ONLY Scotland can snatch dismal desolation from the jaws of sky-high expectation.
Was it really only nine days ago when we were being told this could be the World Cup where the nation can make history and actually get through the group stages for the first time ever?
Today, alas, we are on the way home, paying the penalty for two mistake-laden defeats against Morocco and Brazil, cast as the perennial losers at this level, the players deservedly pilloried and the SFA looking for a new manager.
After seven years in charge, Steve Clarke has fallen on his sword.
One minute revered, the next ridiculed.
Football is indeed an unforgiving results-driven business.
GRIM VIEWING…Steve Clarke watches Scotland crash to Brazil in Miami – his final outing as international team boss.
Clarke, of course, has to take his fair share of the blame for dreary failure and a team that could only score one goal in three encounters Stateside. That’s a fairly damning statistic.
Dismally, it puts Scotland on a par with the likes of Qatar, Curacao, Saudi Arabia and Iraq. For goodness sake, Haiti managed to stick two in the oppositions’ net. A feat equalled by Tunisia and Uzbekistan.
Even Jordan celebrated three strikes. Poor old Panama were the only country not to claim a solitary counter.
We are not mixing with football’s superpowers, dear friends.
And we don’t even want to discuss the progress of Cape Varde, population 530,000.
I’m all for positivity, but, to be honest, I am always a tad mesmerised by the bullishness that engulfs those who should know better when we dip our toe in shark-infested waters.
We had a TV reporter chuntering on in Miami before the kick-off against Brazil and informing the nation Clarke’s team would beat the five-times champions.
You have to wonder about that sort of unhinged optimism.
The hysteria reaches frenzied levels and some folk genuinely begin to believe we have the quality to overcome a team that possesses players such as Vinicius Junior, Casemiro, Guimaraes, Cunha and even an ageing Neymar.
END OF THE WORLD…Scott McKenna can only hold his head in hands after presenting Vinicius Junior with the opening goal in Brazil’s 3-0 rout of Scotland.
In any case, Scott McKenna obliterated any rash optimism in only seven minutes when he decided to treat the world to his impersonation of Franz Beckenbauer, was exposed as a fake (copyright: Mr D Trump, Washington) and the ball was nestling in Angus Gunn’s net before the first rendering of ‘No Scotland, no party’.
I am very friendly with a chap who has supported Clyde all his life. If he tells me any time soon that he reckons the Bully Wee will win the Premiership in this century, I swear I will get in touch with the folk with white coats and the self-hugging cardis and have him removed from public life.
It’s the least I could do for a dear and appreciated chum.
Now that the country’s malfunction has been confirmed, the inquests will kick off and we can sit back and await the vultures to swoop and ravage a squad of underperformers who let down their nation, themselves and their manager.
I don’t see the point of taking that route. Clarke assembled what he believed and hoped would be individuals who could rise to the challenge and do their country proud.
Didn’t happen, did it?
And now the manager, who was astute enough not to make any barmy promises or predictions before the global extravaganza, is coming home from the Great Adventure with a P45 in his pocket.
And what can you say about the Tartan Army? To many, they may appear as amiable bagpipe-playing buffoons who are just there to have a series of street parties while ignoring the fact their country is regularly and routinely being dismantled by vastly superior rivals.
However, they do provide a colourful cavalcade and the residents of Boston and Miami were more than delighted to meet the acquaintance of such a happy-go-lucky bunch of supporters.
They made a lot of noise, had a ball and a bawl wherever they went and were a credit to the nation.
Which, alas, is more than can be said for the actual team.
ALEX GORDON
‘BYE BYE, SCOTLAND’: CLARKE’S FINAL WORDS
