A piece on the state of football in Australia written just after the World Cup qualifier against Uruguay in 2005. It appeared in ‘Palace Echo’ with the note that the word “wog” as used in Australia is a mild pejorative which relates to southern European immigrants. It has a very different meaning in the UK which initially caused my editor some problems.
There’s only one thing worse than travelling to some obscure corner of Britain and sitting in the freezing rain watching Palace collapse in yet another performance which gives new meaning to the words ‘disinterested’ and ‘dire’. And that’s not being able to do so.
Three years ago I gave up my twelve month British adventure (which somehow turned into six years) and returned to Sydney. That’s the home of sun, beaches, friendly people and crap football. OK, the first three differed from what I got in South London but the crap football here was not of the same type Palace dished up. The national league could be described as Conference standard if you were kind. All the best players headed overseas as soon as possible to play for the top clubs (and Palace). The ‘soccer’ code came well behind the three other football codes – Aussie Rules, rugby league and rugby union - and was regarded as the province of sheilas, wogs and poofters*.
Football in Australia was maintained by the massive immigrant population who, as all first generation immigrants do, gathered around their own kind as a form of security blanket. Football was not only their game but also their means of maintaining social gatherings. Perfectly understandable to those who only ever see certain people at ‘The Cherries’ but anathema to the general population. As a result of this football clubs grew around ethnic groups and, due to the same tribal allegiances manifested all over the world, this led to violence between supporters and a marked disinterest in the sport from the media – unless there was a punch-up going on, of course.
Yet football still remained the biggest junior participation sport in the country. It just couldn’t translate that to getting a decent domestic league. Across all cities and towns there was a mass of football shirts being worn; not only British teams but a massive variety of those from all across Europe and South America. The global game was here but it was waiting for decent organisation. And finally - many, many years late – it arrived.
In the last few months the A-League has been birthed, Australia has moved into Asia and there’s this little thing called Germany 2006. More on that later. For now it was my first visit to an A-League game. New clubs had been created on a per city basis. No longer was it Sydney Croatia or Sydney Marconi it was just Sydney FC – the split along ethnic groups was rent asunder by a new management who had realised it was their last chance to make it a truly national sport. So how would it survive in a country which valued sporting success?
I’d arranged to go with Julian and Renee – fellow Palace tragics – to see Sydney against the NZ Knights. We met at a local pub which seemed exactly like ‘The Alliance’ except that it had room. A few beers and then off to the stadium. A few years ago it was one of the biggest in the city and then the Olympics happened. As a result the 40,000 capacity seemed a bit small although the crowd of 10,000 didn’t really make a dent in that. Now 10,000 may seem small for a Friday night crowd but that eclipses a few Championship attendances. I’ve been in smaller ones for Palace at home. There’s a few things I learned from that game: the standard of the domestic game is fast improving, there’s a reason Dwight Yorke no longer plays in the Premiership and there’s a huge range of people who watch the game.
Three years ago the domestic game was Conference standard and now it’s League One. That means there’s some very good stuff played with some brilliance at times. As with most teams not at the top level it’s consistency that lets it down but as with the lower leagues it’s generally entertaining. The ball is moved at a frenetic pace and while techniques are still developing they are showing rapid improvement. The game ends 2-0 to Sydney although it should have been at least 5-0. Another Sydney-based Palace mate (whose only game – indeed only three days ever out of the country – was to see the 2004 play-off final) is not happy as he’d bet on a more than two goal victory. That Dwight Yorke missed three one-on-ones with the keeper (is he Dougie in disguise?) only rubbed salt into the wounds. Apparently Yorke is scoring all over the country – just not on the pitch…
The one thing I noticed about the crowd was how happy and varied it was. The hardcore stood up behind the goal for the entire match. The stewards made no move towards them; they weren’t causing any trouble so why start a situation? It was a weird concept to grasp after being at games in England. Apart from being able to drink alcohol in your seat while watching the game there was also the novelty of seeing the huge range of people watching the game. Pensioners, three year-olds with their parents, teenage males, older couples and a vast number of young single women. The latter seems so rare in England yet has already made up a significant part of the crowd over here. Football truly is the game which cuts across all of society.
