Joshi Herrmann
Boston, USA
by Danny Macpherson
The train windows thud as a big lad with sunburn beats his fists against them and tries to get the carriage to sing along to ‘Do Re Mi’ from The Sound of Music, but only a few join in. Energy is flagging a wee bit after over an hour queuing on the baking concrete of Atlantic Avenue, being herded through fences to finally crowd into a train at South Station. We have paid $80 to be transported 20 miles to Gillette Stadium, temporarily renamed ‘Boston Stadium’ so that FIFA can protect the brand exclusivity of their sponsorship partners.
The new name is misleading; by no stretch of the imagination is the stadium in Boston. The train begins to pass through verdant forest. As I look out the window at the evening sunshine streaming through the leaves my first thought is: “Looks like a great place to go for a pee.” But that option is unavailable to me, so my drunken mind distracts itself with reflections on the meaning of this day.
Scotland, back in the World Cup. Having just turned 34, I must be one of the youngest people alive today who can remember what this feels like. France ‘98. The thrill of coming home from school to watch us in the opening match against Brazil. The joy when John Collins found the bottom corner from the penalty spot. The desolation and tears when we crashed out after a 3-0 loss to Morocco. The excitement of sensing this big colourful world opening up to me.
In November last year, I watched Kieran Tierney’s effort from 30 yards curl gloriously to the right side of the post, sealing Scotland’s return to football’s biggest stage, and knew I would do whatever it takes to be there with them
Now, as the train arrives at its destination and the doors open, I march with the Tartan Army on our pilgrimage to an arena and entertainment complex in the middle of a giant carpark in Foxboro, Massachusetts. A few lads hop a fence just outside the station to relieve themselves in a patch of trees. I do the same. How easy and liberating it is to take a pish in a kilt!
After some more protracted herding through security checks, I enter the stadium grounds. My friends don’t arrive until Wednesday ahead of the Morocco match, so I seek to make new ones. It’s not hard. Everyone is in great spirits. I get chatting to people from all over Scotland, all over the world, including many from the city I call home. I ask Sajida, who grew up in Charing Cross, if I can get a photo of her and her family. Her husband, Usman, steps away as he doesn’t have a Scotland top on. I say: “Nonsense, big man, get in there.” Like me, they weren’t going to let anything get in the way of being here for this occasion: “Please, Scotland at the World Cup, of course we had to make it over. Our family has been waiting a whole lifetime for this!”
I queue for one of the bars and get talking to Paul, who is unmistakably English and kitted out in full Haiti gear. I appreciate the work he’s doing to uphold the pettiness which defines all good footballing rivalries, then leave with my $20 Michelob Ultra. I try not to think about how much money I have spent to be here, and how much I will spend over the next few weeks.
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