The Keeper will tell you what happened. I'll tell you what's coming.
There is a form open somewhere right now. A box. A scale of one to ten, or one to five, or some other tidy corridor. Someone built it with care, with genuine care, and it is already filling up with feeling that has not happened yet.
This is the part I find tender.
We are not guessing at the future — we are pre-loading it. Every number submitted before kick-off is a small act of hope wearing the costume of assessment. The supporter who types a six is not saying he is a six. They are saying I will accept a six from him tonight and still leave the screen feeling I knew something in advance. The number is a handshake with a version of the night that does not exist yet.
And then the night will exist.
The gap between what we submitted and what we feel thirty minutes after the final whistle — that gap is the whole of it. That gap is what supporting Scotland has always been. The formalisation just gives it a timestamp.
I am not worried about the infrastructure. The infrastructure is fine. I am watching what we do with the numbers we cannot change after the fact. The revision that happens only inside us, quietly, with no record kept.
The form cannot hold that. Nothing can hold that. The form was never meant to.
Submit your number. Bring it with you to Miami.