THERE was a football fanzone outside Ibrox yesterday.

It was a nod, perhaps even a fully-fledged Glesca kiss, to modern times. Once we were fitba' kings, at least in our own deluded minds. Now the proletariat has to be entertained with bread, circuses, the impromptu game of fives on artificial turf and a wee shot on the Grant Hanley bouncy castle.

Once we stood on terraces, knee deep in ordure, our roars just heard above the whimpering of livers assaulted by drink, and growled as a nation progressed to World Cup and European Championship finals.

The cry was gerrintaethum. It cascaded from the slopes of Hampden to terrify players, some of them wearing the shirts of the opposition. This, of course, is so last century. Now one glances at a screen in the corner of the stadium to see a tweet of "c'mon Scotland" #supporter and "good hit" #presumablyamoron. This is so this century, an era of national football underachievement of spectacular proportions.

Yet this is Scotland and hope springs infernal. The first international match of the post-referendum kerfuffle offered scope for a meditation on whither Scotland: the only acceptable answer, of course, being France in 2016. The glib answer to enquiries on the mood of the Tartan Army post-No is that the battalions were cheerily positive. Flower of Scotland was sung lustily and there was the sighting of a Yes flag in the crowd. We heard the unmistakable drone of pipes and there was communal singing of the sort that suggested an acceptance of the national will, at least in terms of articulating ditties that are defiant as a koala bear on Valium and as intimidating as Ikechi Anya on a nightclub door.

The renderings of Do A Deer, taken from that belligerent piece of nationalistic propaganda the Sound of Music, and the bellowing of We'll be Coming Down the Road, a song that would not discomfit a neurotic mouse, were hardly battle cries or a call to arms. Ibrox last night, therefore, was not the scene of a game of political football. It was, instead, the arena where a longing was expressed for a new world order that included Scotland as a participating football team.

The inanities of the Twitter feed displayed on the big screens were matched by the sight of one eejit wandering on to field after Scotland scored when a Shaun Maloney shot was deflected so many times its trajectory could have been taken from a pinball machine. There was, however, a serious purpose to all of this last night and it has to do with the standing of the national game. This was a crucial night in sporting terms. Scotland need to be at a major championships. And very, very soon.

There were several observations to be made on an occasion scarred by angst. First, Ibrox was three-quarters full with 34,719 spectators for a match that had to be won. This prompted the mischievous remark that if this was a referendum on Scotland's chances of qualifying for Euro 2016 a substantial number had used a postal vote.

Those who had hustled to the hustings, paying up to £45 for a bucket seat and a shot on the bouncy castle, were thereafter treated to traditional Scottish fare. A poor Georgia team, who had succumbed recently to the United Arab Emirates in Switzerland and to the Republic of Ireland at home in their first qualifying match, were overcome with a considerable degree of anxiety.

However, there was a positive message from Ibrox last night. Manager Gordon Strachan was brave and right on the Fletcher question, dropping Darren and restoring Steven to the starting line-up. He set up his side to take the campaign to the opposition, to reward the hope in the stands with substance on the field. But he could not sidestep lumbering history and national frailty. There is a weakness in the Scottish team that owes much to a regular failure to progress to finals.

Scotland had better players than Georgia last night. This was occasionally not blindingly apparent, particularly as the game progressed with the tightest of margins separating Scotland from a result that would have made Culloden seem like a decent draw.

Irakli Dzaria had the opportunity in the final minutes to extract a point for Georgia, but ballooned his shot over the bar. He thus scorned the chance to be the Hammer of the Scots, the Butcher of Cumberland and the Purveyor of the Poll Tax in one swipe of a sponsored boot.

It was this piece of fecklessness that saved Scotland from a result that would have been catastrophic, almost certainly fatal, to hopes of a summer in France in 2016. A draw would have been undeserved, unfair, but almost stereotypically Caledonian. Instead, Strachan's party can march on Warsaw with a victory instead of limping forward with another failure. The manager's first policy was to be bold, his second, late in the game, was to conserve what he had with a series of defensive substitutions.

This may be seen as a sort of reflection on both sides of the referendum debate. What is certain, however, is that, nearly a month on from September 18, Ibrox witnessed a result that cheered every Scot.