The Diary of a Nobody.

[Peacemaker7]

The Diary of a Nobody - by Stuart Redmond/b]

They say that reality is shaped by chance. That for each and every action, there is a series of re-actions that can lead off to form different realities, and the possibilities are there infinite. So, it might well be that in every other reality, the events I am about to describe failed to happen. Of course, it might well be they did. After all, I can only know the reality in which I live, everything else is irrelevant.

Let me say though, right at the very start, that I never intended to write this autobiography. I was sure no-one would be overly interested, and indeed it was my wife, Elizabeth, who coerced me into getting it done. After all, she explained, even if you had been a total and abject failure, the very fact of you even being in the position you were, of the circumstances surrounding that, would surely be of interest?

And perhaps she was right. Elizabeth had a habit of being right, it was the reason I married her. She told me it was the right thing to do. I cant deny that she was right.

So where to begin? Well, they say life begins at 40, and certainly for me, that was the case. For forty years, I was nothing, did nothing, and achieved nothing. No-one knew who I was, and no-one cared. Not that anyone might care now, but I would certainly like to think a lot of people would know who I was, and when I died that I might even be remembered.

Yet what happened to me was, on the face of it, pure chance, pure fairy tale, and it could all have been so different. I hadn't really wanted to go to the Claymore game with my friend Iain that day. The season had been poor and the game was meaningless, but as he said, we had the tickets and we may as well use them. We lost the game, but then that wasnt a surprise, and so it was not a happy crowd of people who left Hampden that afternoon, and perhaps that why few of them paid little attention to the BBC film crew outside the ground.

If I hadnt stopped to tie my laces, if we had left the ground a few minutes earlier to catch the train, if we had left a few minutes later, then none of what was about to happen, would have happened. And sometimes, that really scares me. But only sometimes.

The BBC crew were at Hampden to discuss the state of the Scotland national team, and Chic Young was trying to ask the passing crowd what they thought of Berti Vogts. Of course, most of the reaction was negative, and as one fan remarked, any bloke off the street could do a better job.

As I passed Chic, he turned from having passed on the fans comment to the then SFA chief, David Taylor, and stuck the mic in my face. 'Could you do a better job than Berti?' he asked me chirpily.

'I expect so.' I replied, feeling a bit confused 'but then Im never going to have the chance am I?'

Except I was wrong.

Iain was furious when he found. Had Chic Young chosen him, and not me, then it would be him who would be standing, a few weeks later, at the Hampden main doors, being unveiled as the new Scotland manager. It would be his face that would be plastered in all the major daily newspaper, and his name that was ringing out throughout the land. And perhaps, in some other reality, it was. But here, in the only reality that counted, I, Stuart Redmond, just some bloke off the street, had been appointed to manage to national side.

I dont think too many people were overly amused...

[Peacemaker7]

The Diary of a Nobody - by Stuart Redmond/b]

They say that reality is shaped by chance. That for each and every action, there is a series of re-actions that can lead off to form different realities, and the possibilities are there infinite. So, it might well be that in every other reality, the events I am about to describe failed to happen. Of course, it might well be they did. After all, I can only know the reality in which I live, everything else is irrelevant.

Let me say though, right at the very start, that I never intended to write this autobiography. I was sure no-one would be overly interested, and indeed it was my wife, Elizabeth, who coerced me into getting it done. After all, she explained, even if you had been a total and abject failure, the very fact of you even being in the position you were, of the circumstances surrounding that, would surely be of interest?

And perhaps she was right. Elizabeth had a habit of being right, it was the reason I married her. She told me it was the right thing to do. I cant deny that she was right.

So where to begin? Well, they say life begins at 40, and certainly for me, that was the case. For forty years, I was nothing, did nothing, and achieved nothing. No-one knew who I was, and no-one cared. Not that anyone might care now, but I would certainly like to think a lot of people would know who I was, and when I died that I might even be remembered.

Yet what happened to me was, on the face of it, pure chance, pure fairy tale, and it could all have been so different. I hadn't really wanted to go to the Claymore game with my friend Iain that day. The season had been poor and the game was meaningless, but as he said, we had the tickets and we may as well use them. We lost the game, but then that wasnt a surprise, and so it was not a happy crowd of people who left Hampden that afternoon, and perhaps that why few of them paid little attention to the BBC film crew outside the ground.

If I hadnt stopped to tie my laces, if we had left the ground a few minutes earlier to catch the train, if we had left a few minutes later, then none of what was about to happen, would have happened. And sometimes, that really scares me. But only sometimes.

The BBC crew were at Hampden to discuss the state of the Scotland national team, and Chic Young was trying to ask the passing crowd what they thought of Berti Vogts. Of course, most of the reaction was negative, and as one fan remarked, any bloke off the street could do a better job.

As I passed Chic, he turned from having passed on the fans comment to the then SFA chief, David Taylor, and stuck the mic in my face. 'Could you do a better job than Berti?' he asked me chirpily.

'I expect so.' I replied, feeling a bit confused 'but then Im never going to have the chance am I?'

Except I was wrong.

Iain was furious when he found. Had Chic Young chosen him, and not me, then it would be him who would be standing, a few weeks later, at the Hampden main doors, being unveiled as the new Scotland manager. It would be his face that would be plastered in all the major daily newspaper, and his name that was ringing out throughout the land. And perhaps, in some other reality, it was. But here, in the only reality that counted, I, Stuart Redmond, just some bloke off the street, had been appointed to manage to national side.

I dont think too many people were overly amused...

[Peacemaker7]

The Scotland Years

The fact was, even though I might like to kid myself otherwise, I knew absolutely nothing about managing a football team. I should never have taken this job, but really, who in their right mind could turn down such an offer. It might have, and indeed did, seem ludicrous to the press that the SFA should appoint someone like me to such an important position, and in all honest, I never did find out the full reasons why. It can’t just have been to prove a point, and it can’t just have been a bet. Whatever the reasons, they are largely irrelevant now, the fact is, I was appointed manager of Scotland and that is history.

Once reality had sunk in, I soon realised that I was in quite a bit of trouble. I didn’t know what to do, where to go, how to do what it was I didn’t know what I was doing. I realised I would need to bring in some people who knew more about this thing than me, and not just to show me the ropes. It would be damned hard to get professional footballers to play for a nobody, and quite a few had already stated they would not be willing to play for Scotland under my charge. I was beginning to find a little bit of sympathy for Berti. But not much.

And so I decided to turn to some of the best footballing brains in the land. I handed the Under 21 job to Walter Smith, the Under 19’s to John Brown, and asked Gordon Strachan to be my assistant. With such respected people around me, my job was made that bit easier, and there many in the press who have you believe that all the work was done by Gordon and Walter, but that is far from the truth. I may not have had the experience, and I knew I needed all the help these guys could offer, but if I was to last more than one game in this job, I knew that I had to impose my own authority on the team. I had to be the one calling the shots.

It wasn’t easy, but as I pointed out to the players, they weren’t playing for me, they were playing for Scotland, and that alone should have been enough for them to give it everything they had. They should be proud to play for their country, and for the most part it seemed they were. The refusal of some players to play for me, simply allowed others to come in who in reality possibly should have been nowhere near the Scotland squad, such Bob Malcolm, and young Rangers starlet Charlie Adam. Yet these were to turn out to be two of the most consistent players during my reign.

My first match in charge, as it would happen, should have been the opening qualifier for the 2006 World Cup at home to Slovenia, but the SFA hastly arranged a friendly to take place a few days before that at home to Montserrat, a match the press said was a waste of time, but which in reality was vital for me and the players to get to know a few things about each other. The match was easily won, 5-0, at a canter, as you would expect against the worst ranked team in the world. But it had given us a bit of confidence, and we looked forward to the qualifiers, hoping we could shut the idiots in the Scottish Press up.

