Scottish Cup final: Christmases and birthdays came at once for Hearts By ALAN PATTULLO Published on Monday 21 May 2012 05:39 IT COULD be considered one of the biggest stings in football history. What could be worse following a drubbing in a cup final, against your fiercest rivals? Waking up the next morning and remembering that, in order to gain access to this carnival of misery at Hampden, you were huckled into purchasing a season's pass to more of the same in the next campaign. Ever get the feeling you have been cheated? This has now gone beyond cruelty. There is no sadder sight in football than the detritus left after an invading army of supporters has departed again. Flags poking out of the back of upturned seats, discarded programmes; the things that are left because no-one wants to have to remember. This was only the scene in the Hibs end, of course. At the Hearts end of the stadium, the fans rifled beneath seats like beach-combers, in search of anything that might act as a memento. As for Hibs, it was another case of tears for souvenirs. Knots of admirably hardy fans bedecked in green and white stuck around until the trophy procession, as though wanting to extract the last jabs of agony from the afternoon. As the song Hurt goes, specifically the doom-laden version by Johnny Cash: "I hurt myself today, to see if I see still feel." These masochists were dotted around the empty acres to the east end of the stadium. James McPake, the departing Hibs skipper, threw his shirt over the perimeter fence, the mother of one of Leigh Griffiths" young children lingered at the front, unsure as to the protocol. The only protocol is this: Since 1902, Hibs turn up for Scottish Cup finals - nine in a row now - and lose them. Can they recover? Perhaps it's worth remembering that Hibs know what it is like to win a cup final by a scoreline of five goals to one. And what happened to their opponents that day? Kilmarnock picked themselves up off the floor and, five years later, returned to Hampden to win the same tournament, overcoming hot favourites Celtic in the process. Hearts themselves reacted to a 5-1 defeat in 1996, against Rangers, to win the trophy on three occasions in the next 16 years. There is, then, hope. But if Hibs do finally end the years, the century, of hurt in this particular tournament, the side will not look anything like the one fielded on Saturday. Included in Pat Fenlon's starting XI were as many as five loan signings, the here-today-gone-tomorrow band of brothers who carried with them the hopes, and the fears, of generations of Hibs supporters. Following Pa Kujabi's red card just after half-time, precisely half of the Hibs side belonged elsewhere, and looked like they wanted to be elsewhere too. It isn't a recipe for success. "You've done nothing when it means everything," screeched one supporter, after Ryan McGowan had launched himself at a ball that was probably going in anyway to score Hearts" fourth goal. He had shown more desire in that one instance than the entire Hibs side combined, and it had been noted. Hearts supporters, by contrast, were able to sit back and enjoy a Scottish Cup win for the first time in a while, since the last ten minutes of 1956"s win over Celtic, and after Alfie Conn had scored to put his side 3-1 up with ten minutes left. Even pre-match, they seemed to emit the confidence of people who knew everything was going to turn out just fine. As the tee-shirt of choice advised: "Keep calm, it's only Hibs." Certainly, their last two victories in this competition have been nervous affairs. Here, however, Christmases, birthdays, they all came at once. It was so comfortable that a clearly unfit Craig Beattie was sent on, socks half-way up his calves, as though on five-a-side duty at a local Power League. The game was over as a contest after only 49 minutes. Craig Thomson, the referee, provided Hibs with one final insult with the shrill blast of his final whistle, which arrived three or four seconds before the end of the regulation 90 minutes. No injury time was played, despite a sending-off, despite five substitutions. No more, he was saying. Hibs had been flayed enough. Their fans will note that the referee himself had delivered a brutal kick to the guts, with the penalty-that-wasn't a penalty, but most were aware enough to accept that the better side had won on the day. Hibs had suffered enough. The majority of their fans had already reached that conclusion, it must be said. "Not here, not now," as Philip Larkin once observed. But when? It wasn't a question the Hibs fans had the stomach to contemplate as they returned to their cars and buses, relieved to be extending the distance, with each step, between themselves and a cemetery of hope known as Hampden Park. When Thomson's whistle blew, they were already heading back east, were half-way home in fact; past the cherry-picker positioned in a field with its mechanical arm extended, on which had been pinned a maroon sheet with the message, "Let's get this party started"; past the discarded green and white balloons left floating sadly in lay-bys. They were, probably, oblivious to the sun that had, by now, peeked out from behind the grey skies. Sunshine on Gorgie might not have the same ring, yet it was undeniably the case on Saturday evening.