10. Visit to Hampden

The approaches to Hampden Park, the national stadium, had been landscaped in recent months. They now sported beautiful aligned poplars arched like the ceiling of a cathedral akin to a setting one might encounter along Napoleon era rural highways in picturesque France. Tiny scarcely had time to notice the environmental upgrades. He had just had a fortunate escape when his car had brushed a young lassie pushing a pram at a nearby zebra crossing. The presumed teenage single mother had pressed the beg button unexpectedly and ventured forth catching Tiny unawares. Fortunately she pulled back in the nick of time as Tiny helplessly sailed through the crossing. Now as he arrived at the offices of the Scottish Football Association (SFA) Tiny did a mental reset and focused on the matter at hand. He was attending an SFA disciplinary hearing at Hampden to provide the referee’s justification in two cases, one a sending off and the other a dubious penalty award. The former case had become an international incident bringing the Scottish game into ill repute by association. The latter was a more hum drum occurrence the likes of which could show up at virtually any one of these fortnightly tribunals. In this second case Tiny gave his testimony along with video evidence and the player from Haddington Pinks was rightfully sanctioned with no right of appeal. The first case was another kettle of fish.

 

The sending off had occurred in Andalusia when the Scottish officiating crew at the European Championship group qualifier had boldly sent the Azerbaijani goalkeeper for an early shower. The Azeris were now appealing to FIFA to review the game result (a loss, surprise, surprise) and had also sent a high powered lawyer from Baku to Glasgow to plead their cause. Fat chance they could extradite Tiny and his supporting cast back to Azerbaijan but they had excess oil money aplenty so why not spend some of it? The quick exit of Azerbaijan from the competition might readily lead to the downfall of the Central Asian government and the Azeri public by golly was baying for the blood of an Englishman. English, Scottish, whatever. Tiny was on the hot seat. The goalkeeper had held onto the ball for twice the allowable six seconds in the penalty area and had then argued vehemently when an infraction was called leading to a goal against. Hence his banishment. The flabby, stooped Baku lawyer had a face to stop a clock. His English was let’s say porous, full of grammatical errors and leaky as to meaning and implication. The hearing went back and forth and could only be described as a real kerfuffle, although any Scottish legal concession was always a long shot. Ultimately the lawyer returned home empty handed to an ominous fate, having failed to “save face,” unprepossessing as it might be, for his country. He had had no get out of jail free card to play.              

 

Being at Hampden had always been a captivating experience for Tiny since his boyhood. He recalled being taken there by his dad to see Scotland play both Brazil and Portugal in pre-tournament warm up matches immediately prior to the 1966 World Cup. At fifteen years of age he had nonetheless stood head and shoulders on the terraces above most of his fellow Glaswegians who had made the pilgrimage. Boy, had it been a spectacle. Pele had been black gold and Eusebio a revelation, only a couple of weeks away from being a sensation and the talk of the world wide footballing community. So when Tiny exited the hearing rooms he took a passage which led to the empty stands overlooking the field where so much sporting history had unfolded. His footsteps echoed around the silent grounds, the only other audibles were the flap of pigeons’ wings high above the floodlights and the swish of the rotating sprinklers keeping the turf lush. What a contrast from the roiling crowds of game day. Tiny had actually played here twice, both occasions leading to the communal bath tub contaminated by grass and mud and bereft of congratulatory yelps. Then of course he had become one of Scotland’s top referees and he had taken the field in an altogether different role. To-day he took in the tranquil scene for a few minutes then packed away his nostalgia ready to summon it up at some future date. He thought he heard some guffaws and shouts of derision in Portuguese wafting through the air but he pinched himself and decided it was all just the proceeds of an overactive imagination. Onwards and upwards.  

 

Tiny was not through with soccer for the day. After tea he was expected at Bearsden’s El Macombo Event Venue, a onetime snooker hall which on this day was hosting the kick-off to the West of Scotland Subbuteo Tournament. Subbuteo miniature football, where competitors managed their ceramic football figurines by flicking their rounded bases onto the ball, took well to the felt of the converted snooker tables. Table football was as popular as ever despite challenges for the attention of the youth from more technically advanced indoor pastimes such as video games and the wider range of e-sports. Tiny was invited to say a few words at the opening ceremonies. “Yoicks” he exclaimed on the way, “I haven’t rehearsed anything.” He was accustomed to expressing himself with some shrill blasts of his whistle. To actually say a few cogent sentences to an expectant audience was therefore going to be a challenge. He would not likely be able to get away with something limited to 140 characters like the tweets he habitually compiled. What to say? When he arrived at the venue he prayed for some last minute inspiration. Some wag had put up a banner at the self-service snack counter stating “The Lord Helps Those That Help Themselves” so with a rather self-conscious glance around the room Tiny approached the layout amply catered by Save the Dishes. First of all he stuffed his mouth with savouries then he filled his left jacket pocket (lined with a hermetic seal for just such occasions) with some tasty looking cream puffs (which reminded him of Govan’s Jersey Boys by the way). The sight of the puffs somehow put Tiny in mind of poofs and the topical controversy about players coming out of the closet in the Scottish game. Could he expound upon that? No, he felt he would in all probability say something politically incorrect and he did not want to be quoted online the next day. So to avoid putting his foot in it Tiny put the idea on ice. He racked his brains and thought he could make use of an illustration from a book he was reading. Given how keenly the tournament participants competed, Tiny thought he could encourage those who were to find themselves inevitably up against it in the upcoming 48 hours by telling them “if you find yourself going through hell, keep going!” And so with this advice in mind he relaxed and surreptitiously helped himself some more before being called to the podium. He was surprised how easily his thoughts came together when actually he got to speak and after four or five minutes of effluvia, met by polite applause, he regained his seat well satisfied with the novel ideas he had imparted.

 

At the conclusion of the evening, once the first elimination round was in the books, Tiny unveiled the Pickles Trophy to be awarded on the upcoming Sunday afternoon to the new tournament champion. Sponsors had ponyed up to provide the handsome statuette which featured a Billy Elliott type figure pirouetting to slam a golden ball into the net. Pickles, he reminded the audience, was the late basset hound who in 1966 had on his own unearthed under a London bush the stolen Jules Rimet World Cup valued at over a million pounds. Neither a day late nor a dollar short, this acclaimed discovery was made saving the frantic British World Cup organizers and Scotland Yard detectives a major world wide embarrassment.