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Football is Scotland's other religion
By Dorothy Cummings McLean
March 23, 2009
Dorothy Cummings McLean
Me I’m a football fan. I don’t mean North American football; I mean the Beautiful Game. The word “soccer” doesn’t conjure up the Beautiful Game well in the Canadian mind; to most of us soccer is a child’s game, not the dazzling athletic contest the rest of the world adores.
I got caught in football’s snare when staying in a German seminary during the 2006 World Cup. Thinking it the polite thing to do, I watched the first German game on the communal TV. A week later, the seminarians were asking me the scores.
I got caught in football’s snare when staying in a German seminary during the 2006 World Cup. Thinking it the polite thing to do, I watched the first German game on the communal TV. A week later, the seminarians were asking me the scores.
Moving to Scotland, I should be anticipating football heaven. After all, Scotland is the land of Rangers and Celtic, Hibs and Hearts, and Dundee United. But a dark history of sectarianism swirls around Scottish soccer. The Rangers are the Protestant team of Glasgow. Celtic is for Catholics. Edinburgh’s Hibernians are traditionally the Catholic side; the Hearts were for Presbyterians.
Although these teams have worked to eradicate sectarian hatreds, the shadows — and fan violence — still exist, especially in Glasgow. The most frightening aspect of Toronto’s 2008 Orange Day parade — besides toughs shouting at pedestrians who dared to cut through — was the Glasgow Rangers banner and the blue Rangers jerseys.
Loathing sectarian sport, I scanned the Edinburgh sports pages for a historically neutral Scottish team. Hitherto I have supported only German football, but marriage often means a change of alliances.
“Dundee looks good,” said I to my fiancée Mark. “I think we should support them.”
“Which team?” he asked.
My heart sank.
“Dundee has two teams?”
“Well, Dundee United is the Catholic team and Dundee F.C. is the Protestant team.”
“That’s it,” I said. “I’m sticking with Bayern.”
I wasn’t in Scotland to watch soccer, mind you, but to take the world’s most expensive marriage prep course (50 pounds sterling plus airfare). And instead of going to a soccer stadium, I found myself on my way to Edinburgh’s Murrayfield Stadium to watch a Six Nations rugby game. In rugby, I was delighted to learn, there are no sectarian divides.
Soccer is a gracious game with rough fans; rugby is a rough game with gracious fans. The crowds seeping down Roseburn Terrace were funny instead of frightening. Scotland was hosting Wales, and the fans wore costumes to show their alliances. The Scots wore kilts, tartan scarves, hats with the Loch Ness monster shooting through them, and ginger wigs topped with plaid tams. The Welsh draped themselves in flags or carried daffodils. A few wore giant inflatable daffodils around their heads, petals streaming from their faces. Young bagpipers played for coins outside the stadium. It was a cold February day; Mark had a flask of brandy in his jacket.
The Scottish and Welsh fans sat together in the stadium, and from my seat behind Scotland’s goal line I listened with interest to the mingled accents. A Welsh brass band and a regiment of Scottish pipers marched onto the field, and the Scottish players were greeted with fireworks and flaming torches. Princess Anne, a small figure in a brown furry hat and blue tartan scarf, shook hands with men on the field. And then the national anthems began.
I stood expecting “God Save the Queen,” but instead the Welsh fans all broke into an incomprehensible and mournful dirge, helped along by the brass band. The force of the deep masculine singing made my scalp prickle. At the end the Welsh cheered, there was a pause, and then the Scotsmen belted out an equally deep and mournful dirge, “Flower of Scotland,” accompanied by the pipes. When the song ended, there were deafening cheers and whistles, and my scalp prickled again. Men in large nationalist numbers are rather scary. But then the game started.
The object of rugby is to get a ball over the opposing side’s crossbar or goal line. Two teams of 15 men each struggle for possession of the ball, passing it back or sideways to teammates, or running with it tucked under an arm. The player in possession of the ball can be tackled, and then both sides dig around desperately for the precious object.
