ON THE ROAD reflects on hellos and goodbyes from the national team at Hampden … and meets a new generation of Scotland fans eagerly anticipating a Euros adventure

Friday night, at least for your breakup correspondent, was once payday and date night.

The first offered a pittance that was so insulting it provoked a slap in the face. The latter offered a brief, occasional hope, followed by inevitable disappointment, though thankfully it was only a metaphorical slap in the face.

It was a time of appointments at Boots Corner in the center of Glasgow, followed, sometimes with indecent haste, by an irrevocable farewell in the shadows of a bar or nightclub.

A time of hello and goodbye. The trick was to extend the time between the two events. In this, as in so many other things, I failed regularly.

However, it was a privilege to visit an old flame last Friday. It was an honor to provide an introduction and an abrupt appeal to the nostalgia of the departure.

The introduction may be discussed first. The vast areas outside Hampden resounded with the excited, hyena-like calls of bands of weanlings. These children were loosely attached to troubled adults and fed a diet of expectation and high-quality sugar. They had also just completed a journey that would have tested the skills of Indiana Jones.

It was simply wonderful, but hardly unexpected, that the Grand Vizier of Road Works decided that Hampden should be as inaccessible as Everest on the day of a 24-hour Sherpa strike. The roadworks were placed as booby traps in the surrounding areas. The damage to punctuality was serious and shortly before kick-off you could recognize a parent in the hall by the look on his or her face from more than 1000 meters away.

My companion was and is no longer a weaner. But it was his debut during a match in Scotland. Lewis Rooney was recruited into the Tartan Army (actually Going to Games Regiment) at the age of 15. He was deemed ready for this brutal assignment because he was a Falkirk fan. As one mate said before the match: ‘This has given him super powers of resilience. Nothing can hurt him anymore.’

Lewis, of course, gently reminded me – no more than every fifteen minutes – that the Bairns had had an invincible season. He carried the sunny optimism of someone who hasn’t yet been cut and scarred by the boys in blue. He also had a sensible realism about the Scottish team and their sporting prospects. As his great uncle, it is my duty to beat that out of him.

Meanwhile, Steve Clarke’s side offered an introductory lesson, taking a two-goal lead only to lose it in dramatic fashion as Craig Gordon’s farewell took on an eerie tinge. However, Lewis is still down-to-earth and insightful when it comes to football. With practiced ease, he identified the best performers, discovered the shortcomings and philosophically laid out the truth at the international level – especially among the Big Boys – that it can be a matter of doing good and not really fixing it.

“We played well in parts, poorly in others and it was disappointing not to win,” he said as we meditated under the glow of an aurora borealis from taillights on Aikenhead Road.

“I’ll be back,” he said. The hello now threatens to become a permanent relationship.

Saying goodbye can be poignant, but in Scotland we also demand that it is sometimes absurd. “That’s the word I would use. That’s shameful,” said Alan Rough, on a golf course in Portugal on Friday instead of taking his medicine as a legend of Scotland’s battles won, lost and drawn. The former goalkeeper was referring to Hampden’s farewell before the 1978 World Cup. It is said that 25,000 to 30,000 people came to the national stadium to say goodbye to their heroes. On Friday, only 10,000 showed up to watch a real game.

“I thought it was all a bit strange, even at the time,” Rough said of the sweetest farewell in 1978. “We all sat in this open-top bus and waved as the fans sang and held up their flags and scarves. . I thought to myself that we hadn’t done anything yet, but we were being praised. I suppose you can look back and say, “Well, that didn’t turn out so well.”’

This is an understatement of astonishing proportions. By the time Scotland was ready to fly back from Argentina, several players had attempted to flee their hotel to visit a casino and had been arrested by security personnel, one player had failed a drugs test and was sent home early sent, and became the Tartan Army I want to replace an open-top bus with a tumbril. Oh, and Scotland had failed to qualify from the group, being defeated by Peru and holding Iran to a draw.

It now makes no sense to argue that the results in Argentina – a draw and a win (against eventual finalists Netherlands) in three matches – would be taken advantage of in Germany next week and that the 2024 version of the national team would become history to write. Argentina ’78 was of its time.

While the farewell was a bit euphoric, the homecoming was downright comical. The flight from Argentina landed in London so that the ‘Anglos’ – those who played with English clubs – could disembark and go home. The remaining seven players (Rough, Sandy Jardine, Stuart Kennedy, Tom Forsyth, Derek Johnstone, Bobby Clark and Joe Harper) left for Glasgow airport.

“It was a somber flight and there wasn’t too much talking,” Rough said. “But as we landed and taxied towards the terminal, Ally (MacLeod, team manager) suddenly said, ‘Look, we have a welcome committee.’ It looked more like a hanging plow. I’m not kidding, there were people on the tarmac and they didn’t want autographs. It was all so different from when we left.’

Scotland had departed from Prestwick Airport and Rough was then staying in Newton Mearns. “It was unbelievable,” he said of the departure. ‘All along the dual carriageway, even across Fenwick Moor, there were people waving flags and wishing us well.’

On Friday, the joy and fear were more closely linked. The parting goodwill had reached a peak when Clarke bowed to a hitherto unremarkable emotional side and brought Craig Gordon into goal, with the poor chap quickly taking the ball out of the net before conceding the penalty that leveled the score . It was personally unfortunate, but not nationally catastrophic. Argentina ’78 has the rights to that name.

While Lewis looked for food for his great uncle at half-time, there was time to reflect on a personal introduction to the Hampden national team. It can be determined accurately. On April 16, 1969, I was standing in the schoolboys’ quarters. It was located near the ramp where I sat in the main stand on Friday.

It no longer exists and deserves a brief description. It was actually a pit where children were herded through entrances that could have doubled as slits for archers. It seemed eye level with the field, but it’s hard to be definitive now. I still remember Gerd Müller scoring and Franz Beckenbauer playing for West Germany. My favorite player, Bobby Murdoch, scored the equalizer, so it has that mix of passing excitement and ultimate disappointment that would accompany you on football’s rocky road.

However, my history is limited compared to Brian Jamieson’s. At the age of 83, he wanders around Hampden on match days, spotting problems and solving them with a mix of skill, experience and good humour. He is called operations coordinator, but in reality he is a national treasure.

“I can easily give you my first game against Scotland,” he said, barely breaking stride as he patrolled the stadium. ‘It was 1957 and we beat Switzerland 3-2. Archie Roberston scored and Tommy Ring also played. As a Clyde supporter they were two of my favorite players.’

The match on November 6 was a qualifying match for the World Cup in Sweden. It indicated that Scotland were on course… to finish bottom of the group in the final by one point.

We were back before the postcards. It’s what we do. Maybe this time it will be different. This hope will sustain us all in the coming weeks, from the barking women in the hall to the teenage Lewis in the stands and to an experienced campaigner now preparing his backpack for Munich, Cologne and Stuttgart.