The party’s long over.
Any semblance of the World Cup visible only in stray merchandise at bargain prices, almost as if it never happened at all.
Banners and adverts speedily removed, stadiums switched back to normal ahead of the American football season. The tidal wave of the controversy during the event swept away only for countless others to emerge afterwards.
As one of the scattered few Scotland fans in California, it was a peculiar tournament.
While the tanked-up Tartan Army charmed Boston and Miami one traffic cone on a statue at a time, there was no Scotland and a quite different kind of party in Southern California. That is to say no party at all. Not that I would have felt comfortable in any way among the hordes of kilt clad Bravehearts that drank Boston dry – as if that’s really something to boast about. Don’t take that the wrong way. As someone who doesn’t drink alcohol or likes big crowds the prospect of being among any blootered bunch of people causes mild trepidation at best.
Even the thought of outrageously exorbitant ticket prices, never mind the cost of flights, accommodation, food and further travel, meant there was no real consideration about flying over a couple of time zones to support Scotland.
It may have been 28 years since France 1998, but I wasn’t prepared to overspend or put myself into debt to follow my country.
Perhaps it is a pitiable admission, but I prefer watching football on my own without any annoyances or distractions, an absolute focus on the teams, tactics, and every individual movement of each player. It’s probably down to years as a football reporter, concentrating in relative silence, no time or need to talk, just the fear of missing something and the Sword of Damocles in the form of a deadline hanging over my head.
Even commentators (more on that later) can prove irksome so the prospect of going to a dreaded fan zone didn’t prompt much excitement.
After a little persuasion I entered the LA Galaxy sponsored watch party in downtown Long Beach with pangs of dread. A corporate extravaganza plastered with logos and brand names, there were at least a handful of freebies, from free coke to crisps, and a huge surge of excitement as the US battered Paraguay in their opening fixture.
It’s impossible to properly gauge football’s popularity over here – I won’t be calling it soccer whatever anyone says in the States – on the basis of an organized meet-up.
However, it was absolutely packed as fans with all manner of shirts, from Mexico, Colombia, Argentina and Brazil, to Barcelona, Real Madrid and even an old dude in a faded Millwall shirt – roamed around until the home support began the obligatory U-S-A shouts.
The next day wasn’t quite the same. Dozens of yellow tops – I don’t own a Scotland shirt and instead wore a Napoli shirt with McTominay on the back – wandered through Pine Avenue after Brazil drew with Morocco.
Few stayed as Scotland took on Haiti. A couple of kilts, an American with a Glaswegian dad and an expat with a Scottish father joined me in a game that we were expected to win – as if we really anticipated victory in any important match.
Rather than watching on in silent contemplation I found myself getting caught up in the occasion, even singing the awful dirge that is ‘Flower of Scotland’.
An unofficial anthem that was originally a folk song, its line about ‘your wee bit hill and glen’ has always been a point of contention. My beloved grandfather never liked that line, it’s patronising, factually incorrect and belittles the fact we have thousands of hills and glens in our wee country. Whatever its intended meaning we might as well adopt The Proclaimers ‘I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)’ or even Big Country’s ‘In a Big Country’ instead of that bloody song. However, anything is better than the plodding sleepathon about saving some unelected wee man.
Nonsensical music aside it was yet another anxious, uncomfortable game as Steve Clarke’s side just managed to sneak past Haiti thanks to super John McGinn’s multi deflected effort. Cornered by a pissed American taking in his first World Cup game I had to ask the talkative dude to lower his voice. He blared on about shots and cleats and great efforts until I eventually persuaded him to leave me alone to suffer through a narrow Scottish win. Some people here don’t have a volume control. The chap seemed utterly perplexed when I told to stop shouting and that I just wanted to gather my thoughts without his questionable input. I later learned from his pal that he has been drinking all day and was rather merry after the opening US victory.
The World Cup might be the only time any American sports fans actually pay any attention to football, and I wished the chap all the best in a half-hearted way after it was all over.
