The Yellow Bus Diaries
The road to Foxborough was full of surprises for the ever resourceful Tartan Army
By Moira Gordon
Ours was bus No.7 - the John McGinn bus. On a day when the majestic Meatball himself would go on to score the winner, it was a happy coincidence.
Twenty-one iconic yellow school buses set off from Providence, Rhode Island, fuelled by beer, wine, and hope. Each bearing the name and squad number of men charged with bringing decades of hurt to a close.
Squashed into seats designed for kids, hundreds of hot and sweaty Tartan Army footsoldiers, who had paraded through the streets from the unofficial G-Pub HQ to the assembly point, marching behind the Rhode Island Highlanders Pipe Band, were decked out in uniforms of tartan, and navy, and salmon, and more boisterous than even the most excitable weans on a long-anticipated field trip.
Songs were bellowed out as busloads indulged in some friendly rivalry, hanging out the open windows to goad those alongside, in front, or behind to crank up the volume in a good-natured sing off.
Even those alighting for some last-minute relief behind what became well-watered trees were serenaded with renditions of ‘We can see you pishing there’.
On buses more used to packed lunches of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, the play pieces were crates of beer, cider, wine, and a few soft drinks (although, to the chagrin of several occupants, it was Coca-Cola rather than Irn-Bru).
Like the nation’s appearance at the biggest global footballing event, the delivery arrived later than anticipated, but it arrived, and it was welcomed as warmly and with as much relief as Scott McTominay’s opener against Denmark. As the buses idled, waiting, a truck slowly inched its way along the convoy, as rear doors opened to receive the packs, like some insane reverse drive-thru.
Passed up the aisle to be piled on a vacant seat, the resulting alcoholic jenga became the responsibility of the man beside it. He served as bartender and the unofficial seat belt, protecting it around the faster corners and preventing disaster as the driver jolted and jerked his way through tailbacks nearer the ground.
This was party planning, Providence Tartan Army style and it was a sensational F*** You to those who had tried to profiteer from their presence.
The school buses were never supposed to be part of the equation. Regular coaches had been booked, but when greedy owners made the mistake of thinking they had Scots over a barrel and inflated their prices, smart-thinking organisers found a cheaper alternative. A little crazy, a lot more colourful, and definitely more memorable.
One behind the other, to the skirl of the pipes, the buses snaked through Providence. Locals took photos and waved the convoy off like it was a gala day parade. Opposition fans joined in, although to the amusement of all, one pretty Brazilian supporter, who had obviously been raised on stories of Dave Narey’s audacity, and John Collins’ spot kick prowess, refused to be won over and steadfastly offered a single-finger salute.
‘Is that you predicting how many goals we’ll beat you by in Miami’, someone shouted in response. ‘Nah, it’s the position we’ll finish in the group’ countered another. It would take more than one gesture to dampen Scottish spirits.
‘We’ve got McGinn, super John McGinn…’ As the buses began to speed up, swapping the built-up streets for the open interstate 95, neither the wind gushing through the buses, or the loud flapping of the flags hanging out of every second window could drown out the singing.
On paper it was a busload of strangers, in reality it was a gathering of kindred spirits all giddy to be going to see Scotland at a World Cup for the first time since 1998.
Some seasoned campaigners had been lucky enough to witness that in person and regaled new friends with tales of Paris and Toulouse. Others had watched at home, promising themselves they would go to the next one. That wait had been too long. For another generation, this was all completey new.
As cars passed by tooting their horns in approval, inside, people began to settle. There was wit and perceived wisdom as the debate about who should start against Haiti began. Many agreed but no-one was sure Steve Clarke would.
There were stories of past campaigns, and thoughts of what might have been as some recounted schoolboy memories of playing against former Scotland greats such as Paul McStay. Some were born to serve in the dark blue, others were born to toast them.
Nearing the parking lot, which had been secured for some American-style tailgating, the pace slowed. Those walking now overtook the buses, and fans, of both Scotland and Haiti, who had taken another huge financial hit, some paying up to $100 for a car park space along the route, were adopted by the sympathetic yellow bus brigade, and drinks were passed out the windows to partially deaden the blow.
Filing off the buses, they must have looked like hundreds of tartan ants to the drones and helicopters hovering above. A support used to lifting more than its proverbial body weight. That seemed about right.
Locals used to New England Patriot games had set up barbeque stalls and lugged in massive coolers to feed and hydrate hundreds of fans for free. Grateful punters swapped pin badges for a hotdog, others traded in bonhomie. But no-one would accept financial payment. Some hosts claimed to be 2.2% Scottish or a member of clan x, y, or z; they just wanted to be part of the scene. Some even hooked up giant tvs to generators so everyone could keep up with the afternoon matches.
But minds were on only one game. Two hours before kick-off, the pipes signalled a shift towards the Gilette Stadium. It would have been straightforward if event organisers had opened enough gates. Instead, as thousands of fans baked in the heat and young kids were hoisted onto shoulders to escape the crush, there were fears that such a magical night might take an ominous turn.
Caught up in it all were Billy Gilmour’s family and friends. Earlier they had been comforted by fans who understood their angst at their injured laddie missing out. Now they were being squashed along with everyone else.
Boos started to ring out as kick-off time drew closer and progress completely stalled. Police eventually decided enough was enough and entrances were opened up. The surge was frightening. ‘Just no-one fall or you’re f*cked’, hollered someone as thousands of bodies involuntarily swayed and stumbled as one, bypassing the now redundant security stands.
Onto another bottleneck then, finally, the ticket scanners. As everyone passed through there were sighs of relief - they could find space to breathe again and the ticket had worked and they were definitely going to be part of Scottish football history.
In the end, it was all worth it. Unlike the Euros in Germany, there was a goal to celebrate - and a win.
Not everyone made the bus back. Some had become disorientated and had to be picked up en route; one or two completely missed departure and had to fork out for costly Ubers. For those on board, though, the debrief began.
‘It wasn’t exactly the most comfortable experience but they did the job’.
He was talking about the yellow school buses, but it kind of summed up the match as well.