I was privileged, in football terms at least, to be a child of the 1970s. It was often a thrilling and mesmerising ride: teeming crowds at Ibrox and Celtic Park, with Billy Bremner, Joe Jordan and Kenny Dalglish wearing the dark blue of Scotland, a time when the oft-cited, swaggering Scottish boast “wha’s like us?” seemed thoroughly justified.

The politics of Europe was not to be fathomed back then — just being at the game was the thing. As a mere snapshot, I stood with my Dad one freezing November night when a mere 82,000 were inside Hampden Park for a Scotland-Spain European Championship qualifier, which Scotland had the temerity to lose 2-1. Tommy Hutchison, wonderful moustache and lanky, unpredictable legs, missed a penalty. It was sad but it didn’t matter too much. Just being there, savouring it all, was it.

Older generations talk in even more elegiac terms of the 1960s. Back then there was Denis Law, Jim Baxter, the Lisbon Lions and a seeming plethora of Scottish inside-lefts or half-backs who could show the world how it was done. Wembley, 1967, etc. The Scots crowed at just about everything in football. By the time the 1970s came round, and I was sitting keenly watching any scrap of football on the telly, the Scots were so prolific that scarcely five minutes could go by without a Bremner, a John O’Hare, an Alan Gilzean, an Eddie Gray or an Alfie Conn appearing on my screen.

My Saturdays were governed by the finest, most golden hour of telly any football-loving kid could wish for. At 12.30 up popped Sam Leitch — even he was a Scot — with Football Focus on Frank Bough’s Grandstand. By the time Leitch had finished combing English football with its surfeit of Scots, and with impeccable timing, Brian Moore’s On The Ball would just be starting on the other side. Thus, there commenced a reprise, with slight variations, of what we had just seen, again with the Scots peppering ITV’s highlights.

All of this was summed up in one almighty shout. “Lorimer, one-nil!” bawled David Coleman as one of the Leeds United striker’s classic piledrivers bulged yet another net.

The Scottish game was wonderful. For some reason, from this time, I have never been able to forget Hibernian’s 1973-74 Uefa Cup double-header with Leeds United. Leeds and English football fans were utterly ignorant of how skilful Hibs were back then, and they went to Elland Road to play Don Revie’s mighty team and spent passages of that first-leg passing Leeds off the park over a goalless 90 minutes. This was the Hibs of Pat Stanton, Alex Cropley, Alex Edwards, John Brownlie, Arthur Duncan and the rest. They simply oozed class. As English commentators drooled over Hibs’ play, the second-leg in Edinburgh also finished 0-0, with Leeds going through on penalties.

This was Scottish football, still high on the hog, with its effortless production of wonderful players. As a child, looking back, I was wide-eyed.

I thought of all this last week when Walter Smith spoke of the potential death of the Scottish game. It is a long, complicated prognosis involving various “ifs” and “buts” which doesn’t bare repeating here, but suffice to say, the game in Scotland is in a depression. Rangers and Celtic might leave the SPL over the next ten years, and if they do, what will be left? If they don’t, says Smith, then Scottish league football will wither, taking the Old Firm down with it.

It is a bleak outlook. Also, to be sure, no one knows what the future holds. In five years’ time we might be on the crest of another wave, and look back with a wry smile to those daft, doom-laden days of 2009 when some football managers and the media commentators simply had it all wrong. But this looks unlikely. Smith is an intelligent man, he is a keen observer, and he knows Rangers FC inside out. And from his crow’s nest, looking out over the ocean, all he can see are dark clouds.

Many have proved the catalyst for Scottish football’s current state. The collapse of Setanta, and the millions it had promised to pour into the game, is one such cause. The fateful decline of the Scottish national team — six successive qualifying failures — is another. The necessary financial downsizing of both Rangers and Celtic, and the mediocrity that this forces both Smith and Tony Mowbray to work with, is a third. The decline in our youth development — “When I look around, what I see coming through isn’t good enough,” Craig Levein, the Dundee United manager, says — is a fourth.

These, you might argue, are all temporary blips. They are mere “seasonal fads”, soon to give way to something better. Maybe, but if so, then a sudden and exciting uplift is urgently required in Scottish football. The game right now is hurting. It suffers from a lack of self-worth. Players, managers and journalists are all quietly fretting over the product we are all a part of.

Scotland needs to qualify for Euro 2012. A new generation of fine footballers needs to emerge. Rangers — badly — need a rich and ambitious new owner. Tony Mowbray needs to successfully rebuild Celtic. We need good things to start happening, and soon.

And another thing ...

I have to confess I am a little stunned by the fuss some Rangers people told me about last night over comments I made in yesterday’s Sunday Times about Rangers handing over 1,500 free tickets to the armed forces for tomorrow night’s Champions League game against Unirea Urziceni at Ibrox.

For the record, I think it is a fine gesture by Martin Bain and Rangers to reward the soldiers in this way. It was never my intention to denigrate Bain or Rangers for this thoughtful deed.

The point I was trying to make was that there are zealots at both halves of the Old Firm who pester Bain and Peter Lawwell almost weekly with their demands concerning the “cultural differences” between the two clubs. And Rangers — far more readily than Celtic, I’ll bet — would hand over tickets like this to the Army.

I’m not in the habit of apologising to Rangers — it’s a bit late for that — but on this occasion I will, if I have unfairly caused offence. None was intended. But Mr Bain, in choosing to give away these tickets to Army personnel when Ibrox was going to have plenty of empty seats anyway, was simply being quite clever in my opinion.

Heading for the exit?

If I was Eddie May, I’d have my black binliner ready to gather up my stuff.

Following Falkirk’s 3-1 defeat to

St Mirren, the Bairns lie anchored to the foot of the table, with no wins in eight outings so far. I can’t pretend to know the mind of the Falkirk boardroom, and May certainly talks a good game and has self-belief, but he is now starting to push his luck. On Saturday Falkirk visit Tynecastle, and May needs to take something there.

With my friend, Big Tel, also feeling the heat in Inverness, I do believe the sack race is upon us.