The words ‘bucket list’ are used often by people of my generation. Perhaps more regularly by men than women, and probably – as in the following case – to justify a rash decision or an exorbitant expense that would otherwise be considered foolhardy, or hugely self-indulgent. Scotland’s qualification for only their third major finals since 1992 prompted the David F Ross list to be exhumed and quickly assessed. Having done so, it dawned on me that, buried way down on page eight, ambition #137 on my Things-To-Do-Before-I-Snuff-It itinerary was to watch Scotland’s national football team take part in a major tournament overseas. When it subsequently emerged that we would be opening the entire proceedings with a match against the hosts, Germany, in Munich – a city I’m very familiar with – ambition #137 shot up the charts with indecent haste like it was a repackaged, reissued single cashing in on the sudden death of a much-loved musical icon. Number One. With a bullet.

For once, Scotland’s passage to the finals wasn’t a tense rollercoaster of bitten-fingernail emotions. An unprecedented run of early wins – fifteen points from the first five games – masked some performance issues (we’ll return to those later) but the points were in the bag. Confidence was high. Advanced Tartan Army plans for a peaceful, joyful invasion of Germany were in motion before the arithmetic confirmed our qualification. The only surprising thing about this campaign was my own sudden determination to be there in person to witness its conclusion. In similar circumstances from previous eras, I had no such desire. Delighted though I was for our small nation of optimistic, kilted dreamers to be arranging memorable expeditions to Argentina, Mexico, Spain, and France, I had no wish to be amongst them, content to soak up the biased pre-match hyperbole from a comfortable sofa. No need for a demoralising return sat for days on the rusting wheel-arch of a stripped-out ice-cream van or jammed horizontally into the claustrophobic shelf space of aul’ Hughie’s ’72 VW Campervan.

This time, I’d be travelling in the style to which I’ve too easily become accustomed. Courtesy of my son, Nathan, whose employment with the SFA had seen me accompany him to most of the group matches, I gained a seat on a direct flight chartered by the organisation, along with hotel accommodation and ticket for the opening match. None of this free, I should add; merely an opportunity to take his place in the ‘staff and player’s families first’ queue, despite being neither. And, so, Scotland jersey purchased and packed, EURO 2024 fan app downloaded, off I went to support my country, with – if reports are to be believed – close to a quarter of a million of my compatriots.

Part 1: The Journey – The M77 north from Ayrshire crossing the Eaglesham Moor is a snaking artery of unpredictability. Without warning or apparent cause, it can become clogged and impenetrable. I’ve traversed this road almost every working day for nearly forty years. I know enough about its barbed sense of humour to know that its most sadistic tendencies are usually saved for the days when you need to catch a plane somewhere. A flight time of 10am is reasonable but on this notable day I’m taking no chances. It’s a Thursday morning, the schools are still on, and it might be expected that many travelling to Germany to follow Scotland will begin that journey at the same time as me. In anticipation, I wake early on the 13th June. I’m up and out and on the strangely subdued road to Hell before 7am. But you can’t win with an opponent as duplicitous as the M77, and I find myself sitting in front of a Glasgow Airport coffee having checked in and cleared a sparsely populated security before ten past seven. Three full hours to waste.

When finally boarded, the great and the good of Scottish Football’s governing body are seated front to back. Also spotted, a famous Scottish rugby international, a current Scottish MSP, a musician, two fellow writers, and, judging by the names on the backs of their Scotland tops, the extended families of several of the squad. As the plane prepares to take off, my imagination does likewise. If something happened to us, how would the media react? What would be the hierarchy in the roll-call of deceased importance were we to crash? Would the tabloids headline with the rugby player, or the SFA chiefs? Would The Guardian favour the musician or the writers? The televised news would surely opt for the family angle. If we were to crash, but survive, washing up on a remote island, who would take control? Would natural aptitudes prevail? Would the blazered officiators set the rules for our future survival? Would the writers collaborate over our new constitution? Could the musician compose our anthem, while the politician became our public face? Or would the tensions between civility and chaos lead to our inevitable capitulation as a utopian society? I begin to wonder if the pastry I consumed a couple of hours prior had been laced with something more hallucinatory than cinnamon.

