BEING one of the older heads in The National newsroom who remembers Scotland’s last appearance at a World Cup, it feels appropriate to reminisce as Steve Clarke’s men prepare to take on Haiti.
As years in sport go, 1998 was a belter for me. A Larsson-inspired Celtic stopped Rangers doing the 10, the Ayr Scottish Eagles swept all before them in ice hockey, and Scotland were shaping up for the opening game of France 98.
Nine-year-old me woke up on a sunny Wednesday in June, buzzing for what would be the first World Cup I could properly experience.
My already hazy memories of the 1994 edition were quickly overshadowed by the VHS release of a wee blockbuster called Jurassic Park in the run-up to Roberto Baggio infamously emulating Diana Ross’s penalty-taking abilities.
Optimism that our schoolteachers seemed determined to stamp out. We had been promised a treat to mark the occasion, so a TV was wheeled out and a video tape plonked in, a common occurrence in the dog days before the summer holidays.
We were greeted with highlights of Scotland’s 1978 World Cup match against the Netherlands. The game is most famously remembered for Archie Gemmill’s spectacular goal – the uninitiated may recall it from a particular scene in Trainspotting.
The goal had briefly given the Tartan Army hope of winning by the three clear goals needed to qualify for the second round. Alas, a second Netherlands goal rendered Scotland’s 3-2 win against the eventual runners-up ultimately meaningless.
Glorious failure, the quintessential hard-luck story that saturates the Scottish psyche. No point giving the kids false hope. Get used to it.
The following year, the Scottish devolution referendum failed after some classic Westminster skullduggery. Commentators mused over what impact the ignominious World Cup campaign had on the nation’s self-confidence in the run-up to the vote.
Ally MacLeod’s army had gone on the march to Argentina with dreams of winning football’s biggest prize – until Peru and Iran brutally put such hubris to bed. Luckily for Scotland, Margaret Thatcher had just come into office; things couldn’t get any worse, right? Fast forward two decades and things, it seemed, could only get better.
Thatcher was long gone, with Tony Blair yet to become the rictus-grinned warmonger we know and loathe. Scotland had voted overwhelmingly to reinstate our parliament and of course, the men’s national team had sealed qualification for France 98.
Optimism was back. Morocco and Norway? We could beat them. However, in their opening match at the Stade de France, Craig Brown’s men weren’t going up against just any old team.
Our opponents were the defending champions, Brazil, a team replete with bona fide superstars: Cafu, Roberto Carlos, Rivaldo, and of course Ronaldo (the original and best, none of the CR7 nonsense).
Unlike Scotland’s matches this summer, the France 98 opener had a far more reasonable late-afternoon start – perfect timing for those of us coming home from school.
A spread of hot dogs and cola awaited as my family settled in for the (mercifully short by modern standards) opening ceremony. As expected, Brazil quickly took control, scoring after five minutes. However, just before half-time, Kevin Gallacher was brought down in the box and a penalty awarded.
Up stepped John Collins – who, according to what has become something of a family myth, we may be distantly related – to slam it home and an unlikely point suddenly looked possible.
However, with around 15 minutes to go, disaster struck when the ball ricocheted off Tom Boyd from close range and into his own net, ultimately handing Brazil a much narrower victory than predicted. Glorious failure, again. A hard-fought draw against Norway gave Scotland hope of progressing but a chastening 3-0 defeat to Morocco sent us home early.
If you’d told me then that it would be almost three decades of mediocrity before Scotland’s men qualified for another World Cup, I wouldn’t have believed it.
In the years that followed, my obsession became domestic football, with international breaks mostly an annoying distraction from the rough and tumble of the “proper” stuff.
But I can’t help but be all-in on Scotland this summer, especially since Italy – my once-reliable back-up option – are going through their own period in the wilderness.
I may not quite share the First Minister’s (overly?) optimistic prediction of seven points from the group – let’s just beat Haiti first and take it from there – but maybe, just maybe, this time Scotland won’t come home too soon.
