Scotland's World Cup dream might be over but the impact of the Tartan Army will live on

Like so many Scottish tales, this World Cup story began with hope.

An optimism borne from a reality.

We had qualified for two Euros, and save for an emotionally sympathetic collapse to Ukraine in the play-offs, had not been too far away from joining the world’s best in Qatar 2022.

And it transpired. Our precious hope was not misplaced.

Scotland won UEFA Group C ahead of Belarus, Denmark, and Greece to qualify directly for the finals, ending a 28-year absence from the World Cup finals.

We got drunk on that dramatic 4-2 victory over Denmark, and the figurative hangover was euphoric.

For a country whose last appearance was France ’98, it was a story for a generation.

So, fast forward to America, June 2026.

The STV team arrived in Boston, and at least for that first day, it felt like a city that didn’t know what was coming.

No one on the streets seemed to understand there was a World Cup on the horizon, and if they did, they clearly had next to no idea what was in store.

But by the hour, by the plane load. Scotland emptied itself of Tartan Army, not the few hundred first expected, not just the couple of thousand initially thought might get legitimate tickets, but tens of thousands.

A kilted city of people, a community bound by bagpipes, beer and a cracking song about John McGinn.

As the first game approached, Boston and indeed much of urban Massachusetts began to reverberate to the sound of the Tartan Army.

The beer flowed, the bagpipes bellowed, and John McGinn became Boston’s most famous Scotsman.

Even Scottish fan royalty arrived to ensure No Scotland, No Party…

Then it was game day. The only game Scotland needed three points from to guarantee our progression to the knockout stages for the first time.

Haiti were out to the sword, McGinn daggered the dirk with a deflection, and we had won!

A quick check of when the final was in New York, and we were back to drinking Boston dry.

The World Cup was ours, and Boston, initially quite behind the curve, had fallen in love with the Tartan Army. Spreading kindness and cheer, and the inalienable fact that we did indeed have John McGinn, and he was super.

And we brought our energy to American sports too.

After beating Haiti, about 5,000 fans marched from Evans Way Park to Fenway Park. The Boston Red Sox lost again, but our new friends were agog with what was happening in their city

The Tartan Army drank the city dry: fans took over the downtown Sam Adams brewery and got through 70 kegs in a four-day stretch.

Then, from initial flirtations, the relationship became official — Boston mayor Michelle Wu wore a Scotland jersey to sign a letter of intent for a twinning agreement between Boston and Glasgow, inside a packed pub.

The Boston Globe ran a full-page thank-you message after the Morocco game, saying the city would never forget the joy the fans brought.

That Morocco game. Let’s skip over the details. We lost. The scored before many had taken their seat. The referee barely awarded a foul all game, and what looked to me like a stonewall penalty on John McGinn was dismissed with barely a second glance.

One can only wonder what our KMI panel would have reflected had they been able.

Let’s take a second to pause for thought.

A detail that’s stuck with people: one Scotland fan admitted she’d been nervous about the trip given the political climate in the US, but said the kindness she found made her feel it was “the America we were promised growing up.”

And, that uniquely Glasgowegian import: fans kept topping statues with traffic cones, if the Duke of Wellington was bemused in the 70s, he was in good company, Samuel Adams, a giant octopus and countless other bronze bastions were crowned, and America loved it.

Miami

The traffic-cone routine followed them south – fans wore them on their heads, marching to LoanDepot Park for the Marlins game in Miami. (They won, so it wasn’t our fault, Boston Red Sox)

Florida had advance warning. The Tartan Army was strolling Miami’s streets with bagpipes still slung over their shoulders, chanting “No Scotland, No Party”

Despite it being *the* tourist destination for much of America, our incredible fans had become the story, the moment had become a movement, and we were the number one visitor attraction, as Americans drove from all over to become a part of the biggest party they’d ever seen.

Brazil, yeah, that final group game. Lose narrowly, and we would be writing history.

But we collapsed. Self-inflicted damage. And we immediately transitioned from fans to mathematicians. Permuting the required outcomes to squeeze us through as the best 8 third-placed teams. Thanks for that unnecessary torture, FIFA.

Brazil highlights

Games finished, and the percentage probability of progress went from 64 to 0.07.

The game was up with Ghana v Croatia failing to deliver the improbable outcome.

But the football was the sideshow, for three weeks Scotland seduced America, made memories to last a lifetime, friendships that will endure, and yeah, we didn’t write the football story we wanted to, but the Tartan Army achieved so much more than that. A legacy of love that will linger long after the last ball has been kicked in this tournament.

As I write this penultimate sentence of reflections on the most incredible three weeks following Scotland and our peerless supporters, the news breaks that Scotland manager Steve Clarke has resigned.

Football is important, it’s the why, and I am a little sad when I think back to interviewing him immediately after that unforgettable night against Denmark, and the talk was about where his statue would be placed (yes, yes, with a cone).

His tenure is now at an end.

But Scotland’s place as the best fans at the World Cup is still in full flow.

Join me,

“No Scotland, No Party……..”