Henry Winter’s World Cup Diary, Day 14
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Boston/Kansas City
I sent as many pictures of cones in Boston as possible to friends flocking to Scotland v Brazil in Miami, flew to Kansas City where England resume training today and found a friendly sports bar to watch the game. As mood-dampeners go, the Scots’ first errant attempt at defending was a sickener, and it got worse. Vini Jr could have had hat-trick, and the final score could actually have been more humiliating than 3-0. But it’s still deeply damaging, leaving Steve Clarke’s hopes of qualifying with his team to the knockout stages hanging by a thread. I tried to shore up that thread with some supportive words but failed. The heat was on Clarke.
So five thoughts from the safety of KC. First, how many elite-level players does Clarke have to call upon? Scott McTominay, Super John McGinn and Andy Robertson (29, 31, 32 respectfully). Secondly, how many central defenders does Clarke have who are familiar with dealing with forwards of the calibre of Vini Jr? None. Thirdly, Clarke guided Scotland to the World Cup for the first time in 28 years, seeing off Denmark and Greece in qualifying.
But, fourthly, and having noted support and sympathy for Clarke, it would have been nice if Scotland had been less fearful and more positive. Clarke is cautious by nature, defensive as a player and as a coach, and that approach jarred with the joyous risk-taking of many teams of similar size out here. Clarke didn’t read the room, which was full of smaller nations writing ambitious scripts for their representatives. Fifthly, Scotland didn’t represent their fans properly. The musical merry-makers of the Tartan Army are the talk of the World Cup. Bostonians were pining for them like life-lorn teenagers seeing summer flames enjoying themselves elsewhere. How dare they put cones on Florida statues when pulse-racing Bostonians were planning trips to Glasgow. The contrast between the life-affirming joy of Scotland fans and the cheerless nature of much of their team’s football was painful to behold. The World Cup will be a far poorer place without the Tartan Army. It won’t miss their footballers, though. Pity. Clarke really should have seized the chance.
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One of the stranger stats generated in the US media has been the amount of goals an individual player has scored in a particular country. Not against who, but where. So we were respectfully informed that Vini Jr had now scored more goals on US soil than anywhere but Brazil (where he played his club football for Flamengo as well as turned out for his country) or Spain (where he plays for Real Madrid). Gathered with colleagues in a Kansas City sports bar, watching Scotland-Brazil, we struggled to find one reasonable use or justification for this Vini Postcode fact. He’s got four so far this summer in New York/New Jersey, Philadelphia and Miami. This added to the one he scored in the Club World Cup in Philly last year. That’s five. It’s impressive. What’s less impressive is how it possibly could be used to reflect Vini’s prodigious ability. It transcends borders.
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I was in Soweto when South Africa qualified for their first World Cup. I’ve rarely seen such scenes of joy and chaos. We got locked in the FNB Stadium press room for our own safety, not because of any threat of violence but because of the tumult of people outside. They invaded the pitch. They invaded the offices. It was mad. When Phil Masinga scored the goal against Congo on August 16, 1997, I asked him – with some English understatement – whether he was going to celebrate reaching France ’98 with a quiet drink.
Masinga reassured me it would be anything but quiet and suggested I come to the team hotel in Sandton that night to see for myself. I did go to the hotel. I did see for myself that Bafana Bafana could party. I can’t recall much else because it was a lively night, but ever since I followed the fortunes of Masinga, Radebe, Mark Fish and others. Masinga tragically passed away from cancer in 2019. But he helped inspired a generation, currently progressing into the knock-out rounds. Masinga is no long with us but his legacy remains.
Catch up on the rest of Henry Winter’s World Cup Diary here
