At 17-0 the obituaries were being written. How bad was it going to get? How brutal was the analysis going to be? Scotland – all style, no substance. Not a serious team. Not a side to be respected when facing the biggest guns. Whither Townsend?

When things started to turn, it was electrifying. It was like you walked into some kind of parallel universe, a place where Scotland were now ruthless and full of running and where New Zealand were hanging on for grim death.

It all changed when Ewan Ashman scored and when Ardie Savea got binned in the aftermath. 17-7 against 14 men? You’re telling me there’s a chance.

Three minutes later, Scotland scored again. Tuipulotu went blasting and Kinghorn flung it wide to Steyn. A three-point game. Murrayfield on its feet, pulses racing. It was some of the best stuff we’ve seen from Scotland in an age – and some of the most maddening.

Around the 53-minute mark they went hunting again, should have scored but knocked on instead. In the 56th minute they piled on, Darcy Graham almost getting over in the corner, but dropping the ball under pressure.

It was a thrill-fest but it was worrying, too. Through their frenetic search for scores, Scotland were only liberating New Zealand instead of locking them up and throwing away the key, as clinical teams would do.

Still, not long after Savea returned to the battle, Finn Russell banged over a penalty to level it. Then, the death-wish in the All Black camp returned when Wallace Sititi deliberately knocked on. A third New Zealand yellow.

It was as if they were goading Scotland now. “Come on lads, we’re doing our best to help you here. How many cards do we need to get for you to beat us?”

The Sititi minutes came and went and the scoreboard didn’t budge. That was the cringe-factor right there. That was the red flag on Scottish hopes. These are not vintage All Blacks and they were there for the taking. Maybe they just got fed up waiting for Scotland to win the day?

We entered the final 10 minutes and the sense of foreboding began to grow. Anybody who knows the recent history of this fixture is aware of the darkness that descends on Scotland in the closing stages against the All Blacks.

In your head you could hear the distant sound of thunder. Or jungle drums. Or a funeral march. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good. McKenzie hit them with that game-changing 50-22. From Damian, an omen.

Penalties were given away, ground was conceded, hope faded. McKenzie scored and there was no coming back. In days gone by you would call this a moral victory, you would feast on the positives and talk about the things that suggest Scotland can live with the best.

We’re past that and good riddance to the mentality. There was no solace in performance and no pride in failure. It was a compelling day but also dispiriting almost beyond words.

Scotland could and should have won. They looked immortality in the eye and said “not today”, as if 120 years isn’t long enough to wait.

What to do now? Revisit the footage of 1964 when Scotland drew 0-0 and 1983 when they drew 25-25? The glory days, you might call them.