Morocco plainly wanted to stop the singing. Ismael Saibari’s goal just 71 seconds after kick-off stunned the Tartan Army into deep, wretched silence and the Scotland team into a defensiveness from which they took half the game to emerge.
It was brutally abrupt, a feeling of utter deflation, of a terrific party that ended before it had started. We were hardly settled in our seats, us millions of Scots fans watching in pubs and fan zones and living rooms.
The miracle was that Scotland then dug in against one of the best teams in the world and managed to prevent any more goals. The defeat, although painful, means their hopes of making history by getting past the group stage at a World Cup for the first time are still alive. In truth they could have lost 5-0.
If they manage a draw or another slender defeat against Brazil on Wednesday, there’s a chance, given the torturous maths for the best third-placed qualifiers, that they could scrape through into the last 32. So yet another terrible cliffhanger awaits, more nerves shredded, more beer drunk.
For the fans, in little groups right across Scotland, Friday night held the familiar balm of the disadvantaged: things are bad, but they could be much worse. “Hope dies last,” comforted Philip, the young German man sitting beside me.
About 40 villagers had gathered in the Black Bull, a community-owned pub and hub in Gartmore, in the Loch Lomond and Trossachs National Park. Happily, the night was on the pub.
Harry had bought four boxes of Kleenex for when it got emotional either way. Billy and Sandy, the organiser, had put up bunting. Bottled beer and dark humour were free.
As the game started, so it continued. The first half was agony, an inevitable reality in support of Scotland. The Moroccans were terrifyingly good: taller, faster, stronger – elastic legs effortlessly scooping up neutral balls, bullying the Scots in every contact. A pall settled over us. We were going to be hammered. It was backs-to-the-wall stuff all over again.
“The Scots look like they eat too much square sausage,” said Harry’s wife Janice, and we all chewed our fingers.
In Boston, the whistling began. Ally McCoist’s commentary became sarcastic. Behind me, Colin dropped his first F-bomb. “This is murder. They’re just walking through us. Push up on them!” Over by the window, to general mirth, we noticed that Mike, a Yorkshireman, had fallen asleep.Players and fans somehow survived to the half-time break. Janice had organised a buffet. Liz shared details of a local wild swimming lochan rewilded by beavers. A few locals took the opportunity to sidle home. If you have to endure torture, it helps if it’s at least exciting.
Newsletters
Choose the newsletters you want to receive
View more
For information about how The Observer protects your data, read our Privacy Policy
Against Morocco, Scotland manager Steve Clarke had reverted to a defensive formation which pinned his men relentlessly in their own half. Ben Gannon-Doak, the electric star from the Haiti game, had to wait on the sidelines until the 60th minute, when Kieran Tierney suffered a knock.Was Clarke’s strategy right? It probably saved them from a huge defeat. Everyone else thought Gannon-Doak should have started because Scotland were at their best when they just cut loose and went for it. McCoist too cried. “C’mon, let’s roll the dice Stevie. Let’s get them attacking. Get some of the young ones on.”
But in the second half, Scotland gathered confidence. Gannon-Doak made a couple of breaks which roused a spark. On TV you could hear the faint but welcome skirl of pipes. Far from just hanging on to a slim defeat, could Scotland hope for an equaliser?
It so nearly happened - the eternal could-have, might-have. Two potential penalty claims involving talismen Scott McTominay and John McGinn were 50-50 decisions which might have been given - but not this time, not by this ruthless referee, not by this VAR team. A sense of injustice simmered.
By the 76th minute, after stadium applause for a Tartan Army member who had died in his Boston hotel room, Morocco seemed to lose focus just as Scotland had rediscovered the magic dust of positivity. After all, wasn’t there a school of thought that said they might have more of a chance against Brazil in their next game? Brazil, now sitting above Morocco in the table.
In the last quarter and through six minutes of extra time, Scotland kept attacking, several times close to scoring that precious equaliser. They headed over, hit the side-netting. McTominay, an elegant player with an accent as Scottish as Eccles cake, had an attempt deflected over the crossbar. The Moroccans looked panicked. The Tartan Army came alive. But the ball just couldn’t find the net. “Numpties,” Colin roared in despair. Outclassed but indomitable, dogged wee Scotland were still threatening when the whistle went.
By then, the idea of a 1-0 defeat was 96 minutes old and everyone was used to it. It was practically a victory against a team that good. History still beckoned.
Billy, stoical, is leaving the bunting up for Brazil. “Clarke should have played Shankland and Gannon-Doak and the local lad Finlay Curtis. They are the goal-scorers,” he said. Sandy had turned his bucket hat inside out in mourning but remained optimistic. “It’s all about the party. We are always optimistic. The last 20 minutes, you could see Morocco had vulnerabilities.” There is always Wednesday. The Kleenex is still there. Scotland lives in hope yet again.
Photograph by Katherine Rose for The Observer