[Tyrone the Magazine]

nice start pm

[Peacemaker7]

The Qualifying – Part One

Very few people gave us much hope of beating Slovenia. They were far from the best team in the world, but they did have a few useful players, and we, according to the media, did not. Add to that a manager who simply didn’t have a clue what he was doing, and you had a recipe for another Scottish disaster. The press it seemed, were eagerly looking forward to such an event, and one would almost believe they really wanted the team to fail. But that couldn’t be right, could it?

Fortunately for me, there were some players who were willing to play for Scotland no matter who was in charge, and although the team that took to the field for my first meaningful match was not what a lot of people might have wanted, it was nevertheless a team of players who wanted to win for their county. That first ever line up was.

David Marshall; Peter Canero, Steven Pressley, Phil McGuire, Steven Hammell; Barry Ferguson, Derek Riordan, Gareth Williams; Garry O’Connor, James McFadden

By half time, it was still goalless, and although we hadn’t played badly, we hadn’t played particularly great either. Slovenia were proving tough to break down, and we simply weren’t getting any luck in front of goal. Riordan and McGuire had both been fairly appalling in that first 45, and at half time I decided to replace them with Andy Webster and young Rangers starlet Charlie Adam, which came as a huge shock to him, and the stunned crowd inside Hampden.

Yet two minutes into the second half, the still 18 year old midfielder was heavily involved in the opening the goal, which Gareth Williams thundered home from the edge of the area, and Hampden erupted probably more with relief than anything else. As the confidence grew on the park, so we looked better and better, and it was little surprise when James McFadden added a second on 68 minutes. Yet being Scotland, we had to do it our own way, and with four minutes left some slack defending allowed the Slovenians a way back into the game, as they threatened to steal a point. Just over a minute later though, Garry O’Connor grabbed out 3rd, and we held on for a win that made the press eat their words.

Of course, it was just beginners luck they said, and besides, Slovenia weren’t that good anyway, and pretty soon the side would be found out for just how poor they really were. There was nothing like the Scottish press for bringing you back down to earth with a bang, but the reality was, they just made us more determined to succeed.

The harder test of course, would come against Norway. They were surely a better side that Slovenia, and the lack of experience in my squad, as well as my own lack, would surely lead to Scotland failing, and then we could all get back to reality and look for a real manager. And indeed, eleven minutes into the game, the press got their wish, as John Carew sent Norway ahead, and this wasn’t quite the start we had been looking for. Two minutes later though, Garry O’Connor pulled us level, and as the match wore on, both sides did have their chances, but it seemed as though a draw was the only result possible.

And in the end, it was the result, but not before Darren Fletcher had sent us ahead with eight minutes left to play, and had us believing that we were about to pull off another three points. That joy and belief though lasted less than 30 seconds as Norway were to go straight up the park and equalize, and at the end of the day we had to settle for a point. It was a decent enough performance, but the fact is a home draw against Norway isn’t really good enough. Still, at least it gave the press something to whine about.

Our final qualifier for 2004 was our first away match, in Moldova. A potential banana skin, the kind of match Scotland should win, but inevitably don’t, and it was here the media claimed we would be truly found wanting, and once more the Scottish footballing public would be left humiliated. It was in this match though that young Charlie Adam finally made himself fully known to the Tartan Army, as he turned in a quite exceptional performance, bagging two goals in the first fourteen minutes, as for once a Scotland side did what they should do against inferior opposition, and in the end we ran out six nil winners, and there wasn’t really a lot to be unhappy about.

Of course the real test would come next March, when we would go to Italy, but for now we had to be happy. We had taken seven points from nine, and were still in contention to qualify. It could have been a whole lot worse, and we had to be satisfied with what we had done so far. We rounded off 2004 with two friendlies, both at home, to Armenia and Sweden, both of which were won by us 4-0. Certainly there was reason to be pleased once more about being a Scot, but no-one was getting carried away just yet. There was still a lot more convincing to be done, but as 2004 came to an end, I had the feeling the players, and the fans, were starting to accept me as a bone fide manager, and were starting to forget that I really wasn’t. Of course, there were always people in the media to remind me of this fact, and to keep my feet firmly planted on the ground.

[Peacemaker7]

The Qualifying – Part Two

Before we took on Italy, New Zealand came to Hampden for a friendly, and Charlie Adam took them for a ride, as he hammered home five goals in our incredible 8-0 victory. It was therefore on somewhat of a high that we travelled to Milan, confident that we could bring back at least a point, against an Italian side who had already lost at home to Norway. And if Norway could beat them, there was little reason to believe we couldn’t take something here as well.

Perhaps we were a little naïve in such beliefs, and found ourselves trailing to Massimo Oddo goal after 17 minutes, and fell further behind nine minutes into the second half, and my unbeaten record as a football manager looked as if it was about to fall. Derek Riordan did give us a glimmer of hope on the hour, but a late strike from Vieri made it three one for the Italians, and we had been put firmly in our place. I felt sure we had improved as a team, and although the reality was that Italy were still a very good side, perhaps the fact of our own improvement could be measured by the depth of our disappointment at the loss.

We had to wait three months for our next games, in June of 2005, and despite a less than polished performance, we overcame Moldova at Hampden by 2-0, before heading off to Belarus. They would have little chance of reaching the Finals the following year, but nevertheless would have a big say in who did go there, and on reflection our goalless draw was probably a decent result, although it didn’t actually feel like it at the time.

With Italy coming to Hampden, and then our game in Norway, September would prove to be the pivotal month in our bid to qualify for the 2006 World Cup. If we could win over Italy, and take at least a point in Norway, we had a chance of securing at least a play off place. However, if we failed to take anything in these two matches, then our dreams would be over, and I would probably have been out of a job. I had no doubt the SFA were waiting eagerly to get rid of me, and install a manager who had a reputation.

Yet as poor as we had we had been in Italy, so we put in one of the best performances ever seen by a Scotland team, as we ripped the Italians apart, running out 4-1 winners, thanks to a hattrick from Garry O’Connor and yet another goal from Charlie Adam. The result finally made people sit up and realise that the Scots were back as a team to be reckoned with, and I would like to think gained me a bit of respect as a manager. It also put a huge dent in the Italian hopes of going to Germany.

When we played Norway at Hampden, we had found them a handful, and had probably been lucky to get a draw, but the truth is in the return the Norwegians were no match for us. Confidence was high and the 3-0 win set up to win the group, although that was by no means guaranteed. And indeed, a disappointing 1-1 draw with Belarus at Hampden left us still needing to take something from Slovenia in our final match, although it was fairly certain we would at least make the play offs.

Having played so well against the Italians and Norwegians though, we felt we more than deserved to win the group, and we were determined that there would be no slip ups. In a thrilling match, Charlie Adam sent us head within thirty seconds, but just over a minute later Slovenia were level again. Any late comers had already missed a great deal of action, and that set the pattern for the game. Steven Pressley sent us back ahead on 14 minutes from the penalty spot, but once more Slovenia were level quickly, and if things didn’t go our way in the other games, it was by no means certain a draw would be enough. As it turned out though, it would have been.

Two minutes from the break O’Connor sent us into the lead for the third time, and when Pressley netted a second penalty just after the hour, we looked Germany bound for sure. Still, in typical Scottish fashion, we had to make things difficult for ourselves as Slovenia scored a third, but frantically we held on, and we beaten the odds to pip Norway as group winners, and the disaster for the Italian of them not even qualifying.

It had been an eventful campaign, in which we had shown that even if we didn’t have the best team on the planet, we had the determination to roll up our sleeves and battle when the chips were down, and apart from the game in Milan, we had performed to our very best, and now we would reap our rewards in the Finals.We finished 2005 with a couple friendlies, on the dates that were reserved for the Play Offs. A 4-2 win in San Marino was far from impressive, and a 2-2 draw at home to Cameroon was a huge let down, but these were meaningless games and did little to dampen the enthusiasm that was building in the Tartan Army, especially when the draw for the Finals put us in with Argentina, Belgium, and the United Arab Emirates. A group that we could surely get second place from, and finally kill off our World Cup jinx.

