The Moment Time Stood Still

23rd November 2025

Scotland were back in the lead! They just had to hold on for a few minutes, as a nation screamed for the referee to blow his bloody whistle. It was already supposed to be over, but until he blew, we knew that everything could still go horribly wrong. This was, after all, Scotland.

Then Kenny McClean got the ball. He ambled towards the halfway line.

“Just hold onto it,” I shouted, pointlessly, at the telly.

“Take it to the corner flag,” the manager gestured.

“Shoot!” cried out a commentator, who could see something that we could not.

And in that final moment, of that final game, of our best chance of getting to the World Cup Finals…he launched the ball.

And as it left Kenny McClean’s beautiful left foot, the ball seemed to hang in the Glasgow night sky, as all time stood still.

In that infinite moment, I thought back…

Back over that entire, ridiculous night, attempting to watch the football while also celebrating Lois’ birthday. My family indulging my nonsense, my celebrating in the restaurant on witnessing Scott McTominay’s moment of acrobatic brilliance. Screaming in frustration on the train home, as Scotland squandered their lead. Making it home with the score still 1-1 and preparing myself for another inevitably disappointing denouement.

Back further. To 1998. I was 28 years old - half my lifetime ago – on a hilarious trip to Bordeaux to see Scotland in their last World Cup. I’ve had many golden moments in my life since then, but when it comes to the World Cup – I have only experienced the bitterness of Scottish absence. 28 years of wondering if we’d ever see Scotland in a World Cup again.

Back further, to 1978. Ally’s Tartan Army. The excitement, the belief, my 8-year-old certainty that Scotland were indeed the greatest football team. Then discovering that Andy Cameron may have overstated the case a little, Archie Gemmill’s moment of genius notwithstanding. I cried when Scotland got knocked out.

Back even further, to the previous year. I was 7, watching Scotland against Wales. My first proper memory of a big match on TV.  In the final minutes - another Kenny, Dalglish - my hero, scored a brilliant goal that made sure that Scotland qualified for the World Cup. I cried that night too.   

All these memories roared back, the decades of disappointment, but also the moments of pure, unadulterated joy.

And when time unstopped, the ball came down from the Glasgow sky, seeming to duck and swerve, before landing in the Danish goal.

I did not cry this time. I laughed. At the ludicrous brilliance of the moment.  Because that doesn’t happen with Scotland. But this time, it did.

These Scottish players, carrying their own back stories of loss, of setback, and of redemption, had given all of us who love football a night that we will talk about forever – a summer to plan, a moment to rejoice, and a feeling that only football can give.