The Keeper will tell you what happened. I'll tell you what's coming.
There is a particular heaviness that arrives only after the fear has been named. Before the naming, fear is smoke — it moves, it changes shape, it can be breathed through. After, it is stone. It has dimensions. You can put your hands on it.
The profiles are out there now. The names, the tendencies, the angles of approach. Supporters will have read them already, some of them twice, some of them in the blue light of a phone they couldn't put down. And now the information sits in the chest cavity, just below the sternum, where hope used to float.
This is what intelligence does when it is too clear. It doesn't protect you. It invites you to understand exactly what is coming for you and to carry that understanding forward into the hours between now and the moment it either happens or doesn't. The uncertainty was kinder. The uncertainty let you look away.
I have felt this before in the days before a Scotland match that mattered — not the flutter of not-knowing, but the settled ache of knowing too well. The knowledge doesn't help. It never was the limiting factor. It is simply the thing you hold now, and it is heavier than hope, and it is yours until Friday night empties your hands of it one way or another.
The stone is on the table. Scotland pick it up or they don't.