Then again, better Scotland sides than us, allegedly, had failed when the chips were down, and many in the media saw no reason why we should do any different. We still had a lot of convincing to do……..

[Peacemaker7]

Interlude

Thanks Tyrone.

For those who like that sort of thing, here are some details about the game file being used. This is of course FM05, and I have all English & Scottish leagues running plus both Icelandic leagues and also the top leagues from Spain and France.

I didnt intend for this to be a story, but as the game progressed it made itself into one. The actuall game is ahead of the story, and the intention is to write this as a look back over someone's career. Although it is likely the story will catch the game up, the style will remain as a look back story.

I think thats it.

[Tyrone the Magazine]

Looking good. I bet Scotts far and wide wish this would happen.

[displaced_seagull]

Nobody, yeah right

Very good start - I hear International management is more involved in FM?

[Dark_Soccer]

Always a pleasure to read your stories PM

Cant wait for more

[Peacemaker7]

<BLOCKQUOTE class="ip-ubbcode-quote"><font size="-1">quote:</font><HR>Originally posted by displaced_seagull:

Nobody, yeah right

Very good start - I hear International management is more involved in FM? <HR></BLOCKQUOTE>

Well you can appoint your own coaching staff now, which is nice. But they dont actually seem to DO anything :/

[Peacemaker7]

A Fine Romance

Football, they say, is a funny old game, and many times that adage has been proven true. Life in general though can be just as funny, and who can figure out the meaning behind the way things work out, and wonder just what the hell such tiny little things as stopping to tie your shoelaces on sunny afternoon outside Hampden, can have such a dramatic impact on your life. If you stop to think about such things, you would probably go insane.

In the April of 2006, I did something that I never had intended to do. At the age of nearly 42, I got married. If I hadn’t stopped to tie my lace that day, not only would I never have gotten the chance to manage Scotland, I would never have met the woman who was to become my wife. Elizabeth Cuthbertson was appointed by the SFA to be my personal assistant. She was, when I met her, 34 years old, a fairly attractive divorcee, and the truth was, that we didn’t hit it off straight away. This wasn’t love at first sight, it was almost loathing. Not only did I not see the need for a PA, I was actually more miffed that she was being paid more than me. The SFA had agreed to pay me £350 a week during my tenure as national boss, which on the face of it wasn’t a bad amount of money. My PA was earning £1200, and that to me seemed utterly ridiculous.

Yet over time we grew to be friends. It was hard not to like Liz, as she preferred to be called. She was an intelligent, thoughtful and caring woman, and it was she who managed to renegotiate my contract once we had qualified for Germany, so that I was now earning £1500 a week, and had also received a £30,000 bonus for reaching the World Cup Finals, with more to come dependant on how we did. It was certainly a huge change in my lifestyle.

The one problem though that Liz had was her three kids. I don’t overly like kids, they tend to get in the way of romance, especially when they feel you might be trying to take their fathers place. Which I had no intention of doing. As far as I was concerned he could have the kids, but of course I could never tell Liz that. Derek, who had just turned 13 before we were married, was the hardest to win over. He was a typical spoilt brat, an obnoxious pre-teen, and I found it hard not creep into his room and suffocate him as he slept.

The other kids were Emily and Sarah, 8 year old twin girls, who simply adored daddy, even though daddy only ever turned up to see them once a month, and usually made some excuse as to why he couldn’t spend more time with his own kids. As time passed, I began to perhaps understand why Derek was such an obnoxious little *******, and started to soften towards him, and by the time of the wedding, I think its safe to say we were almost friends. The girls were delighted with the wedding. At eight they probably didn’t fully understand such things as mummy getting married to a man who wasn’t daddy, but being bridesmaids and wearing pretty dresses they did understand.

After the wedding, daddy showed up less and less at the house, and in many ways that was probably just as well, as my future career would see me leave Scotland at some point, and his lack of real caring failed to put the stumbling block in my path that it might have done had he been a half decent human being. So for that at least, I guess I should have been grateful to him, and its remarkable how resilient the kids were. Of course they still missed him, but having a new daddy who was always around seemed to be more than adequate replacement. It was still something that took me a lot of time to get used.

What also took me a lot of time to get used to was the fact that we were on our way to Germany, to play in the Finals of the World Cup. From the usual squad of 26 I had trim to 23, and to the players who felt they missed out, I can only apologize, but such are the rules and it was out of my hands. One player who made my job that bit easier was Steven Thompson, who refused a late call up for a friendly, and so never played for me again at International level. I always thought he was a bit silly for doing that, and robbing himself of his chance to shine on the biggest footballing stage there is. Another player who had refused a call up for a friendly was Derek Riordan, but he at least later apologized, and seemed so sincere that I had no hesitation in including him in the squad.

And so were all set to take our place in the greatest footballing show on earth, and the media were split as to our chances of success, which at least was an improvement on them all thinking we would fail. Given our results in qualifying, you would have thought the press would be more positive about our chances, but a 4-0 thrashing in Romania, and then an uninspiring 3-1 win at Hampden over Macedonia in our send off game, perhaps sowed those seeds of doubt, and in many ways that was a good thing. This wasn’t the send off of 1978, and we weren’t on the march to bring home the World Cup. Just being there was an achievement in itself, and we intended to enjoy every minute of it.

[HD]

Fancy meeting you here. Nice work.

[Peacemaker7]

The Greatest Show on Earth

Domestically, Celtic had continued to dominate, having picked up another two titles since I had taken over Scotland. In 2005, they had run away at the top of the league, and towards the end of the season, Rangers decided to part company with Alex McLeish. That in and of itself was no great deal, the guy had probably being hanging on a lot longer than he deserved. What was a surprise, was the choice of manager to replace him.

No-one could quite get to grips when the new Rangers manager was unveiled as Celtic legend, Davie Hay. There was, understandably, uproar and outrage amongst the Rangers support, that was only overshadowed by the feeling of utter disbelief. Hay though didn’t seem to do too badly, yet the Rangers support were never going to accept him. With three matches left of the 2006 season, Rangers were sitting three points behind Celtic, when astonishingly, they decided to sack Hay. Its hard to say if this move cost them the title, but it sure was a strange time to part company with a manager who had at least restored some dignity to the club. Bobby Williamson was unveiled as the new manager, but he too would soon find himself under some real pressure.

All that though was of little concern to me, except as a Rangers supporter I found such things slightly bemusing to say the least, and as my new step-son was an avid Celtic fan, you can imagine the lively conversations we would have of an evening, which usually ended with him being grounded and fined a weeks pocket money. But I had more pressing things to worry about, with the World Cup just round the corner, and Derek would be more than forgiving when he realised he would have the honour of actually being at the tournament.

Two weeks before we were due to start our World Cup campaign, the squad met up at a hotel in Glasgow, where we spent a couple of nights before flying out to the south of France. The idea was that we would spend five days lazing on the beaches of St Tropez, relaxing and having fun. Apart from an early morning jog each day for the players, we did no training during this period. It might seem a strange way to build up for an important tournament, but this was the end of a long hard season, and the fact was we didn’t need to do much training at this point.

Those players who had wives and children were allowed to bring them, and those who didn’t brought their girlfriends, or simply played gooseberry. It was a squad building experience, and helped bring us together as a team unit. As well as helping the players relax and not think too much about what lay ahead of them. Six days before we were due to face Belgium, we moved into our hotel in Hamburg where we would be based for the duration of the group stages.

Training was still light, and we mainly worked on set plays and team moves, with very little fitness work, except for those players who may have been overcoming injury and perhaps needed to gain that little boost to be ready. The truth is, there was nothing we could do at this stage, if we weren’t fit and raring to go now, we never would be. It was simply a case of keeping things ticking over, and perfection our free kick and other set play moves.

Scotland teams have a habit of not only shooting themselves in the foot, but also of players doing silly things that the press like to make a big deal out of. Who can forget Jimmy Johnstone and the rowing boat incident? Whilst those of us who were married had our families to keep us in check, one or two of the younger lads were still needing to go ‘out on the town’, and they were allowed to do so, as long as they kept a low profile and were safely tucked up in bed by 1am.

