THERE’S nothing quite like the fourth round of the Scottish Cup. As our nation’s heavyweights enter the fray, supporters the length and breadth of the country dare to dream of going up against the big boys and leaving them with a bloody nose.
Call me a romantic, but the Cup has always held a special place in my heart. It’s got nothing to do with my own team’s record – heck, I’ve not even seen them play at Hampden – but I unashamedly buy into the mythology behind it all. Between the giant-killings, the memorable days out and watching semi-pro or amateur teams punch above their weight, the oldest trophy in world football still retains its lustre for this humble scribe after all these years.
At least, it did. Now I’m not so sure.
