How Scott McTominay Led Scotland Back to the World Cup
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In the short, shaky video that endeared Scott McTominay to me in perpetuity, he is smoking a cigarette and dancing with a white-haired S.S.C. Napoli fan to a forgettable Italian pop song. Drink, quite clearly, has been taken. With smoke streaming from his mouth and nose, McTominay twirls the delighted older man around. It’s a portrait of happy abandon, the kind that one rarely witnesses in the closely managed public lives of professional athletes, but there is also something winningly Mediterranean about the scene: two men of different generations celebrating together without embarrassment. McTominay was raised in Lancaster, England; joined the youth academy of his only previous club, Manchester United, as a five-year-old; and has now led Scotland, his father’s country, to its first World Cup in twenty-eight years. But in Naples—at the Serie A club that recruited him in the summer of 2024—much more than his play has been transformed. He is now un ragazzo napoletano, who loves to cook, to dress well, and, occasionally, to party.
On the night the video was captured, in May, 2025, S.S.C. Napoli had just won its fourth Scudetto, or league title. The triumph was propelled in no small way by the efforts of McTominay. He had played con brio for the whole season, shoring up Napoli’s defense when needed, and—at the other end of the field—arriving late in the opposition box as an attacking threat. He scored twelve goals in the league from midfield, and won the end-of-season award for Serie A’s Footballer of the Year. In the match that sealed the championship, McTominay scored a scissor-kick goal in the club’s 2-0 win over Cagliari.
There will only ever be one king of Naples: Diego Maradona, the Argentinean picaro who led Napoli to glory in the nineteen-eighties while indulging an increasingly destructive cocaine habit. Walking in the historic center of the city—where motorbikes flash by on narrow streets, laundry hangs from balconies, and giant pennants of the city’s team are strung high overhead—one witnesses several devotional Maradona tableaux. But it was strange for me to see, on two recent visits to Naples, that a second face has now joined Maradona’s impish likeness on the building walls: a high-cheekboned Lancastrian’s. When I occasionally fell into conversation with other soccer fans, who constitute the vast majority of ordinary citizens, and mentioned that I was from Manchester, and supported United, their responses were nearly identical: typically, they held their hands in front of their bodies, their fingers pinched together as if they were begging a referee to award a penalty kick, and said—in a way that betrayed both gratitude and disbelief—“Thank you for McTominay.”
Scott McTominay was not always such a gift. For a period at Manchester United, he was one half of a two-man defensive midfield partnership with Frederico Rodrigues de Paula Santos, a Brazilian workhorse who goes by a single-name moniker: Fred. This midfield combination was known, with more than a little derision, as “McFred.” For many, their style of play seemed to encapsulate all that was second-rate about Manchester United after the glory years of Sir Alex Ferguson. McFred was industrious, but without finesse or attacking zeal. McFred was not Keane and Scholes, or Robson and Ince.
That analysis was, if anything, too kind to Fred. (A fellow United fan once remarked to me that watching the Brazilian attempt to control the ball was like watching a puppy with a balloon.) But McTominay was a different story. There were moments, even when United was a poor and unambitious team, where he shone. Those instances tended to occur when he was given license to roam farther up the field. McTominay is tall—six feet four—and deceptively quick. In 2023, Manchester United was losing by a goal to Brentford when McTominay was sent on as an attacking-midfield substitute, and scored both a late equalizer and a winner in the final minutes. His habit of scoring decisive goals did not begin in Italy. Nevertheless, United never knew quite what to do with him. In the summer of 2024, McTominay was sold to Napoli, for around thirty-three million dollars. Most observers thought Manchester United had got a good deal.
Since then, in Naples, McTominay has made a mockery of his sale price. What accounts for this transformation? For sure, Serie A can no longer match the furnace of the English Premier League; the Italian league is widely considered to be the third- or fourth-best division in Europe. But it is still a highly competitive environment, in which McTominay has dazzled. (And, crucially, the form that he has shown in Naples has transferred to his performances for Scotland, for whom he has also proved a pivotal figure.) Much of this success can be traced to Antonio Conte, the shrewd and fiery manager of Napoli, who seemed to know McTominay’s exact strengths, and has deployed them to the team’s advantage. Conte, who left the club at the end of this season, instilled in McTominay a confidence that he was lacking in Manchester, putting him at the heart of the Napoli project. The fans adore him. He is known by many of them as “Scotto,” or as “McFratm”—“McBro,” roughly translated—on account of their inability to pronounce his surname correctly.
