Scotland- England another football battle - World Cup qaulifier- 15 minutes of magic and mayhem.
The Hampden Park roar was at its most ferocious. For a few fleeting seconds Scotland were within joyful distance of a famous victory over their most famous foes England. Scotland could almost smell the sweetest of victories over the international team they've come to despise and I'm not talking about Gibraltar. It may be that Scotland will always hate each other at football for ever more and they'll always think they're superior to each other but how can we ever resist the temptation to blow the proverbial raspberries at each other. It is one of the most lovably silly of all rivalries and long may it stay that way.
Scotland's fiercest adversaries and villains of the piece are their next door neighbours from over Hadrian's Wall England. And then as if by a cruel twist of fate Harry Kane, Spurs devastating striker, ghosted into the Scottish penalty box and in much the manner of a Martin Peters, steered the ball comfortably into the Scottish net for England's second half second equaliser. Your heart was in tatters and yet if you were English you were probably blowing out your cheeks in sheer relief.
Deep in the heart of Glasgow, Aberdeen, Dundee and all of those very welcoming cities with their hospitable pubs they'll be throwing down huge quantities of the amber nectar, beers and lagers will be wildly and wantonly swallowed and a thousand emotions will be expressed. It is easy to imagine that heartache, grief and a terrible sense of loss may well be some of the predominant emotions but for Scotland this was neither pretty nor was it palatable. The game ended in a draw but it could have been very different had it not been for Harry Kane's late, last gasp equaliser.
With the game in its last gasp stages Scottish hearts and fans were baying for English blood, smiling sadistically at English football supporters for whom victory over their cross border neighbours has almost become second nature. But this was oh so close, tantalisingly close but just beyond Scotland's reach. Scotland must have thought, for a couple of magical minutes that, finally, after years of humiliation that their time had come and it was their turn to stick the proverbial two fingers up at the English.
Sport has always been tribal, territorial and proprietorial but this would have been such a landmark victory for Scotland over England, a special and historic moment for all kinds of reasons. Besides Scotland were hoping to mark the 50th anniversary of their Home International Championship victory against England when a 3-2 win for the Scots must have felt like the Battle of Bannockburn and Culledon revisited.
It was the year after England's unforgettable World Cup Final victory against West Germany and even now with the benefit of hindsight it still feels that Scotland's victory against Wembley in 1967 was nothing more than the resolution of a personal argument, a grudge match where very little mattered apart from gloating rights. That day Scotland must have felt like a million dollars, revenge and retribution meaning much more to Scotland than England. Still it did give the Scots something to dine out on for the next 10 or 20 years so in the end everybody was happy one way or the other.
Of course back in those now very far off days of 1967 Scottish football seem to be experiencing one of its happiest and most pleasurable of eras. Celtic, under the wise, far sighted and enormously revered Jock Stein had just won the European Cup in Lisbon and the Lisbon Lions of Bobby Murdoch, Tommy Gemmell and Bertie Auld were conquering, steamrolling and trampling over the very best that Europe had to offer.
It took another seven years for Scotland to give even a passable imitation of those marvellous Celtic days. First Willie Ormond, the businesslike and straight talking Scotland manager, gave us the wonderful Leeds dynamic trio of Peter Lorimer, Joe Jordan and Billy Bremner. In 1974 Scotland, after three group matches, singularly embarrassed themselves then briefly came good but not for long. Their laboured 2-0 victory over a horribly naive Zaire side was followed by partial redemption against Yugoslavia in a brave 1-1 draw. But then there followed a stale goal-less draw with Brazil and Scotland were out of the 1974 World Cup in Germany.
Then there was the equally as disastrous and shameful World Cup exit in Argentina 1978. It was the World Cup where Scotland manager Ally Mcleod visibly crumpled in front of our eyes, first scowling and then folding his hands over his eyes self consciously before burying his head in desperation and utter dejection. That year Scotland would produce three of their most creative of midfield playmakers in a manner that somehow seemed out of character for Scottish football.
Don Masson, of QPR, was a beautifully balanced player with excellent close ball control, a delicately delivered passing range and a superb eye for goal into the bargain. Archie Gemmill was about to win two consecutive old First Division championships with Brian Clough's Nottingham Forest. Gemmill was permanently busy, always on the move, tireless, tigerish in the tackle, full of enthusiasm and happily prepared to sacrifice everything in the cause of victory. Gemmell kept running and running until it was physically impossible to run any further. Gemmell was Scotland's steam engine, a vigorous presence in the heart of Scotland's midfield, scheming, hunting, forever creating lucrative openings.
