Scottish football was experiencing its biggest week for 10 years. We were playing Italy in 2007 for a place at the Euro finals. A victory and we would qualify, back where we, “The Tartan Army”, belonged. The nation was in a state of unjustified expectation. I treasured my ticket for the match, they were well sought after. I had over many years slept with the ticket under my pillow the night before. A lucky omen – well, sort of, as our national team had a habit of losing.
I have a friend who is a journalist for The Times. I had confided in her my lucky habit and she had printed my secret as a national confessional – it was front page news. The morning before the match listening to Radio Scotland they did the papers’ review.
“The Times reports a fifty year old fan who sleeps with his ticket under his bed the night before for luck”. I immediately recognised my words of wisdom and my name. I grasped the enormity of my task, the national responsibility resting on my shoulders, or indeed under my pillow. What could go wrong?
Scotland of course lost and following my deep depression I concluded that my lucky tradition was at an end. We won the next match; it transpired I had placed my match ticket in a drawer the previous night.
A piece of furniture can’t be lucky surely? We won the next 2 games and it suddenly dawned on me. I had worn a splendid pair of new checked socks. They looked tartan and importantly in the words of The Proclaimers they were capable of “walking 500 miles”.
An away trip to Macedonia beckoned. This involved a flight to Sofia and a six-hour coach journey. Such dedication requires sustenance and with copious amounts of alcohol imbibed I let slip the importance of my Lucky Socks. The bus immediately declared them a national treasure. They needn’t have bothered. A 1-0 defeat in 106 degrees heat, my woollen socks melted, virtually welded onto my feet. On the way back our carry-out beer tasted more like tea.
The bus declared my socks a national disgrace and they were ceremonially dumped at the frontier. I needed a fresh start and purchased some new Lucky Socks. Word was spreading, with fans recognising me and regularly asking for a peek. Social media made them minor stars. I even considered a copyright. I dismissed any thought of a marketing plan as I seemed to be the sole Lucky Socks wearing supporter. What a responsibility.
Our national team was not in the habit of winning regularly and thankfully my socks were not always blamed for our defeats. One particularly heavy 4-0 drubbing in Oslo was a real disappointment. Not winning is one thing, £8 a pint to drown my sorrows was a woollen step too far.
The home game was a “must win” match against Poland. To add fortune and hope I mistakenly decided to wash the socks. Leaving for Glasgow they were damp so I placed them on the back shelf of my car to dry. Once parked I opened the boot, horrifyingly only one “Saint Andrews” sock. Walking to the stadium I was greeted with the usual requests to lift my trouser leg to confirm that Scotland’s luck would be in that evening. I gingerly smiled and lifted my left trouser leg. It turned out that it was the right sock that was required as we conceded a last minute, injury time free kick which resulted in a Polish goal.
We played England on a glorious Saturday afternoon in June. Reverse psychology, I calculated, was needed. I have a really good best pal who is also unfortunately an England fan. I sent him a pair of St George’s Cross socks for his birthday that month. I didn’t however tell him that I had cursed them, both they and my socks had been washed in Loch Lomond.
England scored first – the plan not exactly going as I wanted – but we stunningly scored two late goals. The bonnie bonnie banks of Loch Lomond had thankfully blessed my socks and we were winning 2-1. The curse had surely worked. Well, not quite. England equalised, a 2-2 draw, courtesy of my pals’ lucky Loch Lomond socks.
I have travelled extensively, throughout Europe and as far as Lima and Mexico City. My socks had developed a hole and I darned them with Peruvian Alpaca wool. I wore a local sombrero to the Mexico game – surely a hat and socks partnership would work. Thousands of miles travelled and we didn’t even score a goal in either game. Moscow was amazing, I doubled up the socks for the cold. Moldova was interesting, Armenia a surprise. In Dublin no Blarney Stone for us Scots – my pals kissed my socks.
On behalf of the nation, I have placed an unnecessary responsibility on an organised bundle of wool. More organised than the Scotland defence some might say. Match tickets are now sent directly to my mobile phone, not as comfortable for placing under my pillow.
Scotland recently beat Spain on a glorious night at Hampden, 50,000 fans celebrated singing and dancing a Hampden highland jig. The next morning, I was a guest on Radio Scotland. I was grinning so much I could hardly speak. My Lucky Socks were mentioned some sixteen years after I had been ridiculed live on air. To this day I have felt slightly wronged. I was indeed sleeping with my ticket under my lucky pillow. However, The Times had it wrong; I was forty- nine years old, not fifty.