Ball Ache

It was the night before the final and everyone was partying hard – everyone but me.

Well. Almost everyone.

The lads were tucked up in their hotel beds with curfew at ten, courtesy of the manager. They had to be in peak condition tomorrow. The physios were doing the rounds with ice baths and foam rollers. But the rest of New Jersey was at it – the Tartan Army crammed into every bar from Manhattan to Newark, drinking the pubs dry while wearing their kilts and singing ‘No Scotland, No Party’ at full volume; the support staff sinking margaritas by the pool, the WAGs in some hotel suite drinking champagne while filming themselves for TikTok.

I was in the equipment room. Half nine on the eve of Scotland's first ever World Cup final,  half a world away from home, in a basement under the MetLife Stadium, doing the thing I always did the night before a match. Twelve match-day balls. One foot pump. A pressure gauge that squeaked slightly and needed replacing, but I’d grown attached to it.

I lined them up. Twelve perfect tournament balls, gleaming like fresh apples. Ready for the biggest game in Scottish footballing history.

Brilliant. I couldn’t wait. Even if we lost, which was likely, we’d made it further than I could have ever dreamed of. The bloody final.

I dragged a stool over, sat down, and got to work.

Each ball got the same routine. Pump. Weigh. Spin to check the seam. Log. Pat. Set aside. There were tournament regulations about pressure – between 0.6 and 1.1 bar – and I'd seen referees produce gauges from their kit bags and check on the pitch. If they found irregularities, there would be hell to pay. It’s why I took it seriously. I always had.

I also talked to the balls. Quietly. Under my breath, mostly. I'd been doing it since the year I joined the team, when a senior physio caught me whispering good lad to a corner flag and told me to stop being a freak. I had not stopped. I'd just got quieter. I’d done it all my life. Talked to my pencils at school. Had chats with my toothbrush in the morning. I was a talker, and I didn’t always care if I was talking to something that couldn’t reply.

Ball one. Pump, weigh, spin, log. Pat. "There you go, sunshine."

Ball two. "Easy, big yin."

Ball three. "Aye, settle yerself."

I'd just finished ball nine – encouraging pat included – when I reached for the next one and realised I knew this ball. We had history.