In the summer of 2021, I was a 19-year-old in pandemic induced house arrest. Back then, I inhaled football, particularly the Premier League. I was an ardent Chelsea supporter but my FPL team took priority. This meant I watched every game I could. Weekdays were spent endlessly tinkering with my team and counting down to the weekend, while weekend evenings were spent eyes glued to the laptop screen from early kick off at 4 pm IST to the conclusion of late kick-off past midnight. Suffice to say my parents were not pleased.
It was a Euro summer, and I had a great lead up to it – my 12th grade final exams were cancelled, I committed to playing college soccer in America and Chelsea won the Champions League. I was more involved in the game than ever, and I was set up perfectly to soak in Euro 2020 to the fullest degree.
The only caveat was that I did not have a team to support beyond my fantasy team. Belgium looked enticing but the departure of my beloved Eden Hazard and Thibaut Courtouis from my even more beloved club left a sour taste in my mouth. I decided to embrace the ‘neutral’ and back the underdogs.
Flying under my radar, this was Scotland’s first major tournament in 23 years. I watched Patrick Schick score against them from the half line and texted my friends in awe, paying little attention to its significance. All the hype was around England and I was staunchly ‘anyone but England’. In my boredom during the leadup to their game against Scotland, I decided to scroll YouTube and pick up some pieces of ammunition to hate-watch the Three Lions. Whether I succeeded or not, I cannot say, but I stumbled upon a live stream, going on it’s 5th hour, of Scotland fans drinking Trafalgar square dry, and that was the divine circumstance in which I was introduced to the Tartan Army.
In the days to come and for the rest of the Euros, I happily disappeared into this newfound rabbit hole and familiarized myself with ‘Flower of Scotland’, ‘I can Boogie’, ‘We’ve got McGinn’, ‘Loch Lomond’ and so on. Documentaries, like Copa90’s ‘Why Scotland are Football’s most Heartbreaking Nation’ were particularly informative and helped me understand the position, both current and historical, of the British nation in World football.
Scotland’s hard fought scoreless draw against England only amplified my desire to get behind the Scots and by the time they required a win against Croatia to make the knockout-stage I was fully bought in. Callum McGregor’s equalizer and the Hampden roar that followed made my hairs stand on end, but the result was heartbreaking. Now, I fully appreciated the significance of Patrick Schick’s goal of the tournament.
It’s now 2026 and my partiality to Scotland is about to come full circle. After a tedious process, I managed to secure a ticket to Scotland’s first World Cup game in 28 years, along with a friend, his Scottish dad, and his girlfriend. Scotland were taking on Haiti, themselves making their first World Cup appearance in 52 years, in Foxborough, and the stars could not have aligned any better.
My journey to this bucket list experience began the evening prior to matchday. I stuffed my backpack and took a bus from Port Authority Bus Terminal in New York City, where I was based, to Boston. I met three Scotland supporters on the bus and felt the first surge of excitement, a harbinger for what was to come. The whole way up I listened to the Tartan Army Playlist I found on Spotify on repeat, hyper-focused, committing every word to memory for near future reference. I arrived in Boston at 11.40 pm, met my contingent, shared travel stories, discussed plans for the big day tomorrow, and went to bed.
The next morning, we had a hasty breakfast and took the train into downtown Boston at 10am, in preparation for the 9pm kick off. The first stop was Boston Common, and the place was already swarming with Scotland supporters. We followed the distant sound of bagpipes in expectation of reaching a larger congregation of navy blue, but to no avail. We stood in a long line at the park’s biergarten to down the day’s first lager at 11am. A poor young lady was behind the counter all on her own, trying to meet the demand of a rapidly growing and increasingly thirsty Tartan Army.
The efforts to find a livelier crowd took us to the Dubliner, an Irish bar outside the fan zone in City Hall Plaza but that line snaked down the block and around the corner. A local media channel was interviewing/filming some of the Scotland fans queued outside the bar, so naturally ‘The Flower of Scotland’ broke out in decent voice. It was getting livelier.
