Valour's currency

Compiled by Robert Jeffrey and Ian Watson

Canongate, #15.99

THE two boxers pictured would give most a doing. But there is more than a suspicion that only one of them would enjoy it.

Big Primo Carnera's pretensions to greatness and heroism were cruelly exposed, leaving backers such as Damon Runyon richer in experience but poorer in the pocket. The wee man with the diabolic half-smile is Tancy Lee, flyweight champion, hard man, and one of the Scottish heroes celebrated in a publication which drinks deeply from the vast reservoir of Herald pictures.

Heroism is a devalued coin in sport. Writers spend the word with the profligacy of an

inebriated swell, conferring heroic status on scorers of two-yard tap-ins in tournaments sponsored by double-glazing firms.

However, Jeffrey and Watson have imposed tougher criteria

for inclusion in their book. It is

a tribute to a small nation that

so many meet the minimum requirements.

My definition of heroism is blurred, barely comprehensible, but sincerely held: the memory is the final, infallible arbiter.

The paradox of heroism is that singular actions drawn from a personal reserve must impinge on the consciousness of the fan. Anonymous heroism is rarely the currency of sporting valour.

Personal preference is for men with flaws. Gavin Hastings, Ally McCoist, and Stephen Hendry have all claims to excellence but they must remain heroes for others.

Simply to be great is not enough to be a hero. If only a coward can be truly brave, surely a hero must explore the dark crevasses of self-doubt and swim in the whirlpool of debilitating emotions.

There were better boxers than Jim Watt, but never a better champion. Jimmy Johnstone's heroism lay not in his twists and turns but in his willingness to vault the pain barrier and the lunging legs of desperate defenders. Jim Clark's courage was brought into sharper relief by a self-knowledge which politely disdained adulation.

Heroes, too, are sometimes victims. A grainy shot of Hughie Gallacher carries a

premonition, the dark eyes

foreshadowing a lonely death under the wheels of a train.

Other departures are terrifyingly banal. There is a pirouetting Davie Cooper, caught forever in the ecstasy of a goal, smiling boyishly. Both stars left the stage cruelly and early.

Scotland's Sporting Heroes captures a flurry of butterfly memories and presses them between hard covers. The photographs and the captions tell us much about our heroes. The

emotions they evoke tell us something about ourselves.