La Coupe du Monde Féminine

#OurGirlsOurGame. Inclusive and supportive, yet assertive and unapologetic; the hashtag adopted by the Scottish Football Association for the Women’s World Cup was well-pitched and used widely throughout the tournament. It’s also directly at odds with the shameful history of that organisation’s treatment of the women’s game. Perhaps the nadir in this ignominious record was in 1971, when UEFA’s 32 members voted on a motion to incorporate women’s football within their associations. Only one country voted against. Wha's like us?

Rose Reilly didn’t wait for anyone’s permission or blessing to play the game she loved. Shunned by her homeland, talent and single-mindedness took her to Italy and she won the World Cup. As midfielder Leanne Crichton tweeted in the aftermath of the lassies’ inaugural appearance at the competition 35 years later, “We don’t play this game for acceptance, we play this game because it’s ours.” When the team took to the field for their final group match versus Argentina, in front of a crowd of 28,000 at the iconic Parc des Princes, it was tempting to view the moment as the culmination of that long struggle to claim rightful ownership. It’s not that prejudice and barriers don’t persist, just that they are increasingly irrelevant, to be ignored or ridiculed. After a disappointing start to the tournament, Scotland had much to prove, but only in the context of qualifying from the group, against the standards they had set themselves, not to any bigots who would question or mock their right to be footballers. 

“No Scotland, no party” has become a recurring refrain following the men’s team in recent campaigns, as fans make light of our repeated failure to qualify. You could hear it in the streets of west Paris on match-day, only this time the cry marked our triumphant return to the fiesta. A piper led a procession along the boulevard towards the stadium, flanked by a familiar yet noticeably different Tartan Army. More women and families but still lots of retro shirts, kilts and regalia. Many of the same songs could be heard comin’ down the road. Doe, a deer, a female deer. 

Those present bore witness to a watershed moment in Scotland’s cultural history, but for many the occasion also had a deeply personal resonance. As we approached the stadium, I struck up a conversation with a middle-aged, kilted man with “Ross 13” on the back of his jersey. He revealed he was the father of Jane, the top scorer in the squad, and I echoed his disappointment that she wasn’t starting the match. When I mentioned I lived in the flat above her in first year of uni, he joked that he didn’t want to hear stories of any Murano Street antics. I don't think he had nothing to worry about - I remember Jane being a dedicated, teetotal athlete, even at 18, while combining football with her studies. Her story is indicative of the commitment and sacrifices the players have made, not all of whom have always enjoyed the luxury of being a full-time professional. 

It wasn’t only for the families of the players that this moment was significant. Scotland qualifying brought great delight and pride for my mum, a committed feminist and lifelong football lover, so it was special to attend two games with her and my Dad. It neatly paralleled another family holiday in France in 1998, the last time Scotland’s men qualified, and one of my formative footballing experiences. While I wasn’t able to join my Dad for the opening game against Brazil, I tagged along for a distinctly less glamorous affair in Nantes. Aged 8 and suffering from a bout of flu, I threw up at a French policeman’s feet before Yugoslavia’s drab 1-0 win over the USA. 

The match in Paris 21 years later would leave me feeling sick in a different way. Yet the early signs were promising. There had been positive noises coming from the Scotland camp in the build up to the match. Recalling Faddy’s legendary strike on the same ground 12 years before offered a good omen. After a tight opening, Scotland got the breakthrough thanks to Kim Little, announcing her arrival at the tournament after subdued performances against England and Japan. By the time Jenny Beattie headed in the second early in the second half, Scotland were playing with zest and belief. Little was now dictating the play while Argentina struggled to cope with Caroline Weir’s guile and vision. The imperious Erin Cuthbert, another who had shown only flashes of her talent in the previous two games, suddenly looked unshackled, bursting past defenders at ease. When she netted the third and the girls celebrated joyously in a huddle of resplendent pink, the tension dissipated. The night promised success - redemption, even. It was a strange feeling.

The prospect of Scotland progressing at the tournament felt seismic not just in its own right, but as a corrective to a wider malaise at international level. The women play for their own careers and their own achievements, so endless comparisons to the guys will likely mean little to them, but it’s clear the nation carried hope of a much-needed tonic for the repeated failures of the men’s team. After three decades of habitually qualifying but underachieving at showpiece events, followed by a generation in the wilderness, was a Scotland side about to make it to the knockout stages of a major competition for the first time ever? At 3-0 up with 15 minutes to go, even the possibility of going out on goal difference seemed unlikely. Lingering ghosts were set to be banished. The comical hubris of Ally’s Army now over 40 years past and consigned to national folklore. We’d really shaken them up, even if we knew we wouldn’t win the World Cup.

Appropriate, then, that it was at the hands of “the Argentines” that Scotland would endure their monumental collapse. Just as we glimpsed a brighter, more confident face, the same old ugly features were exposed. When Argentina pulled one back my first thought was how it would affect our goal difference. We looked a little tired and vulnerable, yet Shelley Kerr made no changes to shape or personnel. By the time substitutions were made, we were in crisis mode, hanging on at 3-2. The final few minutes rivaled any Scottish sporting calamity of yore. It was replete with a 2019 upgrade through the farcical VAR, as if the FIFA apparatchik had doled out this dystopian punishment to restore a threatened natural order. At first the tackle in the box was waved away, before a predictable and lengthy delay as the referee eventually decided to consult the video. Another excruciating pause followed before the inevitable awarding of the penalty. But Lee Alexander saves it! Relief. No, something’s not quite right. The crowd are confused. The players are agitated. Another VAR consultation. Re-take. Goal. 3-3. At least there’s still 4 minutes of injury time, right? No - full-time. Scotland are out.

Cue the introspection and self-flagellation. And there’s the Trainspotting memes about how it’s shite being Scottish. Why does a tendency to bottle it - at least in team sports - seem etched in our national character, as if winning would spark an existential crisis? Did we have a right to feel unlucky? Yes. But did we largely have ourselves to blame? Absolutely. It would be patronising the players to pretend otherwise. 

That said, it’s important to consider the bigger picture. If Shelley Kerr and the players are due some criticism for their performance, they also deserve much credit for qualifying in the first place. For 70 minutes against Argentina, and in spells against England and Japan, they showed they could thrive at this level. Lessons will be learned by this relatively young squad to take into the Euros. 

It won’t provide much solace now, but they’re also inspiring a bigger victory. Prior to this year my friend’s wee sisters, aged 8 and 11, had been boycotting football because it was always "men playing men". But they were at the World Cup as new converts, along with thousands of other girls and women. They were joined by legions of French schoolkids at Scotland’s match in Rennes, with their faces painted and leading songs and chants throughout the match. Just a shame the one heard loudest was “Allez Japon!”