We land safely, and the dark deliberations of the flight disappear, replaced by a mounting excitement for the 48 hours to come. The smile is swiftly wiped off the face of this atypical enthusiasm when the baggage takes almost two hours to finally spew onto a Munich airport carousel. I calculate we had travelled the 1200 miles in less time than the baggage had taken to cross 120 metres of tarmac. Still, we are here; a small, polite, and – as regards some – high-ranking delegation of the Tartan Army.

Part 2: The Atmosphere

Having been deposited at one of the three hotels chosen by the SFA for those in their charter, I ditch the formal jacket and polo shirt that I wrongly suspected I might need to blend in as an official SFA hanger-on. Out come the five S’s: shorts, sandals, sunglasses, suncream, Scotland top, and off I go, heading to the city centre for a rendezvous with an old German friend.

Between 2017 and 2019, my first three books were published in translation by Heyne Hardcore, an imprint of Random House. Heyne’s head honcho, Markus Naegele, lives in Munich, and we’d spent good times in the city, before book tours took us across Germany and deeper into southern Bavaria. I’m meeting Markus and his two friends at the Paulhaner Nockherberg over the Isar river on the south-eastern quarter of the city. As the tram takes the short journey from Karlplatz, the number of dark blue shirts diminishes. If the Scots had already begun to colonise Marianplatz, Au-Haidhausen has remained predominantly white-shirted. But it matters little as everyone is incredibly friendly and welcoming, going out of their way to say hello and to chat. When I’ve been in Munich previously I considered the Bavarian identity to be like the Scottish one. Or at least the ‘hail fella, well met’ one we would want our associative characteristic to be.

As we drink beers with bigger, blonder heads than Colin Hendry, Markus and his friends admit that they aren’t huge football followers. But they all know enough about Bayern’s unusually bereft season to have formed an opinion about its impact on the national side.
‘Expectations aren’t high,’ Markus admits. The German team hasn’t been in great form, and an ongoing debate about the goalkeeping position seems likely to see the out-of-form Manuel Neuer starting as opposed to the supporters’ preference, Barcelona’s Marc-André ter Stegen. I mull over our own goalkeeping options but decide not to align Craig Gordon’s omission from our squad as a similar conundrum. I’m asked about our chances the following night and blurt out the rallying-call of the ludicrously hopeful fan.
‘Aye, Germany rarely start tournaments well. They’re always slow out of the blocks. I think we’ve got a good chance.’
This brings polite nods from the three Germans. They are no doubt thinking that whilst this might be true of their country, Scotland rarely start tournaments at all. However, they indulge my irrational optimism and suggest that a scoring draw could be the most likely outcome; a result, they agree, that would be a decent one for both teams.

I leave them to their foot-tall clay steins and head back west, hoping to sample a bit of the late evening atmosphere in the city centre. As might be anticipated, you can hear it long before you see it. Singing, piping, drumming … a mounting cacophony of noise rising above the Gothic spires of The Frauenkirche. Turning into Marianplatz, the sight is wondrous. It’s a carpet of navy, punctuated by Saltire flags and the Lion Rampant. My breath is taken, and it’s impossible not to get swept up in a glorious form of national fervour of which I’ve always been wary. I’m naturally proud to be Scottish, but I’m also an internationalist. At a time when national and cultural identity is being abused and manipulated by those with malign, divisive agendas, my desire to be here at this tournament is to celebrate being both, simultaneously. A fiercely partisan footballing attitude can co-exist with the joy of sharing an inclusive human experience with others who feel similarly about their teams. Isn’t that what sport is for?