Paul McGuinness, an English football coach, spent many years training boys in Manchester United’s youth system, including McTominay. He has watched his protégé’s recent flourishing with pride, but not surprise. He told me that when McTominay was twelve or thirteen years old, he was placed in a school with other United prospects of different ages, and although he was one of the younger members of a group that also included Marcus Rashford and Jesse Lingard, “he was never one of the shy ones in the corner.” As a player, he was also “brave, very brave—despite physical frailties.”
One can never say for sure which youth players will become stars, McGuinness explained to me. But the key to understanding McTominay’s success was knowing what happened to him as a teen-ager. As a twelve-year-old, he was the same size as his age-mates, but by fifteen he was small. (“He still looked more like a twelve-year-old, really,” McGuinness said.) Because he lacked size, he had to be inventive when in possession of the ball—a quality that is now one of his defining characteristics. When McTominay finally grew, in his late teens, the spurt happened so quickly that he was sidelined with knee problems for many months. At the under-eighteen level, McGuinness remembers, McTominay hardly played a game. But McGuinness also remembers how, instead of being discouraged, McTominay spent his time in the gym, getting stronger. He had a “positive attitude.” Whatever success he now enjoys, McGuinness says, is down to his “drive and personality to overcome upsets.”
The last time Scotland reached the World Cup was in 1998—a tournament that France won on home soil. McTominay was not yet two years old; I was eighteen. That summer, I was sitting for some consequential end-of-school exams that would determine where I might go to university. One of the tests clashed with the opening game of the World Cup: Scotland’s group match against Brazil. I adored the 1998 vintage of Brazilians—Ronaldo was the best striker I had ever seen, and the speedy right back, Cafu, remains one of my favorite players of all time—but I also wanted to see if Scotland could spring an upset on the tournament favorites. I snuck out of the exam hall ten minutes early to catch the last portion of the game. Scotland fought hard, and might have snatched a point after scoring a penalty kick to tie the game 1–1, but, in the seventy-fourth minute, Cafu attacked, causing enough panic in the Scotland box to force a calamitous own goal. Brazil won 2–1.
Scotland and Brazil meet again in the group at this year’s tournament. Scotland is better than it was in 1998; Brazil is not quite its normal assemblage of galácticos. And yet, the world would be shocked if the result were anything other than a win for Brazil. On the betting exchanges before the tournament began, Scotland was 250–1 to lift the World Cup; Brazil was 8–1. But if there is to be an upset, McTominay is an obvious candidate to conjure the requisite magic.
One of the goals that secured Scotland’s place at the World Cup was an outrageous McTominay bicycle kick, in a 4–2 victory against Denmark last November. The goal immediately became folkloric; a huge mural of McTominay, upside down, now adorns a street wall in Glasgow. Scotland has enjoyed one or two such moments before. Archie Gemmill’s goal against the Netherlands, at the 1978 World Cup, in Argentina—a clever nutmeg past a sliding defender, then a jinking run and a lifted finish past the keeper—remains a cornerstone of Scottish sports legend. (In the film adaptation of Irvine Welsh’s “Trainspotting,” one of the characters reaches climax and exclaims, “I haven’t felt that good since Archie Gemmill scored against Holland in 1978!”)
It is sometimes forgotten that Gemmill’s goal was scored during Scotland’s forlorn attempt to progress from their group at the World Cup. In contrast, McTominay’s flash of genius was in service of a consequential victory. The celebration is what I loved best. Instead of ripping off his shirt, or wildly gesticulating, McTominay ran to the edge of the pitch with his hands facing down and his lips pursed. The gesture said, Relax, we’ve got this. The goal was Scottish, the aftermath Neapolitan.
Outside Boston last weekend, during Scotland’s first World Cup match in twenty-eight years, a nervy 1–0 victory against Haiti, McTominay heard plenty of familiar cheers. Scotland’s fans are known as the Tartan Army. When they travel, they tend to do so in large numbers, fuelled by strong lager and outrageous optimism. When Scotland qualified for the 1978 World Cup, a Glasgow businessman named Jim Tait supposedly made plans to charter a submarine on the River Clyde, to transport a hundred and eighty fans across the ocean to the tournament. (The plan didn’t get far.) After Scotland was eliminated from the tournament, there was a rumor that some of the Tartan Army, ensorcelled by local hospitality, missed their flights home—and, instead of rebooking, chose to settle in Argentina instead.
The Tartan Army of 2026 has journeyed to America with similar enthusiasm, and unrealistic expectations have been loaded upon the shoulders of McTominay. He may never have a better moment than his bicycle kick against Denmark. Recently, the Bank of Scotland unveiled a special twenty-pound note featuring an image of McTominay as he scored the upside-down goal. You know you’ve made it when you’re on the money. ♦