Published on May 23, 2025
It is a thrill to be there when numbered balls clack. The sound is keener, crisper than on television – the difference between hearing a song live and listening through headphones. They grumble when rifled through by those making the draw. Then, as balls are plucked, there follows a satisfying, comforting clatter akin to that of seaside pebbles clashing. Otherwise all is hushed, reverent, a church during prayers. It is even possible to hear those decisive, tie-conjuring marbles being placed in their craters.
Before a season watching the Scottish Cup, we were there to observe the draw for the qualifying rounds. It happened in the clubhouse of a bowling club like no other: Hampden. This place occupies sacred land. “The passing game was born here,” reads a sign clamped to an adjacent iron fence. “Hampden Bowling Club,” it continues, “sits on the site of the first Hampden Park.”
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The tall flats dominate the skyline as Pollok Juniors take on Benburb in the second preliminary round.
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Over The Wall. The best view (with beer) at Carmuirs Park, as Camelon take on Civil Service Strollers.
Here, then, somewhere beneath the manicured lawn where Margaret and Joan and Jim and Willie aim for the jack, the Scotch Professors first passed and moved. No venue could be more apt for hosting the opening draw of the Scottish Cup in its 150th year. This was an anniversary being marked in the presence of approving ghosts in baggy shorts.
The decisions those balls made scattered Bluebells and Swifts, Roses and Thistles, Shipyards and Welfares, Stars and Wanderers across Scotland. From the late summer teams from old pit villages and rural idylls would be lured by the Cup’s everlasting charm. From hamlet to Hampden we joined them, along the way watching Bleachers and Belters, Loons and Mighty Mariners bloom then wither, giving way to the high and mighty of Edinburgh and Glasgow.
Our Cup run took us first to Perthshire, and Luncarty’s bucolic minor amphitheatre glowing beneath the fat, splendid sun. On the viaduct above, 125 trains clattered by at their timetabled interludes. I swear some of their drivers slowed to glance down at the match.
A few weeks later, at Camelon Juniors, young ultras thrashed a drum and waved flags with the unremitting enthusiasm of North Korean soldiers on military parade day. “How shit must you be?” they sang when an opposition shot fled over the bar and out of the ground. “It’s hit someone’s car.”
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Hello darkness my old friend. Musselburgh take on Clyde in the half-light of a second-round match.
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Night falls over Balmoor as Peterhead play host to Ayr United in this third round tie.
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Luncarty and Loch Ness take the field in the first preliminary round.
Then came Musselburgh on an ink-black Monday night with league lads Clyde in town. The stroll to their Olivebank ground afforded the opportunity to view the temporary theatre that fixtures such as this fleetingly spring upon a place: old soldiers in berets holding buckets and pinning Remembrance Poppies with shaky fingers; programme sellers exclaiming their wares like one story town criers; volunteers offering lotto tickets and “guess the team” football cards with the gusto of Victorian fairground ride proprietors; club officials in neat suits checking lists and giving thumbs-ups to civvy street acquaintances. At the same time tomorrow, there would be nothing here but seagulls jabbing with their beaks at discarded ketchup sachets.
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The smoke from the pre-match pyrotechnics clears as Celtic huddle before the final against Rangers at Hampden.
Next we strayed north to Peterhead, where more ultras sang in the mizzle and an old boy warned them that too much bouncing could lead to “grumpy knees”. After one year turned into another, a giant-killing quest took us to Parkhead stalking Buckie Thistle on their journey south.
Outside that ground, Highland passengers emerged into the gloom, greeted by a steely gale just as a gust of warm air salutes summer travellers to Spain. On the merchandise stalls, scarves jolted violently like the angry tentacles of some rabid sea beast. “This Is Paradise,” announced huge lettering clamped to the main stand.
Now, things were getting serious and a full atlas of teams had dwindled to a cigarette card’s worth. Hibernian thought they could topple Rangers but lost tempers cost cup lives. In the Hampden semi-finals, Glasgow reigned. The 150th year of the competition had its first Old Firm final in two decades. It looked a lot different to the view from our grassy Luncarty mounds.
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