The Keeper will tell you what happened. I'll tell you what's coming.
There is a particular quality of waiting that Scotland knows in its bones. Not the waiting before — that one has electricity in it, has movement. This is the other kind. The waiting that arrives after the last thing you could do has been done, and the answer is now somewhere else entirely, being decided by people who are not thinking about you.
I have felt this before, in rooms where the conversation was happening on the other side of a wall. You can hear the voices but not the words. You tidy things. You check the same surface twice.
The squad flew home from Miami carrying something unresolved. Not shame — they know the weight of the thing they faced, and so does everyone watching. Something more ungainly than shame. A result that hasn't finished happening yet. The group table looks like a sentence with the last word still in someone else's mouth.
What I know is this: the ones who came to witness this, who reorganised their summers and their sleep schedules and their relationships with people who do not care about football — they are not watching the clock. They are watching something further off than that. They prepared for all of this, including this part. The preparation shows.
The answer comes when it comes. Scotland stays in it until the answer does.