Throughout the 1970s Scotland took us on a kind of nostalgic roller coaster ride. During the 1960s they'd given us bountiful talents such as Bobby Murdoch and Tommy Gemmell. Then ten years later Asa Hartford would give Scottish football a healthy injection of craft, cunning, wisdom and more measured passing. Hartford loved to hold possession of the ball, a magisterial influence, a radical visionary who could also give the Scots a fair ration of blood, sweat and tears.
When Bruce Rioch made the step up to international football as a Derby County player, Scotland had finally found its finest orchestrator, its fourth gear, its gentle braking power and then a large dose of cultured beauty. Rioch was straight backed, well proportioned, full of grace and poise with a vicious free kick and shot in his extensive repertoire. He would later become, albeit briefly, Arsenal manager before the golden years of Arsene Wenger.
And of course there were the Scottish strikers Denis Law and then the extraordinary Kenny Dalglish a striker who must scored goals for fun both firstly Celtic, his boyhood team, then profitably and handsomely for Liverpool. Both Law and Dalglish were goal scoring machines with a natural capacity for scoring goals on all occasions.
Law began his celebrated career at Huddersfield Town before Sir Matt Busby came calling at Manchester United and the rest, to quote a cliche, is history. Law, once bitten by the goal scoring bug just helped himself to a gourmet of goals, feasting hungrily on goals from both head and feet. At United Law simply blossomed like a blushing red rose, scoring goals as if by instinct and intuition.
And so we find ourselves at the present day Scotland team and a World Cup qualifier at Hampden Park. The game itself finished in an honourable 2-2 draw but could have ended up on a much more sour note for both England and Scotland. For much of the game the Scottish fans were almost resigned to their fate because realistically the game itself in Scotland has barely registered as a force for a distressing period of time.
Still deep in the heart of Glasgow the streets were well and truly alive with alcohol, breezy, buoyant spirits and splendid gallows humour. There was a cheerful humour followed closely by tear jerking songs and lively poetry from the good books of Rabbie Burns, undoubtedly a sharp scent of whisky from the Hampden terraces and men wearing tartan kilts who are just addicted to football regardless of Scotland's status within the international game.
Over the years we've grown used to that salty Scottish wit, its bristling passion , the acceptance of mediocrity and the celebration of great occasions.But there remains a hard flintiness, an inner steel and iron about the Scottish footballing constitution, once typified by Sir Alex Ferguson, Jock Stein and Bill Shankly, Scotsmen of the finest stock with a lust for life and an enduring affection for the Beatiful Game.
So what did we get today. There was Scotland manager Gordon Strachan who once again did exactly the same thing as he did at Wembley last November. When Harry Kane equalised for England with the last kick of the game at Hampden, Strachan melted our hearts once again. This game of football is just a wicked conspiracy out to get you. When the final whistle blew Strachan furiously threw his bottle of water onto the ground and your sympathies were real and true. Why do the scales of justice always have to swing away from you? Why poor Gordon Strachan? It had to be him. Why couldn't they have picked on England manager Gareth Southgate. It really isn't fair and can he be left alone now. He deserves his privacy and time for reflection.
Throughout this game Strachan once again patrolled the Hampden Park dug out like a man searching for a tenner and then finding himself with just a handful of loose change. He sat patiently in his seat, occasionally bobbing up and down and then just slumping back down again, restless, fidgety and impatient, somehow wishing that something would turn up. But then he sat back down again and again before staring across at a distant gull perched perkily on a Hampden Park rooftop. One of these days Scotland will beat England and then Scotland will have its most uproarious Hogmany and Happy New Year. Does anybody understand Gordon Strachan's ambition. It will happen one day.
In his navy and yellow tie, bright shirt and perfectly fitting suit Strachan looked like a City financier waiting for a train. pacing the touchline, checking something and then holding up his fingers in case one of his players had noticed something that he hadn't. It all seemed very awkward and unsightly at times, a man who looked as if he'd have much preferred to spend an afternoon in June fly fishing by a remote Scottish river bank.
After a dreadfully dire and boring first half, both Scotland and England gradually awoke from their early summer slumber in the second half. The first half itself seemed to be teetering on the brink ready to be condemned as the worst international football match of all time. None of the afternoon's participants had even looked likely to construct a fluid and cohesive attack of any value and for long periods both sides looked sluggish, sloppy and frequently out of sorts.
