Should I stay up and watch Scotland? I’m Scottish, oh yeah. Born to Scottish parents in Renfrew, where I followed Rangers. We then moved to Dumfries where I followed Queen of the South and my hero was a bullet-headed centre-forward called Billy Houliston who managed one cap for Scotland. We moved across the border to Carlisle when I was 11 and I was bullied in the playground for my Scottish accent. I wish I had it now. Today it is simply an indescribable north that no one can identify.
But I’ve always felt Scottish. At Carlisle we still read Sunday Post and I listened to the Scottish Home Service. On Hogmanay, I was sent out at midnight to see the Scottish neighbors on our council estate and give them a lump of coal. It was supposed to be done by a black-haired child and was meant to bring good luck for the coming year.
These past 80 years I have never been awake later than ten o’clock, even on New Year’s Eve. My normal bedtime is nine. So how am I going to stand up for Scotland?
My son, who is English, born in London, remembered that he had bought me a tartan shirt for my 90th birthday. On the back it says: HUNTER 90. Surely I’ll stay up and wear it, after all my decades of bragging about being Scottish? So I set the alarm for two, half hoping I’d sleep it off.
It woke me up and I managed to stagger over to the TV – I mean my computer. My TV doesn’t seem to work now that I’ve moved my whole life down. At least my bed is near my desk so I don’t have far to go.
I have a fondness for Haiti, a very poor nation with proud people. I went there when I was writing a biography of Christopher Columbus. I wanted to see the beach where his flag, Saint Marycame down. After months at sea, Columbus and his crew went ashore to drift with some natives, leaving a boy on board to reminisce about the ship. At night there was a storm and he drowned. They still have the anchor in a museum in Port-au-Prince. I went to see him too. My hotel was so scary I had to close my bedroom door at night. There were gangs carrying knives and guns roaming every corridor.
Haiti are 83rd in the world, compared to Scotland’s 43rd, but they looked pretty good to me – tough and fit and well organised. Scotland looked stiff and nervous. However, amazingly, John McGinn scored after 28 minutes. I leapt into the air, took off my Scotland shirt and waved it into a dark, empty house. Later, in one part of the crowd, there was Rod Stewart, who looked almost as old as me and just as worried.
The next 70 minutes were agony as Haiti piled on the pressure. This was supposed to be joyful, but I wanted it all to end now. All fans feel this about their team: like watching your child at a game, you want the end. The two Scottish commentators were driving me crazy, reciting endless boring facts. But we had a shot of a lone piper. That made me happy. I felt my little heart tighten. What if I crash, in the middle of the night, in an empty house? Why did I stay awake? This was torture, not pleasure. We saw some Scottish fans holding their young children. This took my mind off the game. Why weren’t they at school? Were they perhaps expatriate Scots, living near Boston?
Scott McTominay, McGinn and Andy Robertson were outstanding. They never faded, never made mistakes. I liked the look of young Bournemouth winger Ben Gannon-Doak, 20. I’ve never seen it before. I’m supposed to be a Scotland fan though.
As the football world now knows, Scotland held on and won 1-0. Then we found out they were top of their group, with three points. Brazil and Morocco had drawn. Oh my God. Does this mean they will go through to the knockout stage? Can my old body and my failing heart endure?
Let’s hope England go through too, har har.
Of course, I always want England to win. Except against Scotland. I think for their next game, I’ll have a defibrillator ready, with Sauvingo…
(Further reading: This could be my last World Cup)
