It is almost too much for one man to bear. To witness much of Scotland’s World Cup heartache over the years … Bremner’s sitter in ‘74, the Miller/Hansen collision of ‘82, the Costa Rica catastrophe in Italia 90 and the Morocco mauling which ended our France ‘98 campaign.
These calamities assaulted my eyes in Frankfurt, Malaga, Genoa and St Etienne respectively but how quickly were they forgotten when Messrs McTominay, Shankland, Tierney and McLean put the proud Danes to the sword to secure admission to our first Finals for 28 years.
There was zero intention on my part to head Stateside next month but sometimes football scrambles the brain and, to cut a long story short, suffice to say I will be jetting off in the company of my elder daughter Joanna, her Jambo husband Darren and our oldest granddaughter, 15-year-old Macy.
It will be my fifth sortie to see Scotland on the world stage but my sixth finals — eat your heart out CR7! That stark statistic might lead you to conclude that your correspondent is a football obsessive. This charge is denied but if you decide on a guilty verdict then I will plead insanity. Or an overdose of optimism.
My WC story began just down the road in 1966 when, in the words of Andy Cameron, ‘we didnae qualify’, and, as short-trousered schoolboys, we headed for the Southport caravan site that would be our base for a fortnight of football bliss.
This World Cup odyssey has embraced the mish mash of what life can throw at us, a hat-trick of enduring friendships and enough soccer heartache to fill a skip, compensated by the emergence of a home-spun family battalion of the Tartan Army.
Linda and Jim Hendry (bottom) with (left to right) best man Alistair Gibb, Scotland stars John Blackley, Tommy Hutchison and Kenny Dalglish at their 1974 World Cup HQ in Erbismuhle, West Germany
The 1966 trip was shared with the first of these lifelong friends, my oldest pal Grahame whose company I still enjoy following Dundee FC home and away. Back then the Beatles’ latest release, Paperback Writer, provided the soundtrack to our adventure. The Fab Four were another teenage obsession after seeing the Liverpool lads surrounded by Screaming Sisters in Dundee’s Caird Hall a short while before. The Screaming Sisters, incidentally, were a family reality and not a trend-setting all-girl band.
But back to the football – what wonders were in store for us! Old Trafford and Goodison Park the venues and Brazil, Bulgaria, Hungary and Portugal the teams.
When Pele was roughed up right from the word go by the vulgar Bulgars and eventually kicked out of the competition, Eusebio stepped in as GOAT contender of that era. But it was the magical Magyars, in their cherry red jerseys, white shorts and red and green sox who mesmerised our resident panel of experts.
Florian Albert, Ferenc Bene, Janos Farkas captured our hearts and we were convinced they might have lifted the Jules Rimet trophy had they boasted a better than average goalkeeper. Hungary’s 3-1 win over Brazil under the lights at damp and drizzly Goodison remains an all-time favourite game.
With Portugal and Hungary progressing there was one more treat in the offing before we headed back up the fledgling M6. The non-stop runners of shock troops North Korea, the scalps of Italy dangling from their belt, were 3-0 up against Portugal in the last 16 tie but Eusebio rubber-stamped his reputation as he shifted gears and single handedly bossed his team-mates to a 5-3 triumph.
Pele is helped off the field at Goodison after receiving rough treatment from Portugal
We all know how WC ‘66 ended and I hope that most fellow Tartan Army enthusiasts might applaud my decision to forfeit a ticket awarded by ballot for the Final because of a fear that THEY might win it!
If I’d known Denis Law was golfing that afternoon I’d have happily walked back to Manchester to carry his clubs.
The next adventure was to West Germany in 1974 but first a ‘problem’ had to be circumvented. Marriage loomed to my sweetheart Linda and, while there was no great rush if you get my drift, the wedding had to be fitted in to a busy summer schedule. Talk about a fixture glut!
The solution was a World Cup honeymoon which also accommodated the second of the aforementioned lifelong friendships, another DFC diehard and my best man Alistair, sadly no longer with us.
Our big day clashed with the opener against Zaire – bad planning was deemed responsible in the subsequent inquest – and the 2-0 win against the unknowns from deepest Africa was lauded as job done by all wedding guests. It transpired not to be enough though and our unbeaten heroes, as good a Scotland side as I have seen in my lifetime, were out on goal difference.
A day trip to the Scotland HQ at Erbismuhle in the hills above Frankfurt (can you imagine that happening today) gave us the opportunity to sit and chat with our heroes, Linda grabbing her chance to play crazy golf with her football heart-throb, Dens Park goalie Thomson Alan, admittedly a good-looking dude.