Boys will be boys though, and the former Hibs duo of Derek Riordan and Scott Brown had rather a bit too much to drink on one of the nights, and ended up in a police cell. This was exactly the kind of thing the press love, and of course it ended up being front page headlines back home, and was blown up out of all proportion. It was exactly the kind of thing we had wanted to avoid, and both players were left in doubt as to the foolishness of their actions, and warned that any repeat would seem them on the next plane home.

On Wednesday 7th June, the 2006 World Cup got underway, as Ghana took on Chile in the opening game, a break from tradition. Chile overcame the Africans by 2-0, but it was the game in the evening that took our interest, as England faced up to Japan. The English were fairly confident that the World Cup was going to be theirs, and therefore we couldn’t help but fall over laughing as the Japanese didn’t just beat them, but humiliated them by 4-1. For once it wasn’t the Scots who had suffered indignation. At least, not yet.

On the 9th of June, our group got underway, as Argentina overcame a plucky UAE team by 3-1. The following day we would face up to Belgium, and the fact of the matter was, this was a game both countries had to win, it was probably already going to be the decider as both sides would probably struggle against the Argies, and both should beat UAE. It was time for the players to stand up and be counted, and make Scotland proud once more of their footballing team…..

[flipsix3]

Don't keep us waiting man!

[Bruce Harvey]

Aaaarrrrgggghhhhhh! I hate it when ppl do that!

im gonna be on a knife-edge for the rest of the day now!!!!!!

[Peacemaker7]

Sorry guys

The way the story will, hopefully, be written, there will hopefully be a few 'cliffhangers'. As what Im trying to write here is an autobiography, the reality is that people reading would tend to know a lot of what was about to happen. Oh well, hopefully the knife wont cut you too deep

[Peacemaker7]

The Belgian Chocolate Box

You shouldn’t need any motivating, in my opinion, to play for your country. In any sport, indeed any walk of life, being chosen to represent your country should be the greatest honour you can even achieve. Being a fiercely proud Scot, I simply could not understand people, like Steven Thompson and David Elliot for instance, who would put petty personal squabbles ahead of pulling on the dark blue of Scotland. Another thing that severely annoys me, is those players who, during the playing of their National Athens, stand unmoved like zombies, as if they simply couldn’t care less. I realise that some people have no nationalistic pride, I simply didn’t see why those people would want to play for their country.

During the build up to the tournament, and indeed virtually from the first moment I took over the team, but especially in the build up to the World Cup, I had drilled into these players the sense of national pride I expected them to feel. Anyone who stood through Flower of Scotland, and didn’t belt it out as loud as they could, who didn’t show the pride they felt in representing their country, had no place in my squad. There were many people who would almost literally die to be in these players shoes, and they had no right to show anything but the utmost respect and have the utmost desire to win for Scotland.

My own pride and desire probably came through a bit too strongly at times, but as the band played Flower of Scotland, having disposed of the Belgian anthem, not one single Scottish player wasn’t belting it out, and with nearly 40,000 Scots in the just over 55,000 capacity AOL Arena in Hamburg doing the same, you could feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, and it was hard to suppress the tears of pride. If a player couldn’t lift himself to play in that atmosphere, then he was surely in the wrong sport, and would probably be better off playing netball or synchronized swimming.

And the atmosphere certainly did seem to inspire the players, as just seven minutes into the game Paul Gallacher blasted us ahead, and there was almost a feeling of inevitability about a Scotland win, that hadn’t been around the national team for a very long time. Yet if the atmosphere, the sense of occasion, was lifting us, it wasn’t exactly depressing the Belgian, as they stormed back into the game, and seven minutes later they were level. The gauntlet had been thrown down, and it was clear we were in for an extraordinary match.

The match was flying by at breakneck speed, and almost on cue, with 22 minutes gone, it was Paul Gallacher bagging his 2nd of the game to send us back into the lead. Of course such a frantic pace couldn’t be kept up, but the excitement level remained, and there were chances for both sides as half time approached. Belgium at this stage had the game by the scruff of the neck, and for the final three minutes of the half, they literally laid siege to our goal, and just into the time added on, they finally broke through and the match was level once more.

It was of course a cruel time to lose a goal, and there were more than a few deflated looking Scotland players trudging their way to the dressing room.But it was only half time, and we had dominated most of the match, and if we kept that kind of play up, we could and should still win this game. Bob Malcolm, who despite his critics had held his place in front of the back four with ease during the qualifying, was having an uncharacteristically poor match, and after an hour I decided to replace him and Garry O’Connor, bringing on Gareth Williams and Derek Riordan. Seven minutes later, Belgium were ahead, and all our effort and hard work seemed to have been in vain.

But we hadn’t come this far just to meekly lie down and see our dreams die in the very first game, and the players lifted themselves to a new level, and dragged themselves back into the match. With thirteen minutes left to play, Andy Webster headed home from a corner, and it was all square again. As time ran out, both sides had run themselves into the ground, and at the end of the day, after a great game of football, a draw was probably the right result.

Of course, that result now left the group hanging in the balance. It would all come down to who could lose the least to Argentina, and who could win the most against UAE. We had Argentina next, and if things went as they probably should, that would give Belgium the psychological advantage, and of course if we lost to Argentina, they would be through and would have little to play for against them. It was quite simple then. We simply decided not to lose to Argentina…….

[Tyrone the Magazine]

<BLOCKQUOTE class="ip-ubbcode-quote"><font size="-1">quote:</font><HR>which usually ended with him being grounded and fined a weeks pocket money. <HR></BLOCKQUOTE>

[Bruce Harvey]

Ahhh thats much better!

Shame about the result though but it could have been worse too!!!

Lets just hope that we can pull of a good reult against the argies!!! a draw would be nice but a result would be amazing!!!!

Cant wait for the next installment!

I just dunno what im gonna do on sunday when i go to tunisia on sunday!!!!??? 2 weeks!!!!!!!

Just please dont leave me on another cliffhanger or i may have to come back early........ welll maybe not

[Educated Hick]

Good stuff as always.

[Peacemaker7]

Argie Bargie

As one of the favourites to win the World Cup, Argentina was probably the one game the Scots were guaranteed to win. The pattern of Scotland in the World Cup could be quite predictable really. Draw with the team on the similar level, beat the favourites and then lose to the minnows. You could almost hear the script being written as we travelled to the next match, knowing that Belgium had just beaten the UAE by a single goal to nil. That of course put them top with four points, and meant if Argentina beat us, they would be into the next round, and might not try so hard against Belgium. On the other had, the UAE were on the next plane home, and simply might not care.

Yet that was the future, and this was now. I would happily settle for a draw in this game, as it would mean a win over the UAE would give us a chance to progress, and despite the negative vibes and joking in the press, I was determined we would not lose to the UAE. We were far too good for that. Mind you, the English had arrived in Germany believing that they were far too good for everyone. Following up their 4-1 humiliation from Japan, they were only able to gain a 1-1 draw with Chile, and although they did beat Ghana 3-1 in their final game, they were to go out of the tournament. That at least would take a bit of the heat from us if we were to follow them home.

The first half against Argentina, it seemed that the gulf between where we had reached, and the top level, was still a bit too great, as a 13th minute strike from Javier Saviola gave the South Americans the lead, and although it was fair to say we hadn’t played overly badly, it did look as if we would go in at the break behind, until Paul Gallacher bagged his third goal of the tournament with virtually the last kick of the half. Such things can be turning points in games.

What would have happened had Gallacher not pulled us level is, of course, impossible to speculate, but as the second half progressed, Argentina were not looking as confident or threatening as they had in the first, and you could see the self belief grow in the Scotland team. On the hour mark, I made a double substitution, removing Charlie Adam and Derek Riordan, who hadn’t played particularly badly, but at this stage I felt fresh legs would give us new impetus, and on came Darren Fletcher and Scott Brown. Eight minutes later, Barry Ferguson sent us into a sensational lead, and just four minutes after that Steven Pressley hammered home a penalty, and it was with more than a little disbelief that the Argentinians restarted the game, trailing by three goals to one.

