Ben Doak heir to Celtic icon Johnstone and Gers hero in long list of wee guys

SCOTTISH football was built on the shoulders of wee gallus guys.

The ones short on stature but long on cheek.

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The ones whose feet danced, whose drop of the shoulder would make Elvis look stiff as a board.

Hughie Gallacher and Alan Morton a century ago. Jinky Johnstone and Willie Henderson in the 60s. Gordon Strachan and Pat Nevin in our golden era on the world stage.

And now, Ben Doak.

Demanding the ball with his back to the play, spinning the second most expensive defender on earth and leaving him panting, laying the pass on a plate for a mate to have a smash at goal.

The feeling around Hampden when we’re treated to moments like these never changes.

The level of excitement never dulls, the sense of optimism never ebbs.

They are what it’s all about. They are what make the turnstiles click, what makes our hearts pound, our spirits soar.

We were 13 minutes in when the kid from Dalry’s touch and movement and pace made Manchester City superstar Josko Gvardiol look like a lump of wood.

When he found Scott McTominay, it took a shovelling save from Croatia keeper Dominik Kotarski to stop us from going ahead.

It was the first time the Tartan Army had got out of their seats and properly opened up their lungs.

It’s why wee guys like Doak started kicking a ball as soon as they learned to stand up.

It’s probably also why Steve Clarke left him out there when the time came to make a triple change with just under half an hour to go — a decision that, with four minutes to go, looked a masterstroke.

Because here came wee Ben again, running at Gvardiol, ball tight to his toes, then accelerating towards the byeline for what everyone inside Hampden — not least Kotarski — expected would end in a cutback for an onrushing Dark Blue shirt.

Instead, he took a crack at the near post, the startled keeper could only parry and when it fell, it really couldn’t have fallen to anyone better.

Step forward the wee gallus guy’s wee gallus guy, Super John McGinn.

Off the bench, into the box and hammering a shot that flicked off a toe and shot high into the net.

Right then, it felt amazing. The atmosphere felt amazing. Winning again felt amazing.

We deserved the win, too. Did it help that Croatia played the entire second half with ten men after midfielder Petar Sucic was sent off for two bookings?

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Absolutely — but despite the howls of protest that delayed his departure, he deserved to go for first cementing Billy Gilmour, then raking his studs down John Souttar’s knee.

Neither was a hanging office. Both, however, were yellow cards by today’s rules.

Until then, we’d been outplayed by a side marshalled magnificently by yet another wee guy with talent way beyond his size — the incredible Luka Modric.

He was born the night before Jock Stein died in Cardiff way back in 1985 and was winning cap No 183.

In this campaign, we have most likely seen Robert Lewandowski on our turf for the last time, most likely seen Tiny Tears Ronaldo on our turf for the last time, and now it’s unlikely that we’ll see Modric here again.

So you had to laugh midway through the first half when he strolled over to take a corner at the north-west of the stadium and boos went up from the Tartan Army.

Seriously? Booing this much of a genius. Never mind life bans for letting off fireworks.

If they identify these philistines, they should be drummed out for life.

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Guys like Modric, guys like Doak, guys like McGinn, they are what it’s about.

Those five or six seconds when a teenage winger was a blur and poor Gvardiol a red-and-white-checked traffic cone are what you went searching for in the recording late last night.

They are what little kids who were here will be trying in the playground or on the pitch next time they get the chance. Let’s face it, they are what keep you believing.

In an era when power and stamina mean more than they ever have, the players who get us out of our seats are fewer and further between than ever.

That’s why we have to treasure them, whether they are 19 or 39.

Here, it always felt like Doak would have a say before it was all over.
It might — maybe it should — have happened when Ryan Gauld, straight off the bench along with McGinn and Lyndon Dykes, clipped a gorgeous ball beyond the far post, and the wee fella smashed it over the bar from the tightest of angles.

But his time would come. And when it did, Hampden roared as loud as it ever did when Gallacher or Jinky or Strachan were at their pomp.

The drop of the shoulder, the twinkling feet, the decisive drive. The goal. Then he just stood and let it wash over him as the rest raced to the scorer.

As an extra five minutes began, Clarke finally took him off, as if to give him the ovation he so richly deserved.

He went off in front of the North Stand and walked ever so slowly, all the way round.

Milk the moment, son, milk the moment.

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