The Road To Hampden: Tennent's Scottish Cup round one; Wild Rovers

Wick Academy 2 - 3 Threave Rovers Ian Black on a Scottish Cup tie with a difference. A game where the only argument among fans is over who's paying for the next round

AS Kipling so nearly said: "South is south and north is north and never the twain shall meet, until they both stand presently at God's great judgment seat." Except, of course, if you are Threave Rovers from Castle Douglas and you have drawn Wick Academy in the first round of the Scottish Cup, a round trip of 700 plus miles. Kipling knew nothing about the Scottish Cup and God supports both teams.

It was 9:51pm on Friday when stand-in driver and Threave devotee Gary Holden, pressed into service because the scheduled driver had torn some ligaments, pulled up outside the Norseman Hotel in Wick, having left Castle Douglas on the stroke of noon. The 53-seater bus contained both team and supporters and waiting to greet them was the jet-set section of Threave's support, George McCracken, who had flown up from London earlier in the day.

"I make a point of coming up if Rovers have got an important game," said George quietly, making light of a trip that started in Andover in Hampshire.

He keeps exclaiming with delight as he sees the faces. "There's Davie! There's Albert! I haven't seen him for years." There is enough warmth in the hotel bar and lounge to keep Wick centrally heated for weeks, and anticipation is running high.

And the warmth isn't only from the Threave Rovers supporters. The people of Wick are delighted to see the visitors. I went for a stroll down town with three CD boys, as the Threave fans call themselves, only to be accosted by Drew Robertson, a Wick Academy man to his toenails. He shook all of us by the hand and dragged us into a pub, a former herring gutting factory, where he insisted on buying all of us a drink and telling us tales of mad Scorries, as the Wick supporters are called. Scorrie is a Caithness word for seagull, and Tam Mulraine made himself a hat out of real sea-gull complete with flapping wings. He gave it away to a wee laddie for Gala Day. He fought Pat Cowdell once. And lost. Badly. He tells the tale against himself and laughs. Another Scorrie, known only as The Scientist, wears a cowboy hat with dozens of seagull feathers.

Drew Davies, whose nose looks as if it has lived a much longer and harder life than its owner, and he is 71, is a major wise-cracker among the Threave supporters. He tells the tale of a cowboy riding up to the saloon, tying up his horse and then going round, lifting his mount's tail and kissing its behind. When asked why he replies: "Well, I've got chapped lips and it stops me from licking them."

Drew played the spoons in the hotel lounge late on Friday evening and the supporters sang along to the squeeze-box playing of Bobby McCleary, Threaves club secretary, aka Fergus, because he was formerly the treasurer and he squeezed every penny until it squeaked with a Scots/Canadian accent. Bobby is a rare box player and a fine time is being had by everyone.

The team are in their beds, their loins well-girded, and it is the supporters' hour. For seven or eight hours. I was wakened next day by a Stentorian Castle Douglas voice in the hotel corridor, saying firmly to someone: "You! It's 8 o'clock in the mornin'. Get tae yer bed!"

In the morning at 10, the team went for a training session and the supporters went down town. Weekers, as local people call themselves, are open and friendly, stopping you in the street to talk. It was a gloriously sunny morning and the phrase "romance of the Scottish Cup" was no longer an exhausted cliche, but a reality.

This, for both teams was, literally and metaphorically, their moment in the sun. You can keep your Rangers and Celtic supporters' twisted passions. This is how it should be, smiles, open-heartedness and enjoyment of the moment.

In the Seaforth Club there is a gaggle of hardliners, tough men who played for and supported Wick all of their lives, among them Tam Mulraine and The Scientist. As I sat down beside Tam one of his mates leant forward and said: "Jist before ye start interviewin' him, it's his round."

It's a five-minute walk from the Seaforth Club to the ground and the atmosphere there was electric. Dougie Vipond held up the Scottish Cup and smiled. Everyone else looked tense, except for The Scientist, who was as relaxed as a newt.

Piper Isaac Williamson played both teams on with Flower of Scotland and the game started in fine style. Wick had quite a lot of the early pressure and the bit banner opposite the main stand which read: "Academy Award: Home Win", looked prophetic. But on the 20- minute mark Gary Cochrane ghosted through the Wick defence and smashed a totally unstoppable shot past the keeper's right hand, prompting Gary to rip off his top to display the question on his T- shirt: "Huv ye taped it, Maw?"

It was a bit against the run of play, though the Wick goalkeeper, Darren Strong, had distinguished himself earlier. Just over 10 minutes later John Hudson bundled it past Strong from his favourite distance of 2.5 centimetres and the game looked done and dusted as Threave went in at half-time 2-0 up, though this was thanks largely to a wonder save from goalkeeper David MacWilliam, who twisted, turned and just tipped a scorcher on to the bar.

The game was far from over, however, as Wick emerged fired up for the second half. In three minutes Gordon MacDonald hooked it in and Threave faces and bodies tensed visibly.

Wick took a grip for the next 10 minutes and Threave were under the cosh, but Mark Adams scored about 15 minutes into the second half to make 3-1. Wick kept pressing, but to no avail, and in the last quarter of an hour the Castle Douglas team slowed the game down as much as they could get away with. In the dying seconds Wick managed a scoring header, but it was a case of a day too late and a dollar short for the Caithness side.

A cracking game though, and overall the best team won. The rival gangs of hooligans snarling and spitting insults at each other did not actually exist and it was Corinthian-style handshakes all round at the end, players and spectators alike.

We shall draw a veil over subsequent events. It would be fair to say that drink, and not umbrage, was taken by both sides. This is the real romance of Scottish football.

Copyright 2001
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