Almost immediately though, Claudio Lopez pulled a goal back, but there was a feeling that this was going to be our night, and we were not about to throw this great opportunity away. Argentina knew they were in trouble, but they seemed unable to perform as a unit now, and with six minutes left Fletcher hit a screamer from the edge of the box, and surely the points were now ours. The favourites were floundering, and looked a beaten and bemused side, and it was in that context hardly a surprise when Scott Brown added an incredible fifth, two minutes from time. This was the stuff of fairy tales, its what the World Cup is all about, and even though Carlos Tevez did catch our defence napping in injury time, to make the final score five three, nothing could conceal the fact that we had totally outplayed one of the best teams in the competition.

It seemed this might be a World Cup of upsets, when an outsider could nip and win it. Although we had no right to think it could be us, there was no reason at this moment in time to believe it wouldn’t be. Suddenly, the self belief that we were the greatest footballing nation on the planet, was back. And we had set ourselves up once more for a huge, and bloody fall…..

[Terk]

excellent result. though, as you mentioned in the early part of the post, i'm kind of expecting a defeat against the UAE now.

[Peacemaker7]

Yes, well we all know it makes perfect sense. Probably be 0-0 till the 94th minute then a fan runs onto the park and scores. So typically Scotland

[Peacemaker7]

Run The Arabs are Here!!

We were now in a position where we could finally kill off our World Cup jinx, and reach the knock out stages for the first ever time. And of truth be told, this was probably the best ever chance we had, and possibly might ever have. All we needed to do was draw with the United Arab Emirates. All we needed to do.

Of course, for most countries that wouldn’t be a problem. Sure the UAE were a half decent side, otherwise they wouldn’t be the World Cup, but having lost both their games so far, they were not going through. On paper, this was an easy win for us. But anyone who has any knowledge of Scottish football knows, that we have this incredible habit of shooting ourselves in the head. So although in reality we should win this game, never mind draw, I wasn’t taking anything for granted. We could still go out if we lost, and that bow would simply not be acceptable. I wasn’t going to follow in the footsteps of my more illustrious predecessors., and guide Scotland to glorious, or even inglorious, failure. Not now, that we had successfully negotiated the two tougher hurdles. It was time for Scotland to buck the trend, and go out and give the minnows a damn good thrashing.

It was a hard balancing act in the build up to the match. On the one hand, I wanted the players pumped up, I wanted them to know that they were superior to the UAE and that this was a match we should win. On the other hand, I didn’t want any overconfidence creeping in. We had become a good footballing unit, not because we had the best players in the world, because we certainly didn’t, but because we had learned to play for each other. And for our country. If we lost to the UAE we wouldn’t just be letting ourselves down, we would be letting down a whole nation, and that simply wasn’t acceptable.

We had come a long way in the two years I had been in charge, but all that could be undone by one poor result, and we would be back to where we started. The players knew the score, and they knew that if they performed, they would become legends. Many better Scotland sides had come to this stage, and fallen flat on their faces. We may not be their equal in footballing skills, but we could become their betters in our achievements. If only we could keep believing.

We needed a good start in the match, to kill off any nerves, and to disabuse any notion the Arabs might have of gaining a consolation victory. A draw would be good enough, whatever the result in the other game, but playing for a draw a dangerous precept, and besides I wanted the win. I didn’t want people saying we had fluked our way through.

Obviously there were nerves in the squad, but 20 minutes into the game James McFadden, who failed on the whole to live up to his considerable talent during my reign as Scotland boss, sent us ahead with a great goal, and when youngster Charlie Adam added a second seven minutes from time, the whole of Scotland breathed a collective sigh of relief. For surely, not even we could now lose three goals, that would just be too cruel. On the hour mark, McFadden added the third, and that was that.

Two years ago, the national side had been in a chaotic mess, caused partly by the ineptitude of Berti Vogts and Craig Brown, and partly by the abysmal failure of the Scottish Footballing big wigs to understand the need for the protection of the home grown talent that surely couldn’t just have vanished for no reason? Now, having come together as a team, we had done what no other Scotland side had done. We had reached the knockout stages of the World Cup. It didn’t matter what we did now, we were legends, and no-one could knock us. But when the results placed us with Denmark in the last sixteen, it became clear to me that what we achieved wasn’t enough. We had much, much more to achieve. If only we could keep believing…..

[Peacemaker7]

Danish Pastries

I like to think that during my reign as Scotland manager, and indeed at the club sides I would go on to manage, that I treated the players under my charge with dignity and respect. They were adults, and as long as they behaved as such, they would be treated as they should be. For instance, during our stay in Germany, I didn’t mind if the players went out at night, as long as they were sensible and as long as they turned up at 8am for breakfast looking as if they hadn’t actually been out all night. There were exceptions of course, and some rules had to be laid down. On the night before a match, no-one was allowed out, and everyone had to be in their beds by 11pm, even if it was an evening game.

My other stringent rule was, that for the duration of the tournament, the players would not be allowed to read the crap that was usually printed in the Scottish press. Partly because I didn’t think they needed to read it, and partly because I didn’t want their brains fried by the rubbish written therein. The morning after the match with UAE was the one exception to that rule. The morning after the UAE match was, in itself, the most exceptional day in the whole history of Scottish football.

Beating a side like the UAE was, of course, not that big a deal. At least it wouldn’t be for most other nations around our level. For us, it was like having a huge weight, an evil curse, think of any cliché you like, removed. And the fact was, until we saw it in black in white, it was hard to believe the truth. That this wasn’t a dream. We really had reached the 2nd phase of the World Cup for the first ever time. We really were legends.

And that was another thing about the **** that disguises itself as sports journalists in Scotland. A bigger bunch of ignorant, two faced bast-ards, you’ll never meet. These were the people who put Ally McLeod on a pedestal in 1978, and then used it to hang him. You couldn’t trust them as far as you could throw them, and since most of the were also largely overweight, what wasn’t very far. When I had taken over this job, lets just say few, if indeed any of them, had been polite about my appointment, predicting doom and gloom and trying to convince their readers that it didn’t matter anyway, because Scotland didn’t have decent players. And they had the cheek to call themselves Scottish sports writers.

Of course, now that we had achieved what they claimed we could never get near, they had changed their tune, and a lot of them were trying to claim they had seen it coming all along. Lying bassas the lot of them, and I always made it my point to have a shower after speaking to them. Especially Chic Young. You had to remove his spittal.

On though to the thing that really counted, and that of course were the Danes. They had come through what most people would agree was a fairly easy group. Apart from Brazil, whom they had lost to by a goal to nil, they had beaten Morocco and Jordan, hardly a tough test. It was hard to judge the quality of the side from those results, but we knew the Danes had a few decent players, and were at least our equals in footballing terms. We knew also that we could beat them.

We only had four days to prepare for the match, but that was more than enough time, and any longer would just have lead to the players getting bored. Or even got them to thinking, and that’s something you really need to avoid with a group of footballers. The match would be in Berlin, but we decided to remain in Hamburg until the night before the match, before travelling and staying overnight for the 3pm kick off. The eyes of the world would be upon us, and with England away home, the eyes of the whole of the UK. Which was probably even more scarey.

The match itself didn’t quite live up to expectations, which was of a fast flowing game, as the occasion seemed to get to the teams, who tended to balance each other out over the piece. Paul Gallacher finally broke the deadlock nine minutes from half time, but Denmark literally pulled level immediately, and needless to say I was not amused by that state of affairs. With less than half a minute of normal time left though, Charlie Adam set up McFadden, and for once he found the net with his effort, and we went in at the break ahead.