At 2pm, with the day’s first game kicking off in an hour, the fan zone gates opened and music from the Skerryvores, playing inside the plaza, drifted in the air. We tried valiantly to get five people in with three tickets, but the effort failed, and we settled for another bar, less crowded, but still packed with Scotland supporters, nearby. Here, the final preparations for the game were made. Three buckets of Bud Light were sucked up as we watched Switzerland get held up by Qatar.
With five hours to kick off, we headed off to South Station to catch our hour-long train to Foxborough. The queue for the train stretched down Atlantic Avenue all the way past the bus station, where I had disembarked in solitude the previous night (crazy what twelve hours can do to a place). We continued to pour alcohol down our throats, but not fast enough it seems because we lost a bottle of Guinness to the police.
As we progressed in the winding line and neared the platform, the Scottish were nearing full voice and chants of “We’ve got McGinn” and “No Scotland no party” began ringing about. The hilarity of the whole situation – grown men drunkenly singing silly songs – crescendoed when one of the stewards intermittently yelled “no Scotland no party” into her megaphone while directing foot traffic. Scotland supporters really had won the hearts of local Bostonians.
Once we got settled in the train, a few more songs broke out, this time with tables thumping, and I was reminded of my journey back from Bern to Geneva with the Servette ultras, a core groundhopping experience. My friend got accused by a Scotland fan for having a Usa-Scotland half-and-half scarf. This fan also yelled “anyone’s got an activated ticket yet mate?” at 5.15pm which was met with laughter. With less than four hours to kick-off, tickets were just being activated, and the comment perfectly summed up the uncertainty surrounding tickets and logistics at this World Cup.
About a quarter way into the journey the train became swelteringly hot, and people began to complain about the lack of air conditioning. It was soon discovered it was only our coach that was burning, and it quickly emptied out in favor of standing between compartments. I met an older Scottish supporter while waiting for the bathroom and he said he was retired and had tickets to all three group games and the first two knockout games if Scotland make it, through the Scotland Supporters Club (SSC). It gave me a glimpse into what it takes to travel for the World Cup and how people make it work. I was also jealous. Nothing beats a groundhopping holiday following your country in the biggest tournament in the World.
We reached the stadium some two hours before kickoff and were ushered in through the outer gates before we knew otherwise. We were desperate for food, having not eaten since morning, but we couldn’t get back out to the rows of bars and restaurants that surrounded the stadium. We decided to bite the bullet and enter the stadium for further food and drinks.
My friend Cathro and I gritted our teeth, cursed FIFA and dropped $55 on half-and-half scarves. I continued to grit my teeth as I bought a $15 slice of pizza and $10 bowl of mac-and-cheese that I hoped would keep me on my feet for the rest of the night.
In the hour before kickoff, as the players were warming up, all the familiar crowd-entertainment staples of American sport were rolled out – fan dance cams, cheerleaders, and the lot. I worried the loud music, and announcements would drown out the organic Scottish voices. Unlike the more cynical English supporters, Scotland fans did not boo or seem irked by all this ‘glitter’ and I was getting apprehensive. I had hoped the World Cup would bring international football culture to America, not the reverse.
As kick off approached I began to fear the many beers I sank, combined with the lack of water and food, since 10am would get the best of me, but I managed to rally and when Loch Lomond reverberated around the stadium, I was awake, energized and ready to go!
As the players walked out to line up before the game, the stadium was packing and I felt like I was in a fever dream. The Haitian anthem was played first and I was pleasantly surprised by the amount of Haitian support and voice. Les Grenadiers were represented well.
However, when the ‘Flower of Scotland’ came on, it blew what came before it out of the water. The wave of voices just swept you out of your seat and placed you somewhere far above. Everyone around me yelled it out, with immense pride, some even extending and throwing their torso forward at the start of each line to squeeze out every last decibel.
What I had watched on YouTube countless times – to brighten bad days, to motivate 5AM football training sessions, and fuel early morning pre-exam cramming – and always dreamed of witnessing in person – had just been experienced in Scotland’s biggest game in 28 years. I later found out the noise hit 125 dB, the loudest recorded noise at a World Cup. There was nowhere else in the world I would have rather been in that moment.