Part 3: The Game

The day of the match. One we’d surely never forget. It’s written in the stars, I feel. Our first ever progression beyond the group stage of a major football finals begins here in Munich, tonight, at the breathtaking Allianz Arena. But first, I’ll be meeting up with my son and his three friends. An early morning text alerts me that they’ve finally made it to Munich. In contrast to my short, direct, uneventful journey here, they have endured an arduous twenty-four-hour odyssey through four countries that would’ve made Phileas Fogg admit defeat and turn back, disconsolate and forlorn. Delayed flights, cancelled trains, rerouted buses all feature. Since my seat on the plane here was ostensibly Nathan’s staff place, I feel momentarily humbled, but then the memories of past parental sacrifices flood in and any guilt quickly assuages. This is my reward, I tell myself.

Since Nathan and I have tickets to the game (his pals don’t) we agree to meet out near the Olympiastadion, where the largest Fan Zone has been sited. The four appear, upbeat and sprightly, and carrying a crate of beer between two. The fifteen minute walk to the Olympiapark is conducted in glorious sunshine. Their collective mood of hopeful confidence undimmed, and I too luxuriate in the warm glow of anticipation. We are treading emotional paths that multitudes have walked before us. The heart rules the head in these wonderful hours before a ball is kicked. This time it will be different. This time is our time. We have a settled squad with close relationships, we’re told, like that of a club side. No prima donnas: our manager, Steve Clarke wouldn’t allow that. The team picks itself, we reason, not acknowledging that the modern game is breeding 70-minute players and that fifteen or sixteen of similar quality are now necessary to see any game out. We avoid confronting the loss to injury of our first and second choice right-backs. And the unavailability of a young Scottish midfielder who has set Serie A alight this season. And the heartbreaking withdrawal of Lyndon Dykes, injured in a last-minute training session before the squad departed for their base in Garmisch-Partenkirchen.

Negativity is banished. Positivity is in the ascendant. And when we enter the Fan Zone, with 30,000 supporters populating the grassy bowl of the park’s natural amphitheatre, I begin to think anything is possible. I become imbued with the irrational logic of hundreds of thousands of Scottish football fans down the ages. A draw with Germany – they always start tournaments slowly, remember? A win over Switzerland – Toblerone, Euthanasia, and Neutrality; that front three won’t trouble us. And then we could coast it against Hungary. They’ll be out and heading home by that point anyway. Maybe even play our fringe squad players in the final group stage game to give the key ones a rest. Because if we want to be in with a chance of winning the whole thing … etc etc etc.

Nathan and I leave the phenomenal atmosphere of the Fan Zone just as the musical entertainment ramps up. AC/DC played the previous night, leaving an excitable Ally McCoist in apparent Instagram disbelief. I’m not sure who was lined up for the pre-match headline slot, but a phalanx of blacked-out SUV’s head up the incline to the backstage zone as we pass it en route to the rail station. Calvin Harris? Lulu? Boney M? We briefly indulge the notion that remaining here, watching the game on a giant cinema screen with this astonishing crowd of Scottish and German fans all mixing in together might be better than being in the ground. But then we wouldn’t have the opportunity to say, ‘We were there!’ when history is inevitably made on the pitch.

German efficiency. A country that runs strictly to timetable. A rail infrastructure that makes Britain’s look like the wooden tracks of a child’s Thomas The Tank Engine starter set. There’s little evidence of it tonight, though, on the way out north to Fröttmaning. Thousands of us have presumably had the same idea: get out to the ground early and avoid the rush … in the process, creating the rush. Five packed trains pass us as we edge our way closer by a foot each time to the edge of the platform. ‘It’ll be a miracle if no-one falls onto the lines,’ I say to Nathan, as the pressure behind us builds, and everyone on the platform begins to resemble those discs on Tipping Point.

We make it to the front of the line. A train stops. Its doors open but no-one is getting out. Those at the back of the platform push forward, and we somehow seem to have been propelled onto the edge of the footplate. Three of us make it inside as those already in there groan. It takes five minutes for the train’s occupants to inhale sufficiently to allow the doors to close. Once they do, there’s nowhere to move. There’s nothing that’s not alive to hold on to. Sardines have left John West canning factories in more comfort. I find myself pressed against a tall man with bare skin and I’m forced to contemplate the uncomfortable choice of touching his back with my hands or letting his perspiring body angle backwards until it leans against me. Once in the tunnel, the carriage is an unbearable sauna. If the dripping sweat of everyone on board could be collected, bottled, and congealed, I’m sure it could form the sculptures of several new people.