If, apart from the late goals, the first half had been less than a footballing spectacular, the second was to be even worse. There was little real football played, and if Im honest this was one of the worst performances, in footballing terms, that we turned in under my charge. And yet, with neither side seemingly capable of adding to the scoreline, the result in the end out shone the mediocrity of play. For we held on to win of course, and had reached the last eight of the World Cup. We would play Spain, and it was already being touted in some places, rather ludicrously, that our name must surely be on the trophy now. If it was, I hoped someone would forget to scrub it off….

[Peacemaker7]

Spanish Eyes

The world we were living in had become rather surreal. Something wasn’t quite right, and that something was very clear to see. Scotland were in the Quarter Finals of the World Cup. The fact of us being here was so immense, it threaten to rip apart the space-time continuum, and you could almost feel the whole of reality shaking with disbelief.

It was a strange time for us, because most, if not all, of the squad should have been on holiday by now, sunning it in the Caribbean or south of France. Yet here we were, having twice cancelled our flights back home, and we were mixing it with the big boys. The other three semis would see Brazil take on Holland, Nigeria would play Colombia and France took on Sweden. It wasn’t exactly the last eight the experts had predicted, and it all pointed to a Brazil/France Final. The rest of us I’m sure, were going to try our best to make sure that didn’t happen.

Our match with Spain was bound to be a tough one. They always had a squad of talented players, but somehow the Spanish, like ourselves, had never really done it when it came to the World Cup. Now though, having got this far and drawn what most people probably considered the worst side left, they surely fancied their chances. The Spanish had come through a reasonably tough group. They had lost to Holland, but wins over Senegal and South Korea saw them safely into a match with Japan. Despite their win over England, the Japanese proved little match for the Spanish, who brushed them aside easily by three goals to one.

It was, therefore, not so easy to judge the standard of this Spanish side. We all knew they had world class players, such as Raul and Reyes, but just how together they were as a team remained to be seen. On their day, they could beat anyone, and we just had to hope that the day we played them wasn’t their day, or the chances were we could have been very humiliated indeed. We weren’t totally unaware that we were riding a great deal of luck here, but we also believed we had sufficient talent, and certainly sufficient team work, to give anyone a run for their money.

James McFadden it seemed, had suddenly remember that he was supposed to be the most talented Scots player of his generation. During the qualifiers, he had been very disappointing, and a lot of that could be put down to having a fairly torrid time at Everton. Nine minutes into the match with Spain, he found the net once more to send us ahead, and this was the McFadden we all knew existed, the McFadden who excited us with his talent.

Whether the Spanish were having an off day, or whether they had just turned up bloated with overconfidence is hard to say, but when Charlie Adam added a second goal on 19 minutes, you would have though they would wake up to the fact that they were in very real trouble. But when the chips are down, the Spaniards just don’t seem to have that will to dig in and fight, and they were being given a total run around by a side whose confidence was off the scale. Nine minutes from half time, Barry Ferguson sent a glorious 30 yard free kick beyond the reach of Ilker Casillas, and to all intents and purposes, the match was over. To go in three up on one of the best footballing nations on the planet was simply unbelievable.

Yet if Spain had realised they would need to roll up there sleeves and work to get back into this tie, they certainly didn’t show it, as they came out for the second half, and McFadden promptly added a fourth. Now there was no way back for the Spaniards, and once more their World Cup dreams had disintegrated. To be fair, we had played some excellent football, but the plain fact was that once again, the Spanish had failed to turn it on when it really mattered, and now they were paying the price.

Football though can be a funny old game, and having looked totally inept for most of the game, for the last fifteen minutes the Spanish started to finally look like the side they probably should be. With eight minutes remaining, Varela gained them a consolation strike, and although Luque slotted home a penalty in injury time, they had left it way too late, and we held on for a quite stunning victory. We weren’t the only side to pull of a stunning win though, for Sweden had come through after extra time against France, and it was they we would play in the Semi Finals.

By now, even I was starting to believe that we might just be able to win this. But that was crazy talk……

[Peacemaker7]

The World Cup 2006 Semi Final

Only Sweden now stood between ourselves, and a place in the Final of the World Cup, which we now knew, would be against Brazil. Sweden of course had already played a World Cup Final against Brazil, when they had lost 5-2 in 1958. We on the other hand, hadn’t. But that was irrelevant to either country, as we both stood on the verge of greatness. Indeed, as far as I was concerned, this Scotland team had already surpassed greatness, and I hoped that whatever happened against Sweden, the Scottish press would recognize that.

That we could beat Sweden wasn’t something to be debated. Not only had we beaten them recently, albeit in a friendly, but, the France game apart, their run to the Semis hadn’t been overly impressive. A 2-2 draw with Slovakia in their opening game didn’t exactly set Swedish hearts racing, but an excellent 3-0 win over Portugal eased any fears the Swedes had. That was, until they lost by two nil to Saudi Arabia. A 1-0 win over Mexico had seen them through to face France, and it wasn’t until that game that the Swedes showed anywhere near a team who could be in with a shout of winning the tournament.

I was convinced that this was a match we could, and should win. If we could rise above the occasion, if we could produce anything near our best, we would be in the Final. Of course, we also had to guard against complacency. In many ways, it might have been better to be playing France, because then we wouldn’t be going into the match expecting to win. And as any Scotland supporter knows, when we go into a match expecting to win, that’s when we inevitably fall flat on our faces.

The build up to the game was as light hearted as it could be, as we tried to avoid the press, and get on with our preparations, which wasn’t an easy thing. When we had arrived here, few people outside Scotland wanted to know us. Now, it seemed like the whole world did. Yet somehow, we managed to find time to put together our game plan, and to prepare ourselves for a match the likes of which we would only ever beat, by reaching the final.

Semi Final matches are notoriously boring affairs. There have been some exceptions, but this was not to be one of them. By the end of 90 minutes, neither side had been able to break the other down, and we were into a energy sapping extra half an hour. If normal time had produced nothing, extra time wasn’t to be much better. Not until five minutes from the end, when Charlie Adam found James McFadden with a through ball, and finding a surge of energy from somewhere, the striker thundered the ball high into the right hand corner of the Swedish net, and Scotland were in the World Cup Final.

For McFadden though, just as he was reaching the point of greatness, came the severe blow that the yellow card he had picked up would mean him missing the biggest match of his life. It was a situation that I found deplorable, but there was nothing we could do about it, and although it was a personal tragedy for James, we were too much on a high to really offer the lad much sympathy. He would just have to get over it.

Meanwhile, we were gearing up for the game of our lives. We had Brazil, the greatest footballing nation in the world, in the final of the greatest footballing tournament. And there was one thing that kept nagging and nagging, over and over. Scotland had never beaten Brazil…..

[Tyrone the Magazine]

Surely not Scotland in the World Cup Final

Well done, waiting to find out if he stays as manager or will go into club management.

[flipsix3]

<BLOCKQUOTE class="ip-ubbcode-quote"><font size="-1">quote:</font><HR>Originally posted by Peacemaker7:

I like to think that during my reign as Scotland manager, and indeed at the club sides I would go on to manage... <HR></BLOCKQUOTE>

That answer your question Ty?

And well done PM, superb achievement and presentation

[Tyrone the Magazine]

Ah clue in the text, but hasn't happened in the story yet, may not happen

digged myself out of that one

[binny]

If this was anyone else's story we'd know that Scotland would win, but because it's PM, anything could happen.

As for your statistic about Scotland never having beaten Brazil, only European sides have won the WC on European soil (I think!)

[Spav]

Regarding the above post, Brazil beat Sweden 4-2 in Sweden in 1958.

[Peacemaker7]

Brazil won it in Sweden in 1958, and it was 5-2, not 4-2. So thats the only non-european win in europe

Thanks for reading

1958 World Cup

[Peacemaker7]

Best Days Of Our Life

Between the Final, and beating Sweden, we had four days to enjoy the best experience we could ever possibly hope for. In footballing terms at any rate. Two years ago, when I took over this job, if someone had said this guy will lead Scotland to the World Cup Final, the men in white coats would have come and led him to a padded cell before you could say Berti Vo… And yet here we were, in the World Cup Final, and not only that, we would be playing Brazil. Beyond doubt, the greatest footballing nation on earth, Brazil are almost mystical. They were, until the tournament moved outside Europe and South America, the only nation to win the World Cup outside their own continent, the only non European nation to win in Europe, and we had never beaten them.