Rugby features much mangling and mayhem; it lacks the grace and finesse of soccer. I enjoyed better the antics of the fans. As the Scottish side were badly trounced, their fans mixed rousing yells (“Come on! Come on! It’s there!”) with bleak commentary (“No, it’s no’.”).
Fortunately for Scotland, a player named Evans desperately shook off the Welshman clinging to him and got the ball over the goal line. Thus, Scotland still lost but with honour. The fans accepted this with good humour. After all, it could have been worse. As Mark and I made our way from the stadium, another traditional song brayed out:
“We hate the English more than you.”
Oh well, at least there was no sectarianism.
Although these teams have worked to eradicate sectarian hatreds, the shadows — and fan violence — still exist, especially in Glasgow. The most frightening aspect of Toronto’s 2008 Orange Day parade — besides toughs shouting at pedestrians who dared to cut through — was the Glasgow Rangers banner and the blue Rangers jerseys.
Loathing sectarian sport, I scanned the Edinburgh sports pages for a historically neutral Scottish team. Hitherto I have supported only German football, but marriage often means a change of alliances.
“Dundee looks good,” said I to my fiancée Mark. “I think we should support them.”
“Which team?” he asked.
My heart sank.
“Dundee has two teams?”
“Well, Dundee United is the Catholic team and Dundee F.C. is the Protestant team.”
“That’s it,” I said. “I’m sticking with Bayern.”
I wasn’t in Scotland to watch soccer, mind you, but to take the world’s most expensive marriage prep course (50 pounds sterling plus airfare). And instead of going to a soccer stadium, I found myself on my way to Edinburgh’s Murrayfield Stadium to watch a Six Nations rugby game. In rugby, I was delighted to learn, there are no sectarian divides.
Soccer is a gracious game with rough fans; rugby is a rough game with gracious fans. The crowds seeping down Roseburn Terrace were funny instead of frightening. Scotland was hosting Wales, and the fans wore costumes to show their alliances. The Scots wore kilts, tartan scarves, hats with the Loch Ness monster shooting through them, and ginger wigs topped with plaid tams. The Welsh draped themselves in flags or carried daffodils. A few wore giant inflatable daffodils around their heads, petals streaming from their faces. Young bagpipers played for coins outside the stadium. It was a cold February day; Mark had a flask of brandy in his jacket.
The Scottish and Welsh fans sat together in the stadium, and from my seat behind Scotland’s goal line I listened with interest to the mingled accents. A Welsh brass band and a regiment of Scottish pipers marched onto the field, and the Scottish players were greeted with fireworks and flaming torches. Princess Anne, a small figure in a brown furry hat and blue tartan scarf, shook hands with men on the field. And then the national anthems began.
I stood expecting “God Save the Queen,” but instead the Welsh fans all broke into an incomprehensible and mournful dirge, helped along by the brass band. The force of the deep masculine singing made my scalp prickle. At the end the Welsh cheered, there was a pause, and then the Scotsmen belted out an equally deep and mournful dirge, “Flower of Scotland,” accompanied by the pipes. When the song ended, there were deafening cheers and whistles, and my scalp prickled again. Men in large nationalist numbers are rather scary. But then the game started.
The object of rugby is to get a ball over the opposing side’s crossbar or goal line. Two teams of 15 men each struggle for possession of the ball, passing it back or sideways to teammates, or running with it tucked under an arm. The player in possession of the ball can be tackled, and then both sides dig around desperately for the precious object.
Rugby features much mangling and mayhem; it lacks the grace and finesse of soccer. I enjoyed better the antics of the fans. As the Scottish side were badly trounced, their fans mixed rousing yells (“Come on! Come on! It’s there!”) with bleak commentary (“No, it’s no’.”).
Fortunately for Scotland, a player named Evans desperately shook off the Welshman clinging to him and got the ball over the goal line. Thus, Scotland still lost but with honour. The fans accepted this with good humour. After all, it could have been worse. As Mark and I made our way from the stadium, another traditional song brayed out:
“We hate the English more than you.”
Oh well, at least there was no sectarianism.
Dorothy Cummings McLean