The mood in the Bluestocking the morning after Scotland lost 1-0 to Morocco could best be described as wounded. Not devastated. Not heartbroken. Wounded.
The problem was not merely that Scotland had lost. The problem was that Scotland had lost almost immediately. Seventy seconds.
The giant screen displayed the statistic repeatedly throughout the morning. Nobody had asked it to do this. Every time the number appeared, a fresh wave of sighing swept through the pub.
Several gerbils insisted there must be some mistake. One claimed the match had begun early while everyone was still settling into their seats. Another suggested that seventy seconds was not enough time for a proper goal and therefore should not count.
Granite pointed out that this was not how football worked. Nobody appreciated the observation.
The inflatable banana had spent the previous evening openly supporting Scotland. It now sat quietly wearing a black armband. No one remembered who had given it the armband. The gesture nevertheless felt appropriate.
Glory attempted to raise morale by organising an Encouragement Parade. Attendance was limited.
Gallop attempted several uplifting manoeuvres on roller skates. One ended in a shrub.
The parade was not repeated.
By lunchtime the standings had become impossible to ignore. Morocco sat at the top of the group. Scotland had slipped behind. And, perhaps most alarming of all, Brazil were due to play Haiti. Nobody wished to appear disrespectful towards Haiti. At the same time, everyone had seen Brazil play. The implications were difficult to avoid.
Small groups studied the mathematics with growing concern. Some calculated qualification scenarios. Others calculated increasingly implausible qualification scenarios. One chart appeared to rely heavily on weather events, disciplinary hearings and a ceremonial llama. The llama itself declined to comment.
By mid-afternoon the atmosphere had settled into a sort of nervous resignation. Scotland could still qualify. Everyone agreed on that. The difficulty was that nobody could quite remember how.
Somewhere nearby, Gazette was already preparing headlines. Gusto was guarding the door. Gallop was once again wearing roller skates. A lone piper was playing a lament. And Morocco, to the considerable annoyance of almost everyone present, remained top of the table.
The World Cup, the gerbils were discovering, was much more enjoyable when your team was winning.
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