[Part 1: The quest begins.]
On day two — a rainy, foul Saturday — I attended a Masters Football tournament, an indoor soccer event featuring retired players from various Scottish teams. One of the organizers, amazingly named Will Rogers, had comped me a ticket to the sold-out event, and as a way of showing my gratitude I bought him a beer at halftime. I also told him what I was really in Glasgow for. Which is how, just after halftime, I heard an announcement over the house speakers. “Now don’t laugh,” said the emcee, “but if there is a Mr. or Mrs. McTavish here, please go to the bar for a free drink.” But no one — not even a drunk looking for a handout — showed up.