retired_manpk1

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!)

retired_jgirl87

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

shannon2007

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

shannon2007

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….

shannon2007

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……

retired_tonytranbg79

<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 :p

shannon2007

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…..

retired_tonytranbg79

Like I said what a match

retired_jgirl87

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. :p

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

shannon2007

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……..