We had our moments of course. An excellent 0-0 draw in 1974, and who could forget the Dave Narey ‘toe-poke’ in 1982? But for some reason, we could never achieve that win over them, and so going into this final, you would think all the odds were stacked against us. And you would have been right. This was a match we by rights, according to a lot of people at the time, we should have been no where near. To believe we could actually overcome the odds and win, well that was just insanity talking.

And for four days we lived in almost a carnival atmosphere. The Tartan Army were everywhere in Germany, it seemed as if the whole of Scotland had come over, and it really wouldn’t have surprised me if they had. If trying to find time to be alone as a squad had been tough for the Semi, it was damn near impossible for the final, and I was worried sick that the players couldn’t possibly be focused for this match. It was ok for Brazil, they had been through this many times, they knew the score. We had no idea what the hell was going on.

Most Scots will know the line up for that match by rote, but its worth mentioning them here just for the record. One of the most difficult positions for me throughout my time as Scotland boss had been that of keeper. We had started with David Marshall and Craig Gordon as the main two, but Gordon’s move to Barcelona meant he was hardly playing at all, and so although he was in the squad, he was only third choice. Marshall had dropped out of the picture completely, having not be performing overly well for his club, and I just didn’t feel he was in the right frame for such a tournament. That left me with former Rangers duo Allan McGregor, who was no the first choice at a Plymouth side who had just been relegated from the Premiership, and Graeme Smith was plying his trade with Betis. McGregor had been the man between the sticks for most of the tournament, and of course got the nod for the final. I could only hope he wouldn’t crack.

The full back pairing virtually picked itself. Alan Hutton, now doing well at Newcastle, and Steven Hammell, who was at Derby, may not have been in the same league as Jardine and McGrain. But then, few were, and they had both performed very well indeed for Scotland and well deserved their place. In the centre would be Andy Webster of Nantes, and he would usually be partnered by Steven Pressley of Crystal Palace, but he was carrying a niggling injury and so I decided that he would have to go on the bench. In came Stephen Caldwell, who was at Sunderland. He isn’t the greatest defender in the world, and I could just hope he would rise to the occasion.

The midfield was probably our strongest area. Iain Murray of Hibs had displaced Bob Malcolm in the holding roll in front of the back four, and the rest of the midfield was made up of Barry Ferguson, who had moved to Real Madrid, Gavin Rae, whose performance for a less than decent Rangers side had helped him force his way in, and Charlie Adam, who was now playing for Valencia. With Gareth Williams, Darren Fletcher and Bob Malcolm on the bench, we were realty spoiled for choice.

Up front was almost as difficult as the goalkeeping situation. James McFadden, who had really risen to the occasion of the World Cup, was suspended, and so I had to decide who would partner Paul Gallacher, and in the end Scott Brown of Villarreal got the nod, with Derek Riordan on the bench. Also on the bench was utility man Peter Canero.

I think the important things I told the players to remember were, enjoy yourselves. Yes, it’s a cliché, but this really was the biggest match any of these lads would ever play in, and it was important for it not just to rush past them. They had to savour every single minute. Don’t be overawed, don’t let ‘history’ get you down, and most importantly, don’t score too soon. The last part was the one they really didn’t listen to….

[Peacemaker7]

The Mother of all Games

I’ve never seen Flower of Scotland sung with such passion and pride as I did that day against Brazil. This was a match many Scots had dreamed of, but never in their wildest hopes had ever thought would come true. The anthems over, the carnival was really just about to begin, and with just 23 seconds on the clock, Paul Gallacher had caught the Brazilian defence cold, and incredibly we were leading Brazil in the World Cup Final. And as the Tartan Army went wild with delight, and I remember watching the highlights at a later date, as the camera panned on me looking totally calm and not celebrating. The commentator said, Redmond looks calm and professional, he knows theres a long way to go. What I was really thinking was, you fecking stupid bassa, now you’ve just gone and made them mad.

Brazil did come forward, and Ronaldo had a couple of chances that had the beating of McGregor, but were just high or wide of the mark. And as the half wore on, all over the pitch we were proving more than a match for our far more illustrious opponents. Whilst its true Brazil look threatening when they did get forward, its also true that they didn’t get forward all that often in that first forty five minutes. They didn’t relish one little bit the physical challenges that we were putting in, and with nine minutes till half time, Ronaldo decided he’d had enough, threw himself theatrically on the floor as if auditioning for swan lake, and with he new FIFA guidelines on diving, I felt sure he would be yellow carded as the referee went to his pocket.

Imagine my surprise, my utter astonishment, when Spaniard Miguel Angelo Bila brought out a red card, and showed it to Ian Murray. TV pictures confirmed that Ronaldo had cheated, but that meant little to us as Murray trudged dejectedly off the pitch, and now we had to play on with ten men. Yet so often such an injustice can inspire a team. A free kick was won outside the box with just two minutes left of the half. Up stepped Barry Ferguson to curl the ball round the wall as if he himself was a Brazilian, and Ronaldo could stuff his cheating head up his…. Up a very dark place. Scotland were two up on the might Brazil, and that’s the way we went in at the interval.

I didn’t say much at half time. There wasn’t really much to say. We knew that we stood forty five minutes away from achieving the impossible. That we would have to do it with 10 men seemed irrelevant, with our two goal cushion we felt we had the skill, the strength of character, the audacity even, to hold on. Justice would prevail. Yet just three minutes into the half, Ronaldo crumples in a heap in the box with the nearest player, Stephen Caldwell clearly half a yard away. The referee almost delightedly points at the spot, then flourishes a yellow card at the astonished Caldwell, his second of the game, and of course he was off.

Ronaldo himself, that big stupid grin on his cheating bassa face, stepped up to take the kick, arrogantly blasting it goalwards, and Brazil were back in the match. With nine men, we now had one hell of a task of remaining in this match……

[Tyrone the Magazine]

<BLOCKQUOTE class="ip-ubbcode-quote"><font size="-1">quote:</font><HR>I remember watching the highlights at a later date, as the camera panned on me looking totally calm and not celebrating. The commentator said, Redmond looks calm and professional, he knows theres a long way to go. What I was really thinking was, you fecking stupid bassa, now you’ve just gone and made them mad. <HR></BLOCKQUOTE>

What a game... but you see what you get when you put a sunderland player in a world cup final

[Guest]

LET'S GO DARNIT. lol I wanna know if you can hold onto this thing. Love the story so far, KUTGW.

[Peacemaker7]

The Crying Game

One thing was for sure. No matter what happened now, there were going to be a lot of tears shed when this match was finally brought to its conclusion. I decided to I would have to throw on Steven Pressley, to shore up the defence, and also threw on Bob Malcolm to play the holding roll. Off would have to come Gavin Rae and Paul Gallacher. The reason to take Gallacher off instead of Brown was that Brown could more easily play from deep, and this was just going to be a game now where we held on for dear life and tried to take any scraps that came our way.

Brazil, as you would expect, were creating chance after chance, but thanks to a combination of die hard defending, good goalkeeping, poor finishing and an enormous slice of luck, we were holding out. And we did have one or two chances, but usually Scott Brown found himself forward alone, and ended up being surrounded by yellow jerseys. The one time he did get through, Marcos in the Brazlian goal somehow tipped his effort over the bar, and the resultant corner faded to nothing.

Legs were tiring as time ran out, and the clock began to slow down until it was barely moving at all, and everthing seemed to be pointing to helping Brazil out. It seemed almost inevitable that would score, yet perhaps fate was now feeling sorry for all those times she had Scotland in the balls, and no matter how hard Brazil tried, they simply couldn’t breach that wall of blue that was preventing them achieve their hearts desires. Time marched on, and with five minutes to go, with Scott Brown out on his feet, I made one last change, replacing him with Derek Riordan.