We acknowledged once again that the football Premier League season had been a long, stamina sapping and gruelling slogfest. Those poor Premier League footballers with their luxurious residences, hundreds of thousands of pounds in their bank accounts and the most privileged of lifestyles, had been driven into the ground. It's been nine months of sheer pain, injuries, setbacks, all kinds of difficulties and you had to feel sorry for them. And yet how could they bring themselves to another 90 minutes of football when they could have been splashing about playfully on a Mediterranean beach.. Poor things. Poor bodies, weary athletes. Can we just enjoy our well deserved holiday.
For large passages of the first half England did look in cruise control. Eric Dier galloped up into attack as England's permanent holding midfielder and did hold England together in areas where Scotland might have profited. Dier is capable, commanding and unruffled in a crisis, He was all solidity, firmness and re-assuring authority. Then Kyle Walker, seemingly destined for Manchester City. continued to look one of the fittest and fastest players in today's red England shirt, sprinting down the flanks with power and controlled aggression. There was Chris Smalling of Manchester United slowly emerging as a player of international pedigree, carefully judging his moments to attack and reading Scottish attackers minds like a well thumbed novel.
In attack itself Adam Lallana, the Liverpool midfield busybody, was once again hurrying and harrying here and there, applying the neatest of touches, a player who places great store on the accuracy of his passing and the ferocity of his tackling. Lallana is whole hearted, purposeful and vastly intelligent. He is both shrewd, perceptive, correct and the most beneficial of influences. Once again Lallana did everything calmly and properly without losing his sense of position. The jury may be out on Jake Livermore, a player still a work in progress and maturity for England at England level may take some time.
Up front the new England captain Harry Kane performed creditably and may find that the terrible responsibility of leadership and skippering England too much of a burden. Still Kane always looked dangerous and there was a hovering, brooding air about him that had menace in every movement he made. Kane challenged, bustled, hustled for every ball but until that final vital equaliser didn't really connect or liaise with those around him. But Kane will score goals for both club and country and although marked out of today's game and anonymous, does look the real deal for England. It is easy to assume that Wayne Rooney's successor has very little to worry about. Kane is a lethal goal scorer and may well break the record of both Rooney and Bobby Charlton in years to come.
As for Scotland well the less said the better. Scotland look just a ragged hotch potch, a higgledy piggledly assortment of the ordinary and very bland. This may sound like excessively harsh criticism but the truth is that at Scottish club level, the structure is a very basic one with not a great deal of substance in between.For years and years, season after season Celtic have been the all powerful and perhaps only club in Scottish football with no other contenders of note.
This year Celtic matched Arsenal's feats by remaining unbeaten in the Scottish Premier League and eventually won it by a laughable number of points. It is hard to make any constructive suggestions about club football in Scotland but perhaps the investment in proper coaching and the nurturing of good young players could be the answer to Scotland;s problems. If only Scotland could once again rely on a hardcore of homegrown players at Aberdeen, Hearts, Rangers, Dundee and Dundee United then maybe recovery could be on the horizon sooner rather than later.
Occasionally you could see the seeds of regrowth particularly when Celtic's Kieran Tierney and the captain Scott Brown began to impose themselves on the game. Brown, certainly looks a player of great promise and controlled Scotland's midfield when England allowed him to. His brilliant scoring free kicks right at the end made him one of Scotland's most bejewelled of attackers. Stuart Armstrong, also of Celtic, looked energetic, strong and direct while Leigh Griffiths remains one of the best footballers in Scotland of modern times, whole - hearted, at times extremely imaginative on the ball and eager to please. Celtic have clearly found more gems in their collection and maybe that 50 year anniversary has done them the world of good.
And so Gordon Strachan with his blond hair and boundlessly emotional involvement in the game, gave his England counterpart Gareth Southgate a courteous hug and the Hampden roar faded into an early Glasgow evening. The Southgate waistcoat or, quite possibly cardigan was firmly pressed by Strachan. It was time to hit the pubs and clubs of Glasgow, time to drown sorrows perhaps or just reflect on one of the oldest games in international football. How football looks forward to its Scotland- England footballing battles.
There may well be a few Scottish hangovers tomorrow morning but maybe football wouldn't have it any other way. Now I wonder what happened to Nicola Sturgeon or maybe Alex Salmon could offer a few well chosen words. But it's only football and to quote the great Bill Shankly, another immortal Scot, there are few things that are more important
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