So many magic memories – and this was the sweetest of all

Psychologists have coined the term "core memories" to describe those childhood experiences that made us feel profoundly happy or sad or fearful. Mine mainly comprise big moments featuring Celtic, Jimmy Johnstone and the odd Scotland goal.

Even the echoes of my proper first date are coated with a patina of football. This was in March, 1979 when I’d forsaken Celtic v Aberdeen at Parkhead to go to the cinema with Eileen from my O-Grade English class. I don’t remember the film, but I do remember suddenly running across the road outside the Odeon cinema afterwards to get a copy of the Evening Times Pink final to find out the Celtic score. Bad move.  

The Hoops had triumphed 1-0 with an Alfie Conn goal and a few days later I was gently informed there would be no second date.

 If I were to choose the one big memory to bind them all, it would be Joe Jordan’s flying header against Czechoslovakia in September, 1973 that took Scotland to the World Cup in West Germany the following year. That and maybe Celtic’s title winning 4-2 victory against Rangers: my first ever big Glasgow Derby.

To qualify as core, a memory must possess a unique sorcery that allows your adult self to experience momentarily exactly what you felt as a child when the event happened. Memories play tricks, but core memories don’t. Nothing gets distorted or blurred: everything is just as it was.

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Thus, in 1973, I remember that all the talk had been about the wonder of watching a World Cup, knowing that Scotland would be part of it. We hadn’t qualified since 1958 and as the tournament moved from mono to full glorious colour and the great Brazilian side of 1970 in Mexico, Scotland’s continued absence was becoming a national embarrassment.

 You also remember the little ancillary memories around Joe Jordan’s winning goal: the fact that Willie Morgan had crossed the ball with the outside of his right foot rather than take up a precious extra second re-positioning himself for a more conventional delivery.

Then there was the blunder by goalkeeper Ally Hunter that led to the Czechs’ opener by Zdenek Nehoda and somehow knowing even as a 10-year-old that he probably wouldn’t play for Scotland again and feeling sorry for him because he’d seemed to be a nice man, but lacking that avid, vulpine element that top professional footballers must have.

 And hearing the great STV commentator Arthur Montford greet Nehoda’s goal with a dejected “disaster for Scotland”. You’d continued to deploy this phrase for many years afterwards in non-footballing situations: collapsing shelves; failing all your science exams; more romantic failures.

“How did it go with Veronica at the pictures last night?”

 “Disaster for Scotland.”

Arthur Montford gave us another memorable moment at the end of this match as Scotland fought to preserve their precious advantage. Denis Law had broken away right at the death to go one-on-one with the Czech keeper and put World Cup qualification beyond all doubt. I can still hear Mr Montford shouting “Come on Denis; come on now, Denis” as a pack of white-clad opponents bore down on him.

Last week at Hampden, BBC Scotland’s Stephen Thompson channelled his inner Arthur by shouting “Shoot! Shoot!” as Kenny McLean sized up the merits of lobbing Kasper Schmeichel in the Denmark goal.

Unlike the great Scotland striker in 1973, Kenny McLean duly did put the result against Denmark beyond doubt with a goal which will become a core memory of all schoolchildren privileged to have witnessed it. This meant that Scotland had qualified for the World Cup for the first time since 1998 – our longest absence from the greatest sporting and cultural festival on the planet.

As you get older, a measure of cynicism attaches itself to your consumption of football. You long ago gave up on the idea of Scotland ever mastering the arts of football that seem to come naturally to other nations’ footballers: two good feet; quick passing; the ability to kill a ball dead rather than in jagged instalments.

You’d given up hope of ever being at another World Cup in your lifetime. Some years ago, you’d even entertained the notion of taking desperate measures to achieve this. This had involved sending a group of young male and female Scots to countries like Italy, Spain, Brazil and Argentina with the goal of meeting and falling in love with fit-looking locals and having children with them and claiming them all for Scotland. I’d heard tales of Scots who’d stayed on in Argentina after 1978 and had thought that one or two saviours might thus have emerged to get us to Japan and South Korea in 2002.

In the chaotic aftermath of last Tuesday’s victory over Denmark, the Scotland players had donned tee-shirts bearing the legend “We’ll be Coming.” For a moment, the words “We’ll be Minging” invaded my misanthropic mind following Scotland’s dismal performances at the last two Euros.

That’s for another day, though. Steve Clarke’s achievement in getting to next year’s World Cup eclipses all of our previous qualifications. In most of those years we had players drawn mainly from Celtic and Rangers and some of the best teams in England.

Joe Jordan and Billy Bremner celebrate Scotland’s winning goal v Czechoslovakia in 1973 (Image: Newsquest)

Now, Clarke has had to guide us there with a squad containing hard-working journeymen in key positions, crucially in the striking department and central defence. This is partly due to a gene pool drastically reduced by Glasgow’s big two choosing to spend tens of millions on mediocre overseas players while neglecting talented young Scots.

It’s also a consequence of having the richest league in the world as your closest neighbour. Once, we had dozens of gifted Scots honing their skills with Liverpool, Manchester United, Leeds United who, back then, were the top three clubs south of the Border. Now, England’s riches attract the world’s best, leaving Scotland to look to their second tier.

This is why Steve Clarke is being urged to make overtures to Harvey Barnes, Newcastle United’s gifted winger who scored two match-winning goals against Manchester City at the weekend. Barnes qualifies to play for Scotland by virtue of his two Scottish grandparents.

I hope Clarke resists these calls. He and his squad of no-frills, unsung footballers have performed heroics against Greece and Denmark who are more blessed than them and who probably feel they belong in elite company more than Scotland. But having despatched both, who knows what can be achieved next summer?   

Kevin McKenna is Scotland’s Feature Writer of the Year