The half-built Neues Schloss (new palace) rises like a stone monolith in the distance as the poet feathers the parchment gracefully. His words, an Ode to Joy, sting and arouse in equal measure as they charge relentlessly through his grappling consciousness and are either forsaken or legitimized as today’s truth. This is Friedrich’s calling. He is a miner toiling at the coalface of authenticity; a choirboy climbing the octave’s jagged peak; an eagle’s beak piercing the sky like Icarus in full flight. On earth, he stands and reads aloud, “O friends, not these tones!”
Friedrich Schiller passes noiselessly between the tartan-clad herd. They are joyous. Tonight they are brothers, singing loudly; drunken with fire. Friedrich soaks up the passion while the earth soaks up the ejected spittle of 10,000 Scotsmen as they threaten to rise up and send Edward homeward ‘tae think again. Tomorrow he will follow this blue and white army into battle. Man, he ponders, is only human when at play.
Gatwick is busy this morning and I’m tucking into a full English while ‘people-watching’. I’ve gotten through security early, just to make sure there are no problems getting the cameras on board. That is the single thing about the trip that I have been worried about the most. I’ve been bought a new flight case, for my photography gear, as an early birthday present from my wife and this is the first time I’ve used it abroad.
I’m flying into Zurich today, then heading North into Germany for Scotland’s final group match against Hungary in Stuttgart. After a fine draw with Switzerland in their second match, Scotland have their destiny, qualification into the last-16, in their own hands. Hungary, on the other hand, can only qualify with a win and if results in the other groups go their way. Suitably refuelled, I make my way to the gate. The plane, I am told, is on time.
It’s a short flight, and my eyes have barely closed when we are dumped unceremoniously on the tarmac at Zurich airport, and I am rudely awakened. I take a short train ride into Zurich’s main station and climb the concrete stairs to the middle level, where I find my connection on an understated information board. So, an hour earlier than anticipated, I am on my way to Germany. The heavens open outside, and the wrath of Thor is discharged across the Swiss landscape. I am grateful to be inside.
It’s three and a half hours later; I have arrived in Stuttgart. It’s still raining steadily as I take a series of trains to Neckarpark which is the closest S-Bahn station to the ground. I have to go to the Media Accreditation Centre to collect my tournament pass, without which I will not be admitted into the stadium tomorrow. By the time I reach the accreditation centre, I have walked the best part of three miles! With the road outside the stadium blocked half-way down, security have sent me all the way back around the stadium, towing my camera gear and carrying a heavy rucksack on my back.
The accreditation centre is German efficiency and bureaucracy personified. I am made to wait in a queue of one (just me) before being called forward to present my passport. Then my accreditation is checked and my photo taken before a third person delivers my tournament pass. I am relieved to finally have the lanyard around my neck and the officials in the accreditation centre give me some sound advice about how best to get to my hotel. I look and feel like Roddy from the kids movie, Flushed Away. I can’t wait to get dry.
The hotel is in Ludwigsburg, which is about 10 minutes north of Stuttgart by train. When I arrive there, I am tired and I decide to have a lie down for 30 minutes. Georgia and Czechia are busy playing out a 1-1 draw in Hamburg on the television as I close my eyes and drop off to sleep. By the time I wake up, it’s Portugal and Turkey on my screen and I realise I’ve been asleep for a couple of hours!
Schlossplatz in Stuttgart is home to one of the big fan zones and it is here that I head to for the evening. As I’m making my way there, Turkish fans are heading out in their droves. They’ve just been humbled 3-0 by Portugal and with so many Turks living in the city, I assume that they’re heading home to drown their sorrows.
On the main high street, a few drunk Scots are singing along with an organ grinder who is playing ‘Flower of Scotland’ on his tricycle! It’s a bizarre scene but a joyful one and I smile as I stroll past.
Schlossplatz has a long history tied to various periods of construction and renovation. The square itself was first laid out in 1807, as part of King Friedrich I’s plans to create a more open and accessible public space in front of the New Palace (Neues Schloss). The New Palace, which dominates Schlossplatz, was constructed between 1746 and 1807, serving as the primary royal residence.
The ‘Jocks’ have gathered on the steps just outside of the fan zone and they are making a shit-load of noise. I take a few snaps of them and once they notice the camera they are all about me wanting their photos taken. I snap a few more, just to humour them, before heading into the media centre which is just inside the palace. There are a few snacks and drinks in the media centre and I make myself at home as the Belgium and Romania match gets underway. It’s a little quieter now but there is a decent gathering of Romania fans and I make sure that I get a few photos.
