The mathematics, as they often do in a World Cup third place playoff, offer a peculiar brand of comfort. If, as our man James Humphries so rightly not...
The mathematics, as they often do in a World Cup third place playoff, offer a peculiar brand of comfort. If, as our man James Humphries so rightly notes, Japan batter Sweden this evening in the fight for bronze, then Scotland are not quite dead yet. It is a thought that arrives with all the warmth of a wet blanket at 6am, a desperate clutch at straws for a nation that has spent the last fortnight running on pure adrenaline and the faintest of fumes. This is the beautiful game at its most brutal and its most beautifully irrational. We talk of tactical flexibility, of low blocks and clinical finishing, but what we are really dealing with here is the squalid human business of a comedown. There was a party, you see. Scotland were at it. They drank deep of the group stage, but now GoalZaza is up, the music has stopped, and everyone else has either gone home or is quietly contemplating the mess on the floor. Sweden, for their part, are the friend who is still nursing a solitary beer and pretending the night is young. For the neutrals, this match offers the promise of open, transitional play. Both sides have shown they can hurt you when they commit men forward. Japan's willingness to press high and Sweden's brute strength in the air have all the makings of a classic tournament scrap. But the emotional weight of this fixture is all one way. It is a game of what ifs. For Japan, it is the chance to claim a tangible reward for years of progressive work. For Sweden, it is a night they would rather forget, a bitter pill of a semi final defeat that has left them in the mixer, scrapping for pride. And then there is Scotland. Do not mistake this for a match report; it is a state of the nation address for the desperate. The phrase "running from the comedown" should indeed be the title of the SFA's official documentary. It captures the essence of every team that has ever left a tournament on the outside looking in, hoping that the calculations of a faraway pitch fall in their favour. It is the squeaky bum time of the soul. Will Japan oblige Or will Sweden, with a shrug and a goal, finally kill the last ember of hope for the Tartan Army We are about to find out. Kick off is imminent. The pitch awaits. And somewhere, in a Glasgow living room, a fan is doing the permutations on a napkin. That, right there, is the heart of it all.
