The Slow Match Report: Hearts 2 Petrocub Hîncești 2

Gift-wrapped goals, an unangelic home choir and a visiting goalie meaner than Scrooge. The Jambos wanted so much more for Christmas

In town, ear-muffed herds shuffled between wooden kiosks and tutted at the price of everything and the value of nothing. On one side of a fence the Ferris wheel sparkled and on the other buses harrumphed through. They carried the odd matchmaker towards Tynecastle. At least there, hot dogs could be snared for less than a tenner. Edinburgh, like always, existed as two or three cities grumbling along together at once. Bliss was it to be among that cohort flitting west, away from sickly goblets of mulled wine and towards floodlights. “Christmas Market?” said a modern Scrooge in a maroon and white bar scarf as he took his seat on the 34 to Gorgie, “Load o’ pish.”

Christmas trees flickered in tenement windows and steamy pub windows glowed. For a moment, choosing to spend this evening outdoors in the violent cold felt like a wild madness. Then among the teeming streets surrounding Tynecastle, matchday’s iridescent carnival showed that our actions made sense. Stadium floodlights induced a second twilight from the sky and people who only ever see each other here talked about Christmas plans and Hibs on Boxing Day. Gangs and families marched in hope, some fans pausing to buy half-and-half scarves, commemorative pin badges or programmes whose covers proclaimed this to be Hearts’ 100^th game in European competition. Victory would herald a 101^st. Moldovan opponents Petrocub were already eliminated. “We can still fuck this up,” said a lad barely in his twenties as he dragged on a vape outside the Tynecastle Arms. They are born cynical here.

O Come, All Ye Faithful... the maroon legions make their arrival

A crisp, sniping wind scattered two perfumes over the scene. First, alluring batter and sauce from the Gorgie Fish Bar. Then, sweet malting aromas from the North British Distillery. Now that most inner-city industry has perished, Tynecastle is one of very few grounds which retains a distinct scent and could be identified by nostrils alone.

Inside, the pitch gleamed and Jambos near-filled the steep stands of this magnificent nest. “This is my story…” they sang from all sides at kick-off, although the anthem seemed to fade away quickly in the manner of schoolchild chatter when a teacher enters the classroom.

Hearts pressed forward and plundered six corners in the first ten minutes. Several Petrocub players looked immediately exhausted. They moved groggily as if abruptly awoken and forced to run around the street in their pyjamas and slippers. One of them, defender Ion Borș, took a prolonged rest having been felled in his penalty area. “Get up, ye’ wee prick” bawled a supporter close to the touchline. It was a phrase possibly absent from Borș’ English phrasebook.

They were playing as though tapping their fingers and waiting for Hearts to score. Behind them, however, was a frenetic barrier – Silviu Șmalenea, a young goalkeeper with the sturdy quizzical eyebrows of a Guess Who? character. Șmalenea punched, caught and parried everything that flew his way. He charged around his box frantically, a husband shopping on Christmas Eve. When the ball finally eluded him, Hearts’ centre-back Kye Rowles nodded what should have been a simple headed goal into the turf so that it bounced out of play like a skimming pebble.

Petrocub defend one of 15 home corner kicks as Hearts pressed in vain for European progression

Then, improbably, Vladimir Ambros cantered towards the home goal as if suddenly uncoupled from a three-legged race. He clipped a pass that dissected the Hearts defence – which, admittedly, was akin to slicing Play Doh with a sword – and Mihai Plătică plinked home. Thirty or so Petrocub supporters high in the main stand stood and roared their delight. Hitherto unnoticed, their sudden eruption was like that of guests hiding in the kitchen at a surprise party. 2,000 miles is very far, as Chrissie Hynde tends to remind us at this time of year, and they celebrated lustily, as well they might. Predictably, their cheers were swiftly overwhelmed by the howls of home supporters, disgruntled by league form before they arrived and now in great numbers incensed. From now until half-time each misplaced pass – and there were many – sparked groans and worse. Some appeared to be in competition over who could let out the most hearty, round-mouthed booing sound as if they had been rehearsing all week. It was like hearing the tolling of some hellish anti-yuletide bells.

On cue as Hearts fumbled to muster an equaliser, Petrocub remembered how to defend. Such was Donalio Douanla’s commitment to the cause, he threw himself into a repelling diving header so low to the turf that he resembled a skeleton racer at the Winter Olympics. When Hearts playmaker Yan Dhanda skipped free and dribbled into the area, he found himself quickly surrounded by four men in white, seagulls homing in on dropped chips. Then Alan Forrest whizzed in a cross that absconded beyond the outmuscled James Wilson and out of play, a snowball missing its target. Just before the break, Plătică should have scored again. His skewed header prompted a reprise from the howling choir that lasted through injury time and possibly into the pie queue.

The second half commenced in a similar rhythm to the first. Hearts pushed forward although most attacks frittered to nothing or brought fruitless corner kicks. Their efforts were led – perhaps tellingly – by their full-backs. From the right, Daniel Oyegoke roused the faithful with a darting run. Then his counterpart on the left, James Penrice, hoisted forward a clever pass which Lawrence Shankland nicked through to Wilson. The 17-year-old slid in an equaliser and Gorgie rejoiced.

Petrocub’s players again looked jaded, drifting languidly around the pitch like ghosts on morphine. They, of course, had nothing to play for whereas Hearts did. The crowd bayed for a second goal, supplied to incandescent relief when substitute Blair Spittal headed into the net from 12 yards out. Spittal’s contact with the ball was casual yet heartfelt, as if he was nodding to an acquaintance across the street.

Victor Mudrac steps up to equalise from the penalty spot and spoil Craig Gordon’s Christmas

That, then, should’ve been that. Petrocub should’ve collapsed, Hearts should’ve won and quelled anxious howls, albeit in an unconvincing manner. Their supporters should’ve been turning Easyjet orange to Gorgie maroon again next year. Yet VAR is mathematics and not poetry, an equation and not a narrative arc. Summoned to look at a possible handball by Penrice, referee Ondrej Berka jogged to the monitor with the lanky gait of a farmer chasing an errant hen. Penalty. 2-2. “Petrocub! Petrocub!” sang the Moldovan wayfarers. Everything had changed and the boos were ringing out before Christmas Day.