At half-time, I leave the camera inside the media centre and get myself my first beer of the trip and a bratwurst. It’s been a long time since I’ve eaten anything and I devour the food. I watch the second half from the balcony which offers a slightly elevated view of the park although it’s got a little too dark to take any more photos. Memories of 2006 flood my brain. That was the last time I was here in Stuttgart. That was a very different trip. We were the kings of Elysium, carried aloft on the shoulders of Vodka and Red-Bull. I was in my early thirties then. De-Bruyne’s goal for Belgium on 80 minutes snaps me out of my dreamlike state and I decide to head back to the hotel for a relatively early night. I’ve got a big day tomorrow.
Learning from the previous day, I leave myself plenty of time to get to the stadium ahead of the match. It’s about midday, and the platform in Ludwigsburg is already heaving with tartan and kilts. There is a frantic scurry as forty-or-so scots realise, at the last minute, that they are on the wrong platform as the train pulls in. They all make it aboard comfortably enough, and I get chatting to a few of them as we head into the city. Most of them haven’t got tickets and are just ‘here to party’. I’m offered a can of German lager by a kilt-adorned Scotsman who tells me that his name is also Paul. I take it, and we toast the Scottish.
When I arrive at the stadium, it is almost four o’clock. The security is tight, and there are already plenty of fans from both sides milling around. I head into the ground and find the media hub where I collect my photographer’s vest. The next few hours pass quickly as I do the preparation work for tonight’s ‘shoot’.
I’m in my pitch position a couple of hours before kick-off, and I’m behind and to the right of the goal, right in front of the Scotland fans. They are slowly starting to arrive and placing their flags along the front barrier. Two young fans have made their own banners, and I get a photo of them holding their artwork proudly aloft.
Twenty minutes before the match is due to start, I make my way around to the side of the pitch to take some photos of the pre-match rituals. First, I snap each of the Scotland players passionately belting out ‘Flower of Scotland’ before the team assemble in-front of me, and I get a decent shot of them all.
Picture by Paul Blake/Alamy Sports News
After uploading the pre-match photos, I settle in to capture images from the first half. Scotland have the better of the opening exchanges, but neither team looks like they are willing to take a risk and go for it. The game becomes quite a stale affair, and there are few opportunities for me to shoot anything meaningful.
The second half is more of the same until Vargas is injured, and it looks quite nasty. Hungary’s captain, Dominik Szoboszlai, looks visibly shaken and rushes to grab the stretcher as the crowd screams at the first-aiders to hurry up. A screen is erected around Vargas, and horrifying memories of Christian Eriksen are evoked as doctors assist the Hungary forward. Thankfully, Vargas is soon stretchered off, and the news is that he has had some kind of fit following a clash with Scotland’s keeper, Angus Gunn.
Picture by Paul Blake/Alamy Sports News
The match is sauntering towards a 0-0 draw when first Hungary hit the post and then Scotland substitute, Stuart Armstrong falls in the box amid screams for a penalty from all around me. It’s not given, and the match continues into injury time. It’s 90mins +10 when Hungary substitute Kevin Csoboth latches onto the ball in the area and steers it past Angus Gunn’s despairing right hand and into the bottom corner of the net. It’s all over for the Scots, and they know it.
A few seconds later, the final whistle goes, and there are ecstatic scenes from the Hungarian end. I go into overdrive and snap as many post-match shots as I possibly can. There is raw emotion on the pitch and in the stands. For many, the party is over. The two team captains, both Liverpool teammates, embrace.
Picture by Paul Blake/Alamy
I work on the photos for half an hour while the crowd disperses and then I head out of the stadium and make my way back to the hotel where I continue working into the early hours before finally deciding to get some sleep.
Some of the photos are selling well by the time I leave the following morning, and I’m pleased I made the journey out here. I’ve made some good contacts, and some opportunities have opened up, which I’m keen to take advantage of when I get home. Despite a delayed flight home, the journey is uneventful, and I arrive home tired but happy at 2am on Tuesday morning. I’ve got to be up for work in four hours!
Epilogue
Friedrich Schiller looks up at the starry canopy above the empty Platz and then down at his shaking, inky fingers. His short melancholic verse is written: ‘Joy, a prelude to despair’. A single tear dots the ‘i’ on his behalf as he prepares to walk the halls of the empty palace. This verse, he knows, will never be read.
