After 28 years of watching World Cups from football's wilderness, there was never much danger of the Tartan Army getting antsy about the gridlock on the road to Foxborough.

On the contrary, in the hours leading up to what turned into a surreally stressful evening as Scotland ground their way to a 1-0 win over Haiti, fans revelled in the traffic delays, inch by inch, yard by yard.

Oblivious to the anxiety they were going to experience later on, a convoy of yellow school buses stuttered their way down the I-95 four hours before kick-off and Scots hung out the windows of every one of them, singing their songs, waving their flags, partying at a pace of a mile an hour.

The sense of anticipation and joy was so palpable you could have reached out and touched it. These Scotland supporters are remarkable. Vast waves of them. Clusters on every street corner in Boston. An occupying army.

Seven minutes before 9pm local time, Scotland entered the most extraordinary arena, the Boston Stadium. A riot of colour and noise, a football stadium, yes, but a theatre, too. A place for gladiators.

If you have to miss out on World Cups for nearly 30 years then this was the way to mark your return.

Giant screens behind both goals picking out every human emotion among the fans. Shivers up the spine, heart beating out the chest, Flower of Scotland belted out with gusto, its power almost greater on a foreign field than it is at home.

The scene was an antidote to all that is wrong in world football; the rampant greed, the unrelenting bombast. This was raw, powerful and emotional.

Scotland began well and then slowly faded. Haiti were no great shakes but they were getting on top. Wasteful, but better than their heavily-fancied opponents.

Approaching the half-hour, a familiar cry went up in a small corner of the stadium, a song to stir their favourite son. The Tartan Army started calling on John McGinn to do something. Beseeching him, almost.

Two minutes later, the Aston Villa man delivered. It was hardly the sweetest strike, but nobody cared. It wasn't particularly pretty, not that it mattered. It only found its way into the Haiti net by way of a double deflection but that was completely irrelevant.

It was a Scottish goal in their first World Cup in a generation. By definition, it was a thing of absolute beauty. The winner. Scotland's total of victories at the finals rises from four to five. These things are rare.

Everybody in the Scotland ranks would have imagined that they'd kick on after that, but they didn't.

None of their totems turned up in the way we know they can. None had control of the game. None lorded it over an opponent that, in truth, looked a whole lot better than Scotland for large periods. Haiti didn't deserve to lose.

A dozen minutes from the end, there was more singing from the Scottish crowd that we can only describe as gallows humour.

Scotland were leading 1-0 but they were under the cosh against the 83rd best team in the world. They were hanging on; vulnerable, error-ridden.

From that pocket of the Tartan Army came the 'No Scotland, No Party' tune, a piece of irony, surely, that made you smile. This was no party for them until the last whistle sound, this was a torture session.

The minutes ticked by - nine, eight, seven. The screens behind both goals flashed up images of Scotland fans and their 1000-yard stares. Six minutes to play and Frantzdy Pierrot rises above Grant Hanley and nuts one just wide.

Cue palpitations. Cue the appalling thought of a Haiti equaliser that would dynamite Scotland's hopes of doing what they came here to do - making history by making it out of a group in a World Cup.

If you can't beat Haiti, you're not beating Morocco or Brazil in games two and three.

More minutes drifted by. Pierrot had another chance - and missed. At one point the ball fell to Andy Roberton and instead of taking his time and clearing, he hoofed it away as if his life depended on it. His football life, for sure.

Every Scotland fan would have hoped for - but would not have expected - a relatively stress-free return to the biggest stage, a handy 2-0 or 3-0 that wasn't an assault on the senses.

What they got was a nerve-shredding night, a 90-minute rollercoaster ride, an evening to bring on a migraine.

They survived. That's the bottom line. Three points are on the board. A nightmare was averted. They can be, and have to be, better.

McGinn said that they have more gears to go up and he's right.

Goalkeeper Angus Gunn spoke later and sounded glum. He tried to accentuate the positive but it was a battle. "When we look back, we won't be happy, but we've just won a game at the World Cup, so…"

Those contrasting feelings summed it up. Three points, but… A first win at a World Cup in close to three decades, but…

Billy Gilmour's composure was missed. So, too, the brilliance of McTominay and the authority of McGinn. Neither was a major presence, McTominay's shot off a post and McGinn's goal aside. Scotland's best player was Ben Gannon-Doak, who was a double handful.

Later on Sunday, these players will return to base camp in Charlotte as tired men. But as winners, too. So much has to improve before they face Morocco back in Boston in a week's time.

This was a win that sparked huge celebrations among the fans but those celebrations were as much about relief than joy. "Everybody told us that it was a must-win game and we've won it," said Clarke. That cut to the heart of it.

Exhausting, laborious, oppressive, but three points and hope. The best of it was those lads hanging out the windows of the school bus, the sheer excitement, the undiluted happiness, the mighty buzz of just being here.

Many of them will be back again for more against Morocco. Another night of pressure and angst is guaranteed, but there's nowhere else on earth these people would rather be.