When it comes to belting out booming ballads, few can outdo the fabled Tartan Army. One person who can, was in attendance in Stuttgart on Sunday evening – our old friend The Fat Lady. With great gusto, and in unison with the ball leaving the boot of Hungarian wide man Kevin Csoboth, she reached a riveting crescendo, the ball proceeded to nestle into the back of the net and once more Scotland found themselves back home before the postcards.
Forty-eight hours have now passed since Scotland’s meek and passive exit from Euro 2024, so with a clear head let’s pick the bones out of the experience. The good, the bad and the ugly.
The approach
For the final game against Hungary, Scotland needed Braveheart and Bruce. What was served up was more akin to Johnie Soft Touch from Irvine Welsh’s The Acid House. Scotland were passive and cautious – as they had been for the majority of this tournament.
Laying low, soaking up pressure is a viable tactic, but breaking at snails pace whilst doing so is not. Repeatedly, Hungary delivered a lesson on how to reel in an opponent before swiftly countering.
Possession for possession’s sake only served the opponents. For almost the entirety of the game, Hungary sat in, knowing full well Scotland would run out of ideas and be unable to break them down. But it didn’t have to be this way. For large spells of the second match against Switzerland, we witnessed green shoots of recovery, we saw shades of Scotland from the not so distant past – direct, physical, utilising width. All of this was missing in action as Steve Clarke took the major risk of not taking a risk.
Quite simply, we will forever regret not releasing the handbrake.
The fans
Supporting Scotland can at times feel like eternal damnation. It makes the school of hard knocks seem like playgroup. The Scottish football hall of infamy is well renowned. Countless years of failure, immeasurable embarrassments and being the butt of every joke, has ensured that on the rare occasion a break in the clouds occurs, it is to be savoured and celebrated, and boy did the Tartan Army do just that.
The legion of Scots who voyaged to Germany were a credit to the nation as they transformed Bavaria to Balado, Cologne to Clydebank and Stuttgart into Stirling. Expatriates long displaced descended on Deutschland via trains, planes and automobiles from the world over. Some even walked.
The locals initial bemusement at these curiously dressed, vociferous but jovial visitors soon gave way to an endearment and affection of the everlasting nature, the kind that a festival of football is supposed to create. The hand of friendship was extended and duly shaken.
Life on the home front was similar. Fan parks sprung up the length and breadth of the country as those who remained on Scottish soil literally drank in the atmosphere. Twenty-six long years of barren bleakness were buried – a nation again.
The future
There can be no doubting that where it really matters, this campaign was an abject failure. Where do Scotland go from here? There’s a formation engineered to accommodate a great player in Kieran Tierney, but a player who fitness wise, simply cannot be relied upon. After two decades of three top quality goalkeepers in Craig Gordon, Allan McGregor and David Marshall, there’s now a serious and worrying lack of quality in that department.
And finally, there’s the big question over the manager. Just who will be in the Hampden dug-out when the Nations League kicks off in September?
The knives are now well and truly out and there’s a demand for a fresh start. Steve Clarke was the man who ended the drought and raised the bar. There’s a glass ceiling you hit as Scotland manager and perhaps he has in a way become a victim of his own success. He should not be hounded from office – and he wont be – but there should be a point of reflection in the not so distant future for all involved, a hand shake and then a cordial parting of the ways.
This largely happy chapter of the national team’s story has come to an end.