I think most expected Scotland to breeze through this game, with a 2 – 0 victory being the most common prediction I heard in the lead up. Scotland did start on the front foot with a couple of half chances, but Haiti quickly showed they were a team to reckon with. Dangerous in transition, they repeatedly won the ball in midfield and released their wingers into space. Every time Les Grenadiers broke free on one of these moves, the islands of Haitian support became lively and the sea of Scottish tense. It happened often enough to remind you what an impressive turnout the Haitians had despite the travel ban issued by the US.
Nevertheless, Scotland hit the post through Scott McTominay in the 17th minute and then took the lead through Super John McGinn in the 28th. The scuffed strike, having taken a lucky double deflection before hitting the back of the net, sent 40,000 odd into delirium, and by the time we finished hugging and high-fiving all our neighbors, “I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)” began blaring through the speakers and the crowd exchanged “da da da da”s before settling down for the restart.
Ben Gannon-Doak was extremely lively down the right wing for Scotland and was instrumental in setting up Mctominay’s strike that hit the post and the buildup to McGinn’s goal. After going up, Scotland were forced to withstand wave after wave of Haitian counterattacks, with Wilson Isidor, Frantzdy Pierrot, and Ruben Providence proving to be an absolute handful. Luckily, the Scotland backline just about stood strong.
While the hydration break is intolerable as a viewer on TV, it proved a great opportunity to run to the toilet and gulp a mouthful of water from the fountain. I enjoyed seeing many like-minded folk clamber up the steps and rush across the concourse for the purpose alongside me.
After standing and following the game intently for the first 45, halftime allowed us to sit down and take a breather. Cathro’s dad Brian was still downing beer, and I could not comprehend how he did it. The Scottish are built different. He later admitted he could not remember McTominay hitting or quite how good Haiti had been.
The latter half of the second half was all Haiti and made for some tense viewing. Songs barely broke out, with supporters watching with hands on head and hearts in mouth. Someone behind us yelled “edge me” after Pierrot’s header was inches away from drawing Haiti level in the 85th minute. Ten minutes later, in the depths of stoppage time, Pierrot had another attempt to equalize, but he slipped and his Alex Ovechkinesque attempt went straight into the grateful arms of Angus Gunn.
The last two minutes were played to the sound of impatient whistles, raining down from Scotland fans, and when the referee finally blew his whistle, it was hugs, high-fives and the sing song began. First “Freed from Desire”, then “Yes Sir, I can Boogie”. Some Haitian fans, including my left side neighbor stayed back and endured the Scottish celebration in silence. I felt bad for the Haitians, who left this game with nothing despite having played so well. They were hard done by a few dodgy calls too, with VAR not reviewing Grant Hanley’s delicate handball in the box and Kenny McLean not being sent off for a studs up tackle to Josué Casimir’s knee.
We left the stadium to intermittent ripples of ‘500 miles’, “We’ve got McGinn”, and “We’ll be coming down the road”. As we passed the bars outside the stadium towards the train, we heard some Haitian fans erupt into celebration, chanting “Knicks in 5”. Deep inside I felt a pang of FOMO, I was missing the Knicks’ championship winning celebration back in NYC. The power of teleportation would have been extremely useful here. However, it was good to see some happy Haitian faces.
As the celebrations wound down, FIFA’s organizational failings were on full display. Having hung around a few extra minutes for the post game celebrations, we now had to stay back 2 hours in a slow meandering line to get on the train back into the city. It was a logistical nightmare and for a $80 train ticket (4 times the standard price) it was egregious. Scotland fans, who are usually jovial, finally broke character and began moaning at the stewards. The only brainwave the organizers had amidst all this was screening the Australia vs Turkey game on a large monitor overlooking the stanchions to keep us entertained during our travails.
When an Australian center back successfully Cruyff-turned an on rushing Turkish striker in what could have been a suicidal move, a voice near me yelled “we never see Grant Hanley do that?!”. Following Scotland’s 3 – 0 defeat to Brazil and almost certain elimination, the remark feels like a fitting epilogue to their campaign.
En Eluttukal 
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