The Slow Match Report: Côte d’Ivoire 1 Scotland 0

A defeat by the docks, but who cares when there's a Scouse welcome, a dram in the flask and, dammit, we’re going to the World Cup

From the noble steps of Lime Street station, they welcomed the invasion. Locals waiting for friends and trains gave directions to favoured pubs. Four men who looked like they sat there a lot raised their cider cans in salute, all “Welcome to Liverpool” and “What’s under yer skirt, mate?”

There was a breeziness in the manner of those they greeted, informed by circumstance. Genetically traumatised by past campaigns, these Scotland followers were able to picture an alternative reality with meticulous precision. In that abominable vision, tonight’s berth would have been taken by a fixture of qualifying consequence. Instead, they smiled and sang because Scotland were about to play a game that didn’t matter. Last November’s Denmark hysteria had survived the winter and echoed into spring. Even Scouse daffodils knew of Kenny McLean from the halfway line.

Yet more content Caledonians dawdled down by the Mersey. There, in that milky light which has always made this a place for dreaming, kilted and capped they waved their Saltires at bemused passengers aboard a cruise ship who quite possibly thought they had mistakenly docked at Greenock. Some Scots queued to have their photos taken with sculptures of the Fab Four. “There’s quite a lot of Beatles stuff here, Dad” said a boy of 11 or 12. He was one among many youngsters today receiving an away days education rather than a classroom one. Seldom have so many dental appointments been phoned in, or notes declaring attendance at far-off funerals submitted.

Then came the march one and a half miles upstream to the Hill Dickinson Stadium. Thousands stomped by vast and lanky old walls with their rusty gates to nowhere, tracing the steps of so many yesteryear dockers. Bars that have sprung up to profit from Everton’s flit blared Yes Sir, I Can Boogie to entice visitors, but it felt as though Scotland needed new songs. “Hats and scarves, cash and card” barked street vendors bearing orange and blue half-and-halves. Fans gathered on the pristine plaza outside the main stand, some pleasantly deep in beer, others intoxicated by being somewhere else, somewhere new.

The kilted legions retrace the steps of bygone dockers... meanwhile the Liverpudlians knew how to turn a penny by catering to the Scots' needs

Then, we were in, inside a glossy blue world where sentry lines of seats sweep for the clouds. Every smidgeon of the stadium is organised, calculated. If Goodison Park was your grandma’s flat, full of beloved knick-knacks but whiffing slightly of Silk Cut, then the Hill Dickinson is a chain hotel, spotless but staid. Only time will give it the flaws, crow’s feet, yarns and memories that make a house a home. Yet an airtight arena like this has one instant advantage — noise gathers rapidly and cannot escape. Tunes kept by two or more ends radiate and then cascade to the turf, as they did now when Scots behind both goals chorused for their nation ahead of kick-off.

The team took their warbling to heart, bulging forwards and finding the Côte d’Ivoire defence drowsy. They allowed George Hirst to run through them as if kindly holding doors for a pregnant woman. Twice he managed shots on goal, though neither effort was especially menacing. When the Elephants did muster momentum, in midfield Billy Gilmour and Ryan Christie snuffed proceedings and played succinct, fluent football.

After Scotland’s keen start, the game became more end-to-end. This, though, was never in a thrilling, electric manner; more the morose swinging of an antique pendulum on a grandfather clock. Then, Côte d’Ivoire curated a series of passes that stretched their opponents asunder. When they reached the penalty area, Elye Wahi urged a flat shot towards goal. It pecked the heel of centre-half Dominic Hyam, trundled in front of goalkeeper Liam Kelly — who seemed to stand and watch in disbelief, like a man whose bus had driven straight past its stop — and then struck a post. Nicolas Pépé popped in the rebound and Ivorians sprinkled around the stadium hollered and jigged.

The goal seemed to whisper a sweet nothing into the ears of the Côte d’Ivoire players: you are good at football. Now they stroked the ball around gallantly and deciphered angles where Scotland saw straight lines. Wahi swirled through beautifully and flung a shot onto the roof of the net. Reminding everyone of his own prowess, Scott McTominay finally connived an opportunity within his lethal range on the area’s edge, but Alban Lafont saved diligently.

Then, the game drifted into a stupor. At times, it could not even be regarded as proceeding at walking pace; instead, it rattled along with the slow and dispiriting murmur of a faulty Stannah stairlift. The crowd quietened. Existential questions wrought inner turmoil. Why were Scotland playing a game in England? Which berserk masochist invented international friendlies? Was it the grey wheelie bin this week, or the green one? Back on the pitch, Gilmour snapped into a challenge with gusto and it shocked us all, a bedroom light switch flicked suddenly in the dead of night.

The Hill Dickinson Stadium: spotless but yet to earn its soul

Scotland started the second half with craft and heart, their passing more adamant than before the break. Scampering as ever, Andy Robertson spurred his team forwards. From a useful spot in the box, Hirst managed a header but it scarpered away from goal with the erratic trajectory of a shuttlecock in a gale. Further efforts followed, not least through a torrent of Scottish corners and free-kicks.

Yet it didn’t feel as though a goal would follow. When the Scotland crowd sang, it seemed in hope rather than expectation, the desperate beseeching of an old car to start on a frosty morning. Côte d’Ivoire absorbed the pressure and then deployed more clipped, lithe football on the break. In injury time, Simon Adingra hit a post, before one last saga of whipped crosses from the Scots, who now seemed to be playing pitch and toss in a world of chess.

The final whistle peeped and some performed their scripted boos. Many more applauded, grateful of a pointless night on Merseyside. “There’s a bit left in the hip flask, Tam” said a bearded man as we trudged back into town. “Ach well,” replied his friend, “it could be worse.”

Like Daniel’s writing? You’ll get much more of it in the latest Nutmeg Magazine — our World Cup edition. The second print run is whizzing off the printing presses now. Order your copy by clicking on the cover below.