The fresh legs up front may have helped, if it hadn’t been for the fact the rest of the team were by now quite a great bit knackered, and so Riordan barely got a touch of the ball. The seconds ticked by in great mocking derision, and then, just as we seemed to have reached the promised land, the fourth official held up his board and my eyes nearly popped out my head as he flashed that the 2006 World Cup Final would last another six leg sapping minutes. Exactly where he had gotten this number from is anyone guess, but mine is he just plucked it out of the air, and at it was at this point I made a not to check if the referee had any Brazilian ancestry.

As the match moved into extra time, the Tartan Army were on the edge of their seats. You could almost hear them praying, you certainly couldn’t hear them singing as they held their collective breaths. Fear and hope clouded the stadium, as Brazil surged forward once more, and two minutes into injury time they won a corner. Ze Roberto trotted over as if he had all the time in the world, floated the ball into the area. A Mass of blue and yellow headed towards the cylindrical object that drifted in from the sky, and the shrill whistle that indicated an infrigemnent. There were more than two bodies on the deck, yet it was not without some degree of utter incredulity that the referee pointed to the penalty spot.

Even the Brazil fans were stunned to silence as the whole of the Scots team surrounded the referee. Of course it was to no avail. Perhaps he had a serious grudge against us, perhaps he had English ancestry and had seen Braveheart once too often. Or more likely he was just an attention seeking bassa. Whatever the reasons, and despite what ever protests we may make, with clock edging past the 93rd minute, Ronaldo stepped up and blasted the ball past a helpless McGregor and the match was all square. We would somehow have to survive another 30 minutes with just nine very tired men, and I could feel in my heart that our dream was over. As a manager there was little I could do now except pray.

The problem was, I didn’t know who to pray to. If there was a God, it was damn certain he hated Scotland…..

[Tyrone the Magazine]

Like I said what a match

[Spav]

I stand corrected on my earlier error regarding the 1958 World Cup Final. That's what happens when you post quickly and try to prove how clever you are.

But that's beside the point. I'm new around here, but the standard of writing in this story is superb. KUTGW

[Guest]

Oh wow...that's a rough way to be denied a WC victory. Heckuva match, can't wait to see who pulls it out.

[Peacemaker7]

Tears For Fears

Looking back, time does help to heal wounds. At that exact moment though, I was so angry that I couldn’t even think straight. It was a good job really we had Walter Smith in the dugout, because my assistant, wee Gordon Strachan wanted to punch the referees lights out, and I was right behind him. It was Walter who managed to calm us down just enough that we were able to put the lynch mob on hold on least. It wouldn’t do the players any good for us to lose the rag, he said, and of course he was right. We had to get prepared for an extra half an hour, although what the hell I could say to them to get them through it was beyond me.

The clock was ticking passed the 96th minutes, and I was beginning to think that the referee had forgotten what time it was, when Andy Webster tried to boot the ball anywhere up the park, just to get it away, but it only landed at the feet of a Brazilian, and a simple lob over the top of the defence found Ze Roberto in acres of space, advancing on the out rushing McGregor. Almost casually, he flicked the ball over the keeper, and all he could do was watch in utter despair as the ball floated down, down, down, into under the crossbar, landing with a thud on the ground, and Brazil had won, no they hadn’t won they had stolen, the World Cup.

I waited on the touchline, expecting the offside flag to appear, for surely Ze Roberto was at least a yard ahead of the defence when the ball was played through. But the flag never came to our rescue, and when, with 96 minutes and 13 seconds on the clock, the referee finally brought the 2006 World Cup Final to a close, it was all over. Our dream had been cruelly and distastefully snatched away from us by a combination of blatant cheating, and down right incompetence. There was no comfort in this moment of absolute despair.

Looking back, time does help to heal wounds. I know that what we achieved back then was nothing short of remarkable. If you had told me when I took over that I would lead Scotland to a World Cup Final defeat against Brazil, I would have taken it. We had no right to expect to beat Brazil, and if they had outplayed us, if they had deserved to win, I would have held my hands up and said well done. But the fact was, the mighty Brazilians, the greatest footballing nation in the World, and need to resort to cheating and gamesmanship, and who knows what else to beat us,

It took us a long time to get the players back up the tunnel, having numbly collected our runners up medals. The trip back to our hotel was in almost total silence, and I cant even remember much of the next few hours, such was the state of shock I was in. Of course we got over it. We could be very proud of our achievements, and when we arrived back in Scotland, the huge crowds waiting to greet us showed us that we had not let anyone down. And yet, I couldn’t help feeling that we should have been coming off the plane with that gold trophy, and the fact is, I felt quite sickened by the whole thing. Three days after arriving home, I handed in my resignation, and prepared to walk away from football forever.

Little was I to know at that point, that football was not about to let me go……..

[BobBev]

Good stuff Stuart - nice to see you back.

[Brian of Nazareth]

bloody buggering b*llocks Hard luck PM. Really built the tension up well if that's any consolation.

[Peacemaker7]

Yes well, you get over it. Now I really like this game on the whole, but it does seem to me I get too many bookings and red cards and penalties against me, and I wouldnt mind if i was playing hard tacking, but Im not.

Oh well, makes a good story I guess.

[HD]

Boo. Bloody Brazilians.

[Terk]

cheating *******s

look forward to seeing where you move onto

[Peacemaker7]

Where Do We Go From Here?

My whole belief system had been shattered. Had it been Uruguay, or Germany we had played, we could have expected that kind of cheating. But not from Brazil, not from the country who epitomized all that was good about football. They had disgraced not just themselves, they had disgraced the whole of the game, and I really did wonder how they could sleep at night. If this was what football had come to, then it could just bugger right off.

Yet the success I had had in the World Cup had not gone unnoticed, and it seemed there were club sides that wanted me to manage them. And once again it was Elizabeth who stepped in to save my sanity, and push me in the right direction. I was ready to walk away from it all, back to being a nobody. But she ‘encouraged’ me to at least look at the job offers on the table, and so I did. And besides, two years ago when I had been a nobody, I didn’t have a family to worry about. And Elizabeth had just told me she was pregnant.

I guess it was the spur I needed, and I looked at the two most attractive offers. Dundee and Villarreal were the sides who were after me, and I had to look at the pro’s and con’s very carefully. Moving to Spain wasn’t out of the question, the biggest problem would be how it would affect the children’s schooling, especially that of Derek who would be starting second year of High School. The twins it didn’t really matter too much, they were young enough to be able to adapt.

Villarreal had spent the previous season in Liga 2, having been relegated, and upon returning to the top flight, had lost their manager in the process. In the few days I spent out there to assess the club, they seemed to have a half decent squad, but La Liga wasn’t an easy place to manage a smaller club in. They were offering me an incredible £17,000 a week, and with a transfer budget of £12M, it was certainly a very tempting proposition.

On the other hand, Dundee had a very limited transfer budget of about two and half millions pounds, and were offering a salary of £3000 a week. The advantage of being in Dundee though was that we would still be in Scotland, and it wouldn’t affect schooling or any other way we lived our lives. We wouldn’t even need to move house as I could easily commute there each day if it came to it. We spent quite a few hours as a family discussing the matter, to see what everyone thought, and although it would mean a lot of upheaval, and a huge culture change, we decided that the conditions and salary on offer from Villarreal were just too good to turn down.

The other huge advantage to moving to Spain, was that we would be out of the limelight of the Scottish press. It would give me more chance to settle as a manager and make my mark. In Scotland, I was a somebody now, and the press wanted a piece of me everywhere I went. In Spain, they wouldn’t be overly interested, and besides I couldn’t speak a word of the language, so I wouldn’t know what they were saying about me!

And so, we packed our bags, sold our house, boarded a plane, and headed for sunny Spain. It was sure to be an incredible adventure……..

[Tyrone the Magazine]

Hard luck PM, but now you may be able to get revenge on a few of those pesky Brazilians, perhaps you should show them what hard tackling is