By Chick Young BBC Scotland football correspondent

It is more than a football match now. It's Clark Kent versus Lex Luther, Popeye against Bluto. It's good over evil.

Italy have scarred the face of the beautiful game.

They have polluted it with match-fixing and corruption, riddled it with the cancer of crowd violence and even, it would seem, used verbal abuse in the World Cup final to rid their opponents of their most dangerous player.

Scotland's task is straightforward; beat the world champions

Theirs is currently the dodgy neighbourhood of the sport.

Scotland will be the white knights in dark blue for the world at Hampden. The devilish Azzurri must be put to the sword.

Be still my thundering heart, it thumps in my breast like Roger Rabbit on the sight of Jessica's cavernous cleavage as I even think about what might unfold this fevered Saturday night.

A nation waits. It is ten long years since Scotland competed in a major finals and that is a disgrace.

Kids have completed their primary or secondary school educations without ever knowing what it is like to be part of such a joyous occasion.

Prime ministers have come and gone; wars have been won and lost. Hearts have even topped the SPL.

And now we stand on the threshold of it all once again - against all odds.

Let us establish something here. If our young guns collapse at the final hurdle, if the Italians accomplish their mission, if there are tears before bedtime then still this team that Walter Smith spawned and Alex McLeish brought up deserve a standing ovation.

They merit an honours degree in overachieving because they have skipped up mountains when we all thought they would disappear down the pothole of Group B of the European Championship qualifying stages.

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But when you are at reach out and touch distance of the Holy Grail you don't act in a reasoned manner.

You don't reflect "och well, we've done no' bad to get here" and retire for a nightcap.

Oh no. For one reason or another this nation will not sleep well on Saturday night.

This is the rebirth of the Hampden roar. They will hear the noise from Mount Florida at Mount Vesuvius on Saturday night.

The strains of Loch Lomond and 500 Miles and Flower of Scotland may even ripple the Sea of Tranquillity.

Whatever else, Italy will know they have faced a nation stirred.

In my cold moments of logic, when I sit and study the respective squads, when I am honest about those Italians and their blasted ability to do what they have to do and the seemingly forgotten fact that they are champions of the world, then I am realistic. Scotland won't win.

Scotland can count on a frenzied backing at Hampden

We have a chance, of course we have, but only if Alex McLeish can field his first choice XI which admittedly now seems likely.

The truth, as we found out in Georgia, is that we have an A team, but no B side.

There will be an ocean of passion and emotion cascading down from the stands and a Tartan Army trying to suck the ball in to the Italian net.

But, in my moments of calm, I fear it will not be enough.

I still believe I will have no reason to fulfil my pledge to cycle to Switzerland if they do make it.

But the composure won't last. At Hampden on Saturday I will be as insane as the next crazed lunatic, singing and screaming and swearing.

Which may be all right for the Tartan Army, but then they are not broadcasting to a nation starving for the right kind of news from the heart of Hampden.

I will lose all sense of reason. Wrap my logic in a See-You-Jimmy hat. And pray through gritted teeth.

It is time for Clark Kent to get into the phone box...