I never thought the sight of an orange and white traffic cone perched atop a statue of one of America’s founding fathers could fill me with tearful pride, but that’s the World Cup for you.
I was one of an estimated 50,000 Scottish fans who invaded America and started a party that will be talked about for generations. Even after the defeat against Brazil on Wednesday night, Scotland supporters still danced an energetic samba well into the hot and steamy Miami night.
Of course it has been squeaky bum time for the past few days as we sweated it out and waited for the results of other third placed teams, in the forlorn hope of getting through to the next round for the first time ever. Not the way I wanted it to happen when I arrived in the US full of expectation and optimism.
Before a ball was kicked, the Tartan Army first descended en masse on Boston, home of American independence, and were quickly embraced as long lost cousins. Even the overpriced tickets and those ludicrous hydration/advert breaks to sell us more expensive stuff we don’t need could not dampen the sheer delight of Scotland supporters.
I felt something very special in the air and it wasn’t just the fumes from all the booze
