Perhaps you find yourself already in Boston, brimming with excitement in your Scotland jersey and kilt, possibly having discovered a local pub to quench your thirst with some lager. Just a hunch.
Maybe you’ve decided to remain at home, planning for an unforgettable all-nighter. You and your friends might be heading to the pub as the clock strikes midnight.
With a pint or two downed before the 2 a.m. kickoff, you might find yourself saying, “Why not?” a few more times during the thrilling 90 minutes ahead.
And why not indeed? This is monumental. You’d have to journey back to the previous century to find a comparable event.
It’s been ages since Scotland last secured a spot in the World Cup, so much so that only one player, goalkeeper Craig Gordon, in the 26-man squad, is likely to remember it vividly. By the way, Gordon is the tournament’s eldest player at 43.
Or perhaps you believe your living room is the perfect spot to witness this significant football match in the middle of the night. A six-pack of Tennent’s is chilling in the fridge, ready to be enjoyed, with snacks prepared for halftime.
I pass no judgment on any of the above options for savouring Scotland’s return to World Cup football after a 28-year absence.
I understand – even salute – the spirit of optimism attending the more recent recruits to the Tartan Army.
Most fans will be dreaming of World Cup glory for the next month or so
Scotland infamously lost to Peru at the 1978 World Cup
Why would any young fan not thrill to the promise of the campaign ahead after witnessing the glory of Scott McTominay’s bicycle kick goal against Denmark last November?
What about Kieran Tierney’s magic from 25 yards in the 92nd minute?
Or the chutzpah of Kenny McLean’s killer blow seconds before the final whistle – the floater over the head of goalkeeper Kasper Schmeichel into the back of the net from inside his own half?
For those of us without scar tissue these were more than the goals which secured our passage to the finals in North America.
They were evidence of footballing excellence, exhibits A, B and C in the proof of the potency of Scotland’s threat to any side in the world.
Which of the 47 other competing nations could show a finer set of finishes in the match where they clinched their place in the World Cup? Not one, I would wager.
But my own plans for the early hours of Sunday, when Scotland face Haiti in their Group C opener in Boston, are plans forged from scar tissue. Almost half a century of it.
I still remember the days when I had none and the confident air in our study in Aberdeen as my brother and I sat down with a student lodger to watch Ally Mac- Leod’s Scotland despatch lowly Peru in Córdoba, Argentina, in 1978.
It was obvious to all three of us our team would do the business. No lesser authorities than Rod Stewart and Andy Cameron had been telling us so for weeks.
‘Ole Ola, Ole Ola,’ sang Rod. ‘We’re gonna bring that World Cup back from over there.’
‘We’ll really shake them up when we win the World Cup,’ agreed Andy. What ten-year-old in the Scotland top he got for Christmas would not take them at their word?
Sure enough, Joe Jordan opened the scoring in the 14th minute, and I experienced one of the most joyful moments of my boyhood.
I can still see us dancing around the room, exultant in the confirmation that the hype surrounding this super team of ours was entirely justified. Sure, I was aware of the odd sceptic tittering at the line in that Ole Ola song which posited that ‘there’s really only one team in it’.
Scotland took the lead against Brazil in 1982… only to lose 4-1
But Big Joe had silenced them. We really were on the march with Ally’s army.
Was there any feeling in the world more divine than being a ten-year-old Scotland fan in the 14th minute of our presumed annihilation of Peru in 1978? I didn’t think so.
The age of innocence lasted less than half an hour. This was my little window of wonder at my incredible good fortune in supporting the best football team on the planet. Then a brick went through it.
Somebody called César Cueto scored in the 43rd minute. Somebody else called Teófilo Juan Cubillas Arizaga knocked two past us in the second half. Who were these people? I’d never even heard of them. I’d heard of Kenny Dalglish and Martin Buchan and Alan Rough. Why hadn’t they stopped these nobodies from scoring?
This, then, was my World Cup baptism – a searing reality check which brought heartbreak at the time but has served me well over the decades. To underline its brutal point, the reality check gave us a 1-1 draw against Iran in the next match.
Ally and his boys were on a plane home a few days after that, their dreams and mine turned to dust.
It was a wiser 14-year-old who settled down to Scotland’s 1982 campaign in Spain. Something tempered the delirium when that David Narey scorcher flew through the Seville air and into the back of the net to put Scotland 1-0 up against Brazil.
Something of 1978 kept my feet on the ground in the living room as the Tartan Army in Estadio Benito Villamarín jumped three feet in the air. It can only have been scar tissue.
Tuning in at 18 for the Mexico 1986 campaign, I had two World Cups’ worth of this tissue to keep me honest with myself. The 22-year-old who dutifully surveyed our progress at Italy 1990 had three.
Few will need reminding that, for all that we did well to qualify for any of these tournaments, every one was a let-down – a reminder that, no matter how we may flatter ourselves as a footballing nation, others see us as the group stage fall guys.
Scotland also faced Brazil in their last World Cup in 1998 – and lost 2-1
Let’s face it. They have been right every time, including France 1998 which, with a certain weariness, I followed as a 30-year-old just to make sure the script was as I remembered it. Of course it was.
That World Cup seems no time ago to me at all. It turns out it is such ancient history that roughly a third of Scots watching in the wee hours of Sunday carry none of the baggage we journeymen viewers have shouldered for decades.
Their baptismal match lies ahead of them and, if Scotland open the scoring, I imagine their reaction will mirror mine back in that study in Aberdeen. Treasure the moment. Cherish every second because, look, here come Haiti on the break.
Who knows if 2026 is the new 1978, as I fear and strongly suspect, or if it is the beginning of a dazzling chapter of delivering the goods on football’s biggest stage.
I know where I’ll be when our latest adventure in dreamland kicks off: in bed, hopefully in a dreamland of my own.
I’ll wake fresh the next morning, check the result and, over coffee and a cooked breakfast, deliberate on how much of the match is worth watching back.
It’s been a long old road with you, Scotland. Love you loads and fingers crossed for you. But this time around I need my sleep.
j.brocklebank@dailymail.co.uk
