It was the minor details which flashed through the mind throughout a restless night.
Scott McTominay asking for his mum moments after scoring the greatest goal Hampden has ever seen.
Steve Clarke – and the rest of the nation – imploring Kenny McLean to head for the corner flag as he motored towards the half-way line. Craig Gordon sprinting like peak Usain Bolt.
John McGinn playing three-and-in with some kids in the goalmouth as the crowd sang themselves hoarse.
The more significant happenings, you shall know by now. Someone should write a book about it. The greatest night in the history of the Scottish national team would be the obvious title. It would make for a weighty tome. Where would even you start?
The Karaiskakis Stadium in Pireaus last Saturday night might be a wise choice.
There were probably only six or seven minutes separating the final whistle at the end of a 3-2 loss to Greece from confirmation arriving that Denmark had stumbled against Belarus, but it just felt like an age.
In those moments, desolation turned to optimism. Some dared to suggest that it was written in the stars. Sat in front of the media on Monday, skipper Andy Robertson said such a notion was ‘dangerous territory’.
Privately, Clarke felt something was in the air. When he awoke on the day of the match, the normal sense of anxiety in his stomach was absent. He also felt it was meant to be.
For 35 years, he’d nursed regret at not making the final squad for Italia ‘90. When he addressed the players for the final team before leaving for the stadium on Tuesday, he urged them to ensure their careers didn’t end with that one glaring omission.
‘I think the whole feeling in the hotel … the manager said that at the pre-match meeting … we believed something special could happen,’ revealed skipper Andy Robertson. ‘It was up to us to deliver.’
For all Hampden is much-maligned as an arena, there’s little wrong with the old place when it’s packed to the rafters and the floodlight are on full beam.
As the drizzle fell from the sky, the atmosphere within it crackled with expectation. There was a nervousness to everyone present as they filed to the seats. It just didn’t get any bigger than this.
For those needed a reminder as to what was on the line, the giant screens replayed goals from glory nights of the past.
The hope that this was a night when new heroes would step forward. Not in anyone’s wildest imaginings could they have foreseen what would unfold.
Ben Gannon-Doak’s electric burst came before he stopped like an ice-skater. He delivered a measured cross. McTominay with his back-to-goal attempted what most believed was the impossible. What did we know?
A giant step towards qualification had been taken. It should have settled the nerves in the ground and in villages and towns throughout Scotland.
But the more the enormity of the potential achievement resonated, the more horrific the thought of failure became.
There was anxiety in the stands and anxiety on the park. Denmark dusted themselves down and began to dominate.
In homes the length and breadth of the land, living room carpets were worn out and fingernails were bitten to the quick. It started to become a hard watch. Soon it was unbearable.
Half-time offered only temporary respite. The Danes levelled through a dubious penalty. You feared this was the lorry load of salt to rub in the gaping wound.
The dismissal of a reckless opponent brought hope. So often it’s been the very thing that’s killed us.
As Lewis Ferguson spotted a corner, five million silent prayers were offered up. Lawrence Shankland’s tap in had Clarke’s side 12 minutes away from the World Cup.
A second Danish equaliser with eight minutes remaining made all concerned curse the fact that they ever cared so much. The footballing Gods seemed intent on inflicting a new level of agony.
By that point, Kieran Tierney had already entered the field with simple instructions.
‘The manager just said: “You know what you’re doing, go and be solid”,’ he later explained.
‘Naisy (Steven Naismith) actually said to me “Go and take us to the World Cup”.’
When the ball broke his way on the edge of the box, there were 93 minutes on the clock with supposedly only three more to play. Scotland were drinking in the last chance saloon.
What Tierney unleashed with his left foot wasn’t so much a shot as a heat seeking missile.
It started yards outside the post, but turned in the air then threatened to rip the netting off the woodwork.
At a stroke, all of Tierney’s injury struggles and doubts in recent times washed away.
‘The last few years have been hard, really hard,’ he said.
‘Some really low points, just as in life everyone goes through.
‘I’m no different from anyone. But I just kept working hard, kept fighting to try to give my best. Days like this make the low times worth it all.’
Hampden felt like the centre of the earth in that moment. No one inside the old place had ever seen anything quite like it.
The euphoria was extraordinary. The celebrations were so prolonged that six added minutes were never going to satisfy the Polish referee.
Denmark surged forward hoping for one last chance for salvation. Some looked to the heavens. Many others looked away.
A vital interception was made. Without the ball, they could not score. The collective demand was to keep it at all costs.
Kenny McLean strode forward. A vastly experienced international, you felt certain that he’d head for the corner and kill the clock. We’re had enough heroics for one night.
The execution from 50 yards was inch perfect. The joy was unconfined. It was over.
A generation which had grown up wondering what the moment of triumph would be like now knew..
A scene of utter chaos played out in front of your eyes. Strangers embraced, children danced, tears ran down cheeks. After six failures to make the World Cup, the nation was in seventh heaven.
All the hurt, all the dark days in the past 27 years, made it all the more special.
You looked down at the pitch and saw the normally stoney-faced Clarke punching the air, consumed by emotion.
The 30-somethings, McGinn, Robertson and Grant Hanley, jumped about like kids in a playground knowing their careers won’t now pass them by without appearing on the biggest stage of all.
Gordon, 43 years old next month, stared into the middle distance and shook his head at what was unfolding. He’d seen a lot in the game. But nothing quite like this.
McTominay might not even have been there had Alex McLeish not braved the Beast from the East to persuade him to play for Scotland all those years ago. They might carve his image in bronze before he hangs up the boots.
An hour previously, Gannon-Doak had succumbed to what looked like a nasty injury. He was now feeling no pain. Truthfully, from Shetland to the Borders, no one was.
‘It’s the most emotional I’ve ever been after a game,’ said Robertson.
‘I think it meant everything to all of us. We believed it could be a special day.’
From Belgrade to Oslo, this group has had a few of them. Without question, though, this topped the lot. We may never see the like again.