An unfriendly Brazilian told me in broken English that we wouldn’t win. I ushered him away while pointing to the small corner of the big screen which featured the numbers one and zero. A couple of over excited locals in Mexico shirts directly behind me began cheering for Haiti late on as it would apparently make things interesting – not for me as I’m actually Scottish, I responded.
Relieved that we hadn’t spectacularly blundered on the globe’s biggest stage yet again it did make me think what does it really mean to be Scottish?
Do you have to continually buy into outdated stereotypes like wearing kilts, listening to bagpipe music and drinking whisky? I have never associated any of those things with nationality, nor do I like any of them. We are a bitterly parochial little bunch at times and while I hold a deep affinity and connection with my home city of Glasgow, I can’t say the same about many other places, especially after studying in Edinburgh and living in Inverness.
My experiences might differ from yours and my opinions have softened a little over time, but as a nation we don’t do ourselves any favours, especially when it comes to the countrywide obsession with alcohol and all the various problems related to it.
Perhaps it’s better not to overthink things, it should be enough that I like Tunnocks, steak pies and potato scones, and the brilliantly inventive Glaswegian sense of humour, especially Billy Connolly, Still Game, Limmy’s Show and Burnistoun. The rest doesn’t really matter.
When everyday life means being surrounded by automaton-like Californian accents that emphasise every syllable of every word it was a relief to hear a few people following the nation’s finest while speaking in my native tongue. The Golden State is a spectacular place to live with an unending list of wondrous things to do but I do miss hearing Glaswegian accents.
In a tiny country divided on so many issues football is one of Scotland’s genuine unifiers. Few things bring people together like the national team.
Between the Haiti triumph and the dismal Morocco defeat I thought of all the people that had shaped and encouraged my love of the beautiful game.
From countless drawings and writing silly wee match reports as a boy to working in newspapers and covering the national team as a journalist, football has remained a constant source of joy and fascination. Supporting Scotland at the heart of it all.
My grandfather, a Scottish Junior Cup winning captain with Glasgow Perthshire, who also played in the old First Division with Dumbarton, fostered my passion for all things with the round ball. My mum, the undoubted best in the world, took me to Hampden at a young age and I remember with great fondness Mo Johnston scoring in the pouring rain in a wonderful Scotland World Cup qualifying win against France. My stepfather also took me to games, and I swapped Panini stickers with friends at school – I recall giving away a Diego Maradona sticker because I felt sorry for someone – when the game’s greatest competition was being played. My aunts, uncles and cousins all played significant parts in making sure I extracted as much enjoyment from the game as possible.
I also pondered on what might have been, especially my old journo pal Ronnie MacKay. His tragic and untimely passing still hurts. We attended university together, covered matches across the country and shared a very silly sense of humour.
A devoted Scotland fan and talented reporter, who was there when James McFadden scored an outrageous winner against France in Paris, I thought of him as we returned to take on the world’s best again. My own brief stint reporting on the national team – which included memorable away trips to North Macedonia and Norway (with terrible results) – also included plenty of World Cup and European championship qualifiers at Hampden alongside my former colleague and friend Michael Gannon, who continues to report on Scotland now. We witnessed some lamentably dire displays not least when it took seven minutes of added on time (before it became commonplace) to overcome the mighty world beaters of Liechtenstein on a miserable night on the south side of Glasgow.
Back in the fan zone, it could easily have doubled as the dead and deserted zone, I met with the same sparse collection of fans feeling decidedly apprehensive about Scotland’s chances against Morocco. An absolute nightmare beginning swept away any lingering optimism. Rather than press my own mute button I shouted myself hoarse.
Perhaps too easily swayed by the precious few fellow countrymen in attendance I began loudly questioning every perceived bad tackle and wrong decision. So stunned by the early goal I shook the hand of a man with a Morocco flag standing behind me and spent the rest of the game a picture of futile frustration. Poor tactics, a mystifying lack of ambition, especially in a woeful opening period, left me wondering what I had got so worked up about. The same old question always emerges; is it better not to qualify at all than be humiliated once again? Maybe it’s best not to answer.
Results didn’t dissuade the Tartan Army from indulging themselves on the East Coast.
