Cavalcade of colour from capital’s sides

FOR Heart of Midlothian, this was as good as it gets. Rudi Skacel, scorer of two goals, leaping on to the presentation podium, with a maroon wig on his head and the trophy in his hands. Paulo Sergio, their Portuguese manager, hurdling the seats to plant his kiss on a loved one.

Winning the Scottish Cup is one thing, beating Hibernian in the final quite another. As for scoring five in the process, well, that’s just off the scale, as a stream of merciless chants from the Hearts supporters demonstrated. The utter humiliation inflicted on their city rivals yesterday could be measured in the songs they sang.

“Ssssh,” was the sarcastic whistle at their silenced counterparts after Danny Grainger had made it 3-1 from the penalty spot. “Easy, easy,” piled on the misery after their fourth. The fifth was followed by a succession of Olé’s, then “we want six” echoed around Hampden, by which time there was hardly anyone left in the Hibs end to hear it.

Worse was to come for the losers, and more particularly their manager. “There’s only one Pat Fenlon,” bellowed the legions in maroon, provoking a response that earned him a sending-off. By the time Hearts were cavorting about the pitch, all manner of hurting Hibees – including James McPake, Ian Murray and Fenlon – had to be restrained from approaching the officials.

The theory all week had been that the fear of defeat would outweigh the will to win, and boy was this painful for Hibs, their worst nightmare realised. And then some.

As if it wasn’t bad enough that their Scottish Cup hoodoo had been extended, that 110 years had become 111, and that it had been Hearts, of all people, who had thwarted them in their hour of need, this was an embarrassment into the bargain. It was all too much for one family, as they vacated their seats in the main stand, two daughters in floods of tears. It was certainly not what they had envisaged when they woke up yesterday morning, daring to dream, that maybe, just maybe, this was the day that generations of Hibs fans had been waiting for.

As early as 9am, they were gathering outside St Patrick’s Church in the Cowgate area of Edinburgh, where the club was founded in 1875. Several dozen fans kicked a ball around in the street, one or two hung scarves on the wrought-iron gates, while others filed quietly into the church to pay their respects. Young and old shuffled into the front pews, bowed their heads for a few moments and left. Others dug out a pen and left a prayer beside the candles. “To all those who are no longer here and to our founding fathers,” read one. “Hail, hail.”

Pretty soon, there were hugs and handshakes, not just there, but across the capital, as the exodus, from both halves of the city, began. Sixty trains – or so they said – 360 buses and countless cars, negotiating balloons of green and maroon on the west-bound carriageway of the M8. “Jambogeddon” said one banner on a back window. “Shoot, it’s Jamie MacDonald,” said another.

In the hour before kick-off, there was a subdued atmosphere outside the main entrance to Hampden, a calm that felt suspiciously like nervousness. The inevitable stream of former players began to arrive, including Craig Gordon, who seemed to have mislaid his ticket, and Rob Jones, his shiny head recognisable anywhere.

Then there was Dougray Scott, skipping up the steps in his tweed trenchcoat, and Bernard Gallacher, the former Ryder Cup captain, shouting “Come on the Hibs” as he went. Gallacher, as it turns out, had just flown up from London, having been collected by a taxi at 5am. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he said.

Accosted by a camera crew, Gallacher was then asked whether he would rather Europe won the Ryder Cup or Hibs the Scottish Cup. “Oh, the Scottish Cup,” he replied. “You can beat the Americans any time you want. The Scottish Cup is another matter.”

Gallacher had a keen sense of the occasion. There had been talk of staging this one at Murrayfield, as though the need for Hampden was an admission of failure, but in truth, the opposite was true. “Edinburgh comes to Glasgow,” he said. “That’s got to be good.”

As kick-off approached, he was proven right. Here in the heartland, the capital had taken over, producing an impressive spectacle without the aid of “you know who”. Some had this down as the biggest domestic match in Scotland’s history, and the Old Firm were nowhere to be seen.

As John Robertson and Pat Stanton, the obligatory legends, embraced on the touchline, the rival supports roared as one. When the teams walked out, with Fenlon in his suit, and Sergio still trying to pretend that it was just another match, Hampden produced the kind of eruption that had been 116 years in the making. That was the last time these two met in a Scottish Cup final.

It was a sight to behold. Filtering through the smoke was a sea of maroon scarves swirling above the heads at one end, an ocean of green flags at the other, and all of it unfolding against the backdrop of a deafening roar that fairly assaulted the ears. After all the waiting, all the hype, the time was nigh. The whistle went, and Fenlon, already back in his tracksuit, was out on the edge of his technical area, demanding to know why Ian Black’s challenge on Leigh Griffiths had not been punished with a booking.

So much for the player’s pre-match claim that he got no tackles for free.

It was that kind of start, tetchy and scrappy, until a bout of head tennis was ended with Ryan McGowan’s shot and Darren Barr’s stab over the line. “Baby give it up,” blared out around Hampden, the anthem adopted and adapted by Hearts fans in honour of their manager.

By close of play, their counter-parts must have been sick to the back teeth of that song, which was probably still rattling about in their heads when they woke up this morning.

Once more in the first half they heard it, thanks to Rudi Skacel, and three more in the second. Sure, McPake had pulled one back somewhere in the blur, but when McGowan forced a fourth over the line, several hundred Hibees made for the exits.

Fenlon showed willing by throwing on Eoin Doyle for Garry O’Connor, but the damage had long since been done.

Repairing it will be a long and arduous task for Hibernian, but let’s face it, after 110 years, they are nothing if not patient.

Taken from the Scotsman