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.

5

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.

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