval division by draping Saltires over every available guard rail. Other passing craft looked on in some bemusement. Listen, meine Damen und Herren, they’re the famous Tartan Army even when seaborne!
Other footage from the Cologne leg showed a softer side of our troops as the TV screened an elderly German resident with a walker being shielded from the rain by two Scottish chaps holding an umbrella over him whilst getting entirely drookit themselves. Well played, guys!
By then we were en route home, the companion having to show up at work the next day, but planning to find an Edinburgh howf from which to view the Swiss encounter. Meanwhile I was back in improbably sunny Argyll musing that it was a good drying day for a wardrobe consisting almost entirely of Scottish shirts and t-shirts. Believe me, wandering around town in these after the German goalfest was a mite embarrassing.
Then again, if you’ve been at as many Scotland internationals as I have, there’s always the possibility of humiliation. And, in fairness, it’s easier when the team that trounces you is a tournament favourite rather than an unfancied minnow.
So here we are again. One crunch game between going home as per after the opening round, or making some history by actually still being in the competition for the second half. Frankly, I have no idea what that feels like. Neither have the team!
I watched a bit of the Switzerland - Hungary game through a sea of punters in a Munich pub, and the Swiss looked comfortable enough to score three times with just a solitary goal in response.
Just the same, we’re talking Scotland here. The team that gives unpredictability a bad name.
So yes, of course, I’ll be watching tonight. As will my friend and neighbour who’ll also be in front of my telly, since her man is not a footy fan. Both of us will be in freshly laundered Tartan Army uniform. Seriously, what can go wrong? Seriously, just about anything.
For starters, in order to score those ever-more elusive goals, it would be good to have something resembling a strike force rather than relying on midfielders to do the biz. Win, lose or draw, though, the Tartan Army can congratulate themselves on another fine campaign, making lots of friends – if not actually influencing too many games. And who knows? This might be their time to celebrate a breakout. When the late co-owner of my marriage and I used to contemplate travelling to World Cups – in the days when qualification was practically a given – we used to joke that we could go for the first half to see Scotland or the second fortnight to see the semis and the final. We always booked the opening fortnight.
After tonight, maybe, just maybe, those fans who kept more of the faith than we managed might get to see Scotland take part at the business end of a tournament. You know, the knockout phase.
SO tonight, I’ll be cheering on the team. Of course I will. But a small voice inside me will be telling me to be gey careful what I wish for. Because if we get three more points and it proves enough to go through, what then?
The runners-up in our group – if it all works out – get to go to Berlin to meet the runners up in the next group. Who could be Spain, Italy, or Croatia, or surprise package Albania.
I can already hear my erstwhile compatriots muttering, “but hey, Spain may have beaten Italy last Wednesday, but we beat Spain to get here. So what’s there to worry about?”
Frankly, my dears, please take your pick. For one, I was in earshot of many, many fans who predicted the worst that could happen in our opening match with Germany was a score draw. The Tartan Army always hope for the best even after the worst has already happened. It’s what we do.
Meanwhile, the team goes to competitions and play brilliantly, but only when they’re already oot. And save their direst performance for matches against teams they should routinely beat. It’s what they do.
So I’m not saying that a minor miracle can’t take place tonight. I’m just reflecting that there’s only so much my central nervous system can take.
Unlike some of my ever-optimistic comrades-in-arms, I have maybe not travelled this way before. But I have been at a wheen of Scotland games. And, to be honest, snatching defeat from the jaws of predicted victory is pretty well a national sporting hobby.
So come on lads. Prove me wrong tonight. Go out and annihilate Hungary one-nil. And we’ll be on the march again.