Three stops on, and many have had enough. The defiant singing of ‘We hate the English more than you,’ has stopped. Worryingly, frantic calls for water are heard from further down the train. During a prolonged wait at an unremarkable station, a handful of sufferers push and squeeze their way off, including, much to my relief, ‘Taps Aff’ Man. Eventually, we are gushing out of the train onto the stadium’s platform like water from a burst pipe. That’s the worst over, I reassure myself.

The Allianz Arena shines brightly on the horizon. Glowing white like a massive inflatable ring of patterned panels. It’s an impressive site. I bore my young companion with some informed nonsense about the stadium’s Swiss architects, Herzog and de Meuron. But he’s miles away. Awestruck by the surprisingly simple beauty of something so utilitarian. We queue (again) taking pictures of the structure from every conceivable angle. Entry first, past security. Then food. Then the electronic ticketing system that still manages to amaze me. The tickets ‘dropped’ into my phone only a few hours before kick-off, and it strikes me that if climate change doesn’t end civilisation first, it could well be a prolonged worldwide mobile phone network outage, so utterly dependent have we become on them. The phone also conveys news of the starting line-ups, and the first raised eyebrow of the trip. No Billy Gilmour. I consider this a potential error of judgement, but then I’m not the manager and no-one will interrogate (or praise) me afterwards for my decision-making. So I check myself and resume a respectful level of trust.

The stadium seems small from the outside. But its signature panels are deceptively large. Inside, the arena is simultaneously cavernous yet somehow intimate … if that’s not an obvious contradiction. Seventy thousand people are wrapped around the pitch edge in a way that feels not unlike Glasgow’s Hydro. We reach our seats. They offer fantastic views of the action from a mid-level to the right and facing the technical areas. I nod to those seated next to me. An older couple and a younger female between them. The older man is dressed in full kilt and traditional Scottish regalia. A deflated set of bagpipes are between his legs. My heart sinks slightly. To these ears, even the most accomplished player struggles to make this instrument sound anything other than a brutal feline massacre. I hear the older lady complain of a bad back and the girl between them commiserates, suggesting it’s likely to be a standing type of experience.

The sound builds towards kick-off. A troupe of enthusiastic youngsters gyrate and tumble about the pitch, and flags of the participating countries are unfurled. Flames and fireworks burst into the night sky and before we know it, our destiny has finally arrived. In one last amazing spectacle before the anthems, the stadium announcer asks us to hold up large rectangles of coloured paper on his count. The Scots don’t seem to hear this instruction and we hold them up immediately. A fantastic Saltire TIFO is the outcome, and it is an incredible sight. Unfortunately, the Tartan Army are premature, and by the time television is ready for the display, most of the blue and white has been scrunched up and lobbed down the rakes. The origami skills needed to glide a piece of folded paper from the upper tiers of this incredible arena and see it land on the pitch are in evidence. Several make it. All cheered by expectant Tartan Army veterans, whose lungs let loose on a spine-tingling Flower of Scotland. The emotion of this, as I stand next to my son, an arm around each other’s shoulders as the free ones punch the air, takes me aback. I’m unprepared for it, and I can feel tears welling up for reasons that I can’t quite fathom. Maybe it’s the sharing of this specific moment with him; this memory that I never had the chance to share with my own father. I don’t know, and perhaps it’s better not to theorise too much over it. It’s only a game after all.

And the game is over before we know it. And most certainly before the 90-plus minutes. The older woman next to me has her fears allayed. The Scotland fans spend most of the match seated, with little to get us out of them. The old lad’s bagpipes lay winded until, around the 20^th minute, and 2-0 down, he ‘bags’ them, and my worst fears are allayed. Germany are magnificent. Toying with us. We struggle to string three passes together, and those that do end up pushed wide, sometimes to Robertson, but more often to Ralston who can’t cope with the relentless pressing of the host nation.