I found the reaction of Bostonians mildly surprising as Scotland fans follow the same routine in every city the national team play; a massive swally, exaggerated attempts to befriend locals and generally harmless merriment. An unfamiliarity with football culture beyond Major League Soccer (MLS) still exists in America, and the Scots also proved a massive hit in Miami.
Everyone has the right to enjoy themselves, especially in bleak times, but I was glad not to be anywhere near it.
While pleased they made such a good impression there are elements of their behaviour that I don’t care for. For one, playing the character of the jocular, rat-arsed Scotsman. I would never willingly choose to be in the vicinity of large groups of steaming men either, that’s just my preference.
In the pantomime playground of social media, it’s inconceivable to be ambivalent about anything. Don’t dare say out loud that you have mixed feelings on any particular topic.
The only emotion during and after the Brazil debacle was one of exasperation.
Playing defensively is one thing, making the sort of error that schoolboys would be ashamed about is another. We literally handed a fairly average Selecao an incredibly straightforward victory. Stuck at work I gradually slumped further down my seat as the catastrophe unfolded. Muttering obscenities in a low voice so I wouldn’t be heard.
The wait to decide our fate dragged on. Even in an expanded World Cup a single victory and measly goal was never going to be enough to seal a historic advancement from the group stage.
Excitement about America’s prospects fizzled then faded after Belgium walloped them.
Support for Mexico – the international border is just a few hours down the freeway – was widespread. Flags attached to cars and sticking out on poles from houses and people of all age groups wearing official shirts and knockoffs.
Car horns blared and fireworks made an almighty racket until England eliminated the co-hosts in an absolute thriller. Win, lose or draw there were still cheers, screams and audible pops and bangs in the sky.
Santa Monica pier hosted a glitzy fan zone backed by a behemoth in the beer industry and required all manner of personal details just to enter. I practically signed my life away and don’t even drink. Nevertheless, it had a few unique features.
An oversized replica of the World Cup was the centrepiece behind a bar and a few mid-sized screens. Some interactive games made up for its smallish scale. McTominay, well some guy wearing his Napoli shirt, side footed the ball past a rather bored looking goalkeeper in a beat the shotstopper carnival style replica on a small chunk of green carpet.
I also attempted to emulate Lionel Messi as he demonstrated tricks on a video screen and made it past the first few rounds. Diego Maradona, undoubtedly the greatest to ever play the game, would have provided more inspiration.
In Huntington Beach there were freebies aplenty from flavoured slushies to World Cup bottles, caps, and keyrings, as well as retro arcade games.
While in the rather posh Westfield Century City mall flags of all participating nations hung around a well laid out area with very comfortable seats to watch a selected number of games.
For the rest of the tournament, I was happily back on my own and flitted between Fox, TSN and Telemundo.
Decrepit old English commentators, who sounded like banal marketing automatons with a pre-rehearsed script to use the word England as many times as possible, and name check every player that ever played a second in the English Premier League, ruined most matches. It’s a huge stretch to automatically presume everyone tuning in from across North America is an England fan or follows the most overhyped league to ever exist.
It’s worth spelling out that most of us have family, friends, and acquaintances south of the border, and we have shared history and culture, however it doesn’t mean we should support them.
It was something of a relief when Argentina ended all the pathetically jingoistic ‘coming home’ bunkum – there’s a substantial body of evidence that proves it was Scotland who invented the modern game. Maybe that’s something to hang onto, or maybe not when reflecting on another overwhelmingly dismal World Cup.
France played the best football, but Spain were worthy winners in the end as Argentina disgraced themselves in a typically low-key final marred by a silly half-time show and a barrage of unnecessarily ostentatious antics – Madonna being driven around by Ronaldo and Ronaldinho a bizarre lowlight of it all.
It was a preposterous spectacle which summed up an intermittently brilliant but largely disappointing World Cup (especially the latter stages of the knock-out rounds).
I’m not sure there are any types of fan zones that cater for a prickly observer that prefers to observe without saying a word.
For now, it’s back to club football where I can enjoy the silence in peace again.
@skasiewicz
@skasiewicz.bsky.social