Heartwarming feat is a kick in the Baltics; IAN BLACK'S TARTAN ARMY

Ya Beautaaay! And also: Ya Dancer! Bring on whoever is in the play- offs. It was all worth it. Standing in 12-below weather in Lithuania with a wind-chill factor in the hundreds, frozen flakes of snow making our faces bleed, wishing that I had remembered what the word Baltic means in Glasgow before I packed the clothing and watching a bunch of oh-so-thoroughly professional cheaters and divers con the ref into giving a non-penalty all worth it.

And what were we singing in Lithuania, to the tune of Juantanamera? "Here for the suntan! We're only here for the suntan!" Why, incidentally, is there only Juantanamera? But I digress.

What were we singing yesterday to the tune of We're In the Money? On the stairs on the way out I joined in with: "We're in the play- offs. We're in the play-offs. And you're a bunch of cheating, diving *******s."

And the best thing about the enjoyment of it is that we were rotten. I've seen us play 10 times better and get beat. Schadenfreude is a great thing. The first couple of beers after the game were well flavoured with it, and sweet they tasted. As did the air of Hampden in the 69th minute when the ball flew into the Lithuanian goal.

Jubilation, relief and the aforementioned German word are a potent mixture. On this occasion I, and the people round me, imbibed it in large draughts. The following 20 minutes were a nightmare of worry and apprehension.

Ever adept at the snatching of defeat from the jaws of victory, we braced ourselves. Memories of 2-0 up in Prague, the last microsecond of the Belgian game, the first 10 minutes of the game in the Faroes, rose like gibbering and wailing ghosts from the collective psyche.

Being a footsoldier can be hard, but the hardest of all is when we are winning and playing to contain. We are rotten at it. It is not part of the Scottish tradition. We just are not that professional.

Or at least that is what we used to be like. No more. In the 18 months since his appointment Berti has added steel as well as flair to the team mixture. Now they play like people who care. They play the way every member of the Tartan Army would play if they could, hearts on sleeves, every fibre of the body and soul bent to the cause of victory.

To that has been added self-belief and discipline. Watching McFadden being booted up in the air by the vast Lithuanian basketball player-sized defence and watching him take it like a man rather than the petulant boy he was just a few months ago, while their players were falling over when they felt the breath of Elvis on their necks, was a joy.

Berti's "cheeky boy" has grown up and for my money he was far and away the best player on the park.

I've criticised Berti in the past. I have sniggered at the fact that his name means "bailiff" in German and said that both Tommy Sheridan and I didn't like him. I take it back.

In the home game against Germany we were terrific. And he has given us back a full Hampden. There is no greater pleasure for this Scotland supporter than to look around Hampden, part of a sea, nay, an ocean of flags and tartans of every description, including some better not described, and listen to the roar reborn.

One guy in front of me was waving his flag so vigorously and for so long that the man I was standing beside asked if I was maybe a doctor and said: "I seem to have a flag stuck to my eye."

David Taylor and the SFA deserve some praise for this too. Not everyone agrees with the "sexing up" of the occasion, but the half- time songs, including The Proclaimers' 500 Miles - which seems to have developed a new chorus of: "Get it up youse. Get it up youse" - were superb and helped make it a great day out. The winning was better, though.

So we won. I say again: "Ya beauty". I hope that I will be saying this once more after the play-offs, but I've got a good feeling about this upcoming one, whoever it is.

Oh no.

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