‘Gilmour should’ve started,’ I say to my son, who agrees. But in truth he would’ve made little difference. We’d been lulled into a false sense of security by that lightning start to the qualifying matches, but if you examined them closely we benefitted from instances of unusually good fortune. Beating Spain 2-0 at home was amazing, but we caught them in something of a transitional phase. A new manager, an unexpected starting line-up, and the omission of anticipated first-team regulars. Surfing the Hampden Tsunami to a win over a sodden and disgruntled Georgia, and then digging it out with two added-time goals away to Norway led us, I think, to believe we were suddenly unbeatable. The subsequent friendlies against admittedly better teams brought us back down to earth but that winning run had ended. Our mentality was a little less assured, and we struggled to recapture the belief of the early qualifying games.

Part 4: The Aftermath

A 5-1 defeat in the opening game. A demoralising performance. Very little that was positive to take from the game, beyond the realisation that Germany are a world-class side who may well go on to win the tournament. Their front-line – Wirtz, Havertz and Musiala – would walk into any of the teams in the competition. What we would give to have a retiring Toni Kroos play for Scotland. When Julian Nagelsmann looks to the bench, he sees Leroy Sane or Thomas Muller or Niclas Füllkrug. When Steve Clarke looks to his, he sees Kenny McLean or Ryan Jack or Lewis Morgan.

But, in the world of the unrequited optimist, you can never stay down for too long. We didn’t expect to win this first game. Didn’t expect to lose it so badly either, but it was Germany, and they always start tournaments strongly, don’t they? There are two much easier games remaining. Four points was the pre-tournament target. No team has previously secured four group points and not qualified. We’ll be fine. The team and the manager will have learned from this sobering experience. Gilmour and Shankland will most likely start the next game. We’ll have a better shape about us. We’ll make earlier and more impactful substitutions. And the Swiss? Well, they’re no great shakes, eh? But whilst there is comfort in the myopic irrationality of our post-match analysis, a nagging reality persists. We might not be the best at playing football, but we know we’re the best at supporting those of us who do. But does the ‘No Scotland, no party’ mindset do us any good? We often seem content to simply be there, rather than demand – like, say, Denmark or Croatia – a level of performance and participation that belies our population or our financial strength as a domestic league. Shouldn’t we urge the custodians of our game to be more innovative in the way that limited finance is invested in the grass roots infrastructure of our game? A long-term vision with tangible, measurable targets attached to an inclusive attitude of growing the game from the youngest levels up. It’s a hugely complex consideration, I appreciate. And the last thing it needs is sofa-based philosophers like me urging a new plan or a new strategy. But then again, the game’s all about opinions, isn’t it?

The day after the night before in Munich is a bit more sedate, but only because it’s colder and overcast. Rain is on its way. But that undiminished hopefulness remains. There’s always the next game. Then the one after that. And with a little bit of fortune, maybe another one. Then who knows?

I wander around the shops, visiting a couple of places that had hosted my book launches in the years prior. It’s a great city, I remind myself. Very Glaswegian. I’m so glad I had the opportunity to be here again. And as I mentally map the route back to the tram stop, I literally bump into Jurgen Klopp. I look up, apologise, and manage to ask him if he enjoyed the game last night.
‘Yes, I did,’ he says, and those magnificent teeth reveal themselves. I’m like a ship’s captain emerging though a thick haar, suddenly faced with the White Cliffs of Dover.
‘Aye … ah didnae,’ I tell him. He laughs and walks on. I glance back and see him attract a crowd, mobile phones pointed and recording, people calling out his name, selfies being requested. I dwell on how intrusive it all is. For me, the comforting shadows of anonymity await.

I leave my son and his mates in Munich. They are preparing to travel on to Cologne and that next vital game against Switzerland. My journey is at an end. I bid my sanguine goodbyes to the same dignitaries I flew out with only two days earlier. The rest of the tournament will, for me at least, be observed from the comfort of my living room. Yet regardless of the outcome, a part of me will wish I were there in Cologne, and then again in Stuttgart. And, fingers crossed, in another future place where bucket-list dreams come true.