Linda and Jim Hendry get set for their 1974 honeymoon at the World Cup
For me this proved a first encounter with Hibernian’s John Blackley who, in later life, has become a great pal. Sloop had earned the most notable of his seven caps against the Africans and was desperately unlucky not to appear again in the Finals, the suspicion lingering that the Anglos in the squad lobbied boss Willie Ormond for Manchester United’s Martin Buchan to be preferred.
Obviously the honeymoon cavalcade made it to Frankfurt to see the stalemate against Brazil, albeit battling the effects of strong German beer, followed by the 1-1 draw with Yugoslavia in which my all-time Scotland hero, Joe Jordan scored our last-minute equaliser.
This World Cup adventure over, Alistair made his way home and Mrs Hendry and I donated our handful of tickets for the next stage matches to a British Army base before heading into the West German countryside to enjoy the rest of our honeymoon.
Next up was 1982 and a flying visit to Spain to see the 2-2 draw against the Soviet Union in Malaga when Willie Miller and Alan Hansen went for the same ball with calamitous results.
At least we witnessed another brilliant Jordan goal and the trip afforded the chance to chat with Denis Law, another hero, at Madrid Airport on the outward journey. But soon the Tartan Army were in retreat once more despite the impressive eight-goal group tally.
Jim Hendry (right) takes in the sights ahead of Scotland’s World Cup loss to Costa Rica in 1990
By this time we were a family of five, with Louise, child number four yet to make an appearance, and Spain 82 consoled me in the knowledge that our two boys, Richard and Alan, had been bitten by the football bug as we watched the later stages unfold.
It stood to reason, therefore, that Italia 90 would be a must so me, the boys and old school pal Grahame set off by road for the delights of the Italian Riviera.
What a time we had in this beautiful part of Italy marred by the ignominy of losing out to the unknowns of Costa Rica in game one, then being suckered by Brazil in one of the worst games ever seen in the concrete monstrosity that was the Stadio delle Alpi in sodden Turin.
At least the 2-1 win over Sweden had given us hope but our fate had been all but sealed by the loss to the Central Americans in our opening game.
As usual, the Scots were there in huge numbers that day and, despite the glorious weather, the mood was sombre as we trudged back to the seafront and our parked car.
The Italians, unaware that we were not hooligans, had imposed an alcohol ban so we four had sought refuge and a cool drink in a quiet cafe as the crowd dispersed.
Just then the cafe doors burst open, two foot soldiers, kilts, military jackets, feathered caps and all, entering, all smiles, each with a Miss Genoa 1990 finalist on his arm.
‘Well that wasn’t so bad was it,’ said one of our foot soldiers obviously in the hope that Costa Rica hero Juan Cayasso wasn’t to be the only one to score that day!
Fast forward to France 98 and another road trip was planned – this time to St Etienne for the must-win Morocco encounter. By this time our boys were fully aware that following Dundee and Scotland would never see them categorised as glory hunters.
Another fabulous trip ensued although there were moments of panic; notably when yours truly discovered that steak Tartare comprised raw mince with a raw egg on top, then again when no-one in a sleepy northern France village could explain to us in English what was unleaded petrol and what was diesel. Neither of these problems will ever confront me again but one doesn’t suppose it matters.
St Etienne on the eve of the game was a magical place – the city square was awash with tartan and the half dozen or so pubs were rammed full.
Morocco’s Salaheddine Bassir puts Scotland to the sword at the 1998 World Cup in France
The Hendry clan get ready for another Hampden trip to cheer on Scotland
It would have to be said that Dan Petrescu’s winning goal for Romania against England, live on every pub telly, added to the anticipation and atmosphere. Wha’s like us? Bring on Morocco!
Twenty four hours later and that all-too-familiar sombre mood was back after the 3-0 humbling by the North Africans.
We didn’t even have the comfort of a hard luck story, this mantle being claimed by our opponents who were also homeward bound after two late goals by Norway against Brazil saw the Scandinavians through to the last 16.
Bizarrely, Morocco were fellow guests at our budget hotel on the outskirts of town and their French manager, Henri Michel, was dignity personified as we sympathised over a late-night beer.
Once again the imagination is stretched – a competing team at a budget hotel would have FIFA president Gianni Infantino choking on his prawn sandwich!
That will be the last time Scotland let me down, I mused, but the unrelenting enthusiasm of family foot soldiers brought me back to the ranks of the Tartan Army. And how can I thank them as we enjoyed some brilliant Hampden occasions over the Steve Clarke era, culminating in that fabulous night last November, Kieran Tierney’s goal in particular pumping euphoria through my veins, as our family battalion fell over each other in ecstasy.
Will that feeling be replicated in Boston on June 14 – our wedding anniversary by the way – when the no-hopers of Haiti stand in our way? As the song goes, We’ll be Coming Down The Road so we’ll find out soon enough.
