Grown men cried like grieving boys. World Cups end in salty tears for almost everyone, but last night's drama in St Etienne had the cruel gut wringing twist of some cheap fiction. Scotland and Morocco got bumped off like bit players.

The Moroccans own the tragedy of it all, though. They had brought mazy magic to the big show only to be struck by lightning last night as they went for the grand finale. Who would have thought the gods could have conspired so?

Lumpy Norway beat the dancing Brazilians in Marseille and everything we had seen in St Etienne was consigned to the shredding machine of history. Last night the Moroccans summoned up their big hearts and their light feet. They scored three goals. And got nothing.

While the Moroccans got to the bottom of just how generous the Norway penalty was, for Scotland there was nothing new under the sun. They fly home from another World Cup trailing a jet stream of commendations concerning their bravery and pride. They'd sooner sliver on their bellies into the second round than hear anymore about all the friends they have made. That laughing always turns to crying.

The Moroccans, though, will long reflect upon the opening night of the competition when they waltzed lightly but stood on their own toes twice. That night in Montpellier they took their hands off Norway's throat and ceded a draw. Now the Norwegians are living life large.

Some bitter irony for the Scots to chew on with their airplane food. The first Moroccan goal on 22 minutes came from a good old fashioned long ball. El Khalej lofted it from his own half down the channel to the right of the penalty area. Hendry, his mane making him unfortunately conspicuous, misjudged the flight.

Bassir didn't and met the ball with a volley. Leighton was on other business. Calling a cab to the airport maybe.

Scotland railed against their fate as we expected them to do, but more cunning and less huffing and puffing might have served them well. Their midfield was able to hew out enough possession to keep them hopeful but there was no art to it.

So the first half wound down with Morocco cradling their lead and unsheathing their full potential. Bassir went close three times in the minutes before the break. First Hendry had to intervene with a wonderful tackle. Then Hadji set Bassir up for a squandered shot. Lastly he blasted just over the bar. It must have been hard for Craig Brown to find the precise motivational speech at half-time.

The second goal arrived two minutes after the resumption and was a smarting slap to Scotland's other cheek. Hadda beat Weir in a sprint onto a long ball from Hadji. The Moroccan chipped Jim Leighton, who got a gloved finger to the ball, succeeding in dimming the velocity but not altering the trajectory. It found the net like bad news falling through the letterbox.

Bad news and more to come. Craig Burley, one of Scotland's blue chip performers, was two yards behind Bassir when he attempted to break from midfield in the 55th minute. Two yards behind. One bad tackle away. He went in fast, but late and left the pitch seconds later.

With 10 men left and a two-goal deficit, it was little wonder that the Scots found their legs getting heavier and the Moroccans getting swifter.

There was a little rancour in it now, the Scots increasingly frustrated, the Moroccans increasingly infuriating as they writhed on the ground after every invasion of their body space.

The game's last defining moment was another Moroccan goal, another piece of breathtaking skill from Bassir. Hadda headed a ball back over the head of Weir, Bassir hooked it over the head of Boyd and lashed it to the net via an unhelpful deflection from Hendry. The departure of the Scots leaves the World Cup a less friendly place, but saying goodbye to the Moroccans robs the competition of a team which might have grown to something near greatness.