A few weeks later it was off to the stadium which was host to the iconic event of the 2000 Olympics for all Australians – Cathy Freeman’s gold medal in the 400 metres (it was also the place where some bloke called Wilkinson kicked some drop goal in 2003 but this isn’t a rugby magazine so we’ll ignore that for now). The Socceroos (what are we going to call them now that’s it’s known as ‘football’ down here?) were up against recent foes Uruguay. Due to the vagaries of the World Cup qualification process Australia had to play New Zealand and cannon-fodder for the right to play two games against a battle-hardened team from the most brutal of qualifying groups, South America. While it may seem an easy passage having only two important games every four years was not of any benefit to producing a cohesive team and the losses against Scotland, Argentina and Uruguay over the years, as well as the heartbreaking draws with Iran which so scarred a nation, produced a state of mind which made Victor Meldrew look positively happy in comparison. That the Iran tie in 1997 was drawn thanks to some bewildering substitutions by the coach – Terry Venables – meant that the Aussie Palace contingent has even more reason to loath the man who comes with the recommendation that if you ever shake hands with him then count your fingers afterwards.
Thanks to a mixture of mates and eBay and the godawful Ticketek web site I ended up with a couple of spare tickets. These were quickly snapped up by Manfred and Sam. Manfred was a German via South Africa who had recently become an Aussie citizen and had decided far too late that he’d like to see the game. Sam was a nineteen year-old student from Thailand who had recently appeared on the BBS having moved across from a tennis forum to learn a bit more about betting (I am not making this up). Manfred’s daughter didn’t want to attend so Sam said he’d easily pass for under-16 and would take the child ticket. I’d arranged to meet everyone at the stadium but at the train station I heard a German accented person talking to an Asian guy. Turns out I had found Manfred and Sam. We then waited (and waited) for Julian to turn up and we hit the pub. Interestingly no-one asked Sam for ID at the pub and waved him through the gate on the child ticket.
It was only half-full when we got there but five hours before kick-off that wasn’t surprising. Two hours later it was rammed so we went outside. It was even more rammed. Flares (not the trousers type), lots of chants, footballs being kicked around, a band doing all the classics from Men At Work, Cold Chisel and Powderfinger, and TV cameras all mixed into an expectant and happy atmosphere. Nearby someone walked through the crowd draped in a Uruguayan flag. A chorus of good-natured booing sprang up which turned to laughter as the bloke held up a sign saying “I lost a bet about who would win the rugby league grand final”. All too soon it had become 7:30pm and everyone, from Aboriginal to Zimbabwean backgrounds, joined the green and gold mass heading for the ground.
To get up to my seat I declined the offer from Sherpa Tenzig and set off up one of the many corkscrew ramps at the side of the stadium. What a wonderful method, far safer than steps (wheelchair friendly as well) and less of an effort to climb. It turned out I was in the very top row but running into a group of kids sitting in my seat they politely asked if I would mind swapping with them since they wanted to sit together. Since their seat was slightly closer to the pitch I accepted and found myself next to their parents. They had driven from Adelaide (two days drive) and one of their sons (who was up the back) was midway through his final year exams so he had flown to Sydney the previous day, studied all that time, was attending the game and was flying back the following morning to get to his next exam the day after. Now that’s a supporter.
The teams came out to a massive roar from the 82,000+ crowd and then the national anthems started. I’m not keen on them because (a) they are generally really crap tunes and even worse lyrically (go on, name me any other song which contains the word “girt”) and (b) they are only used to promote some sort of faux nationalism. But what happened next was unprecedented – the Uruguayan anthem was booed – heavily. The more they turned up the volume the louder the crowd booed. That this happens may seem somewhat surprising to readers since it occurs so frequently at England games but it had never happened in Australia before. At any sport I can think of. Most countries love touring Australia because they get a good reception from the crowd who applaud good sportsmen whoever they play for – and there’s always a few ex-pats in there as well. However, the similar treatment dealt out to the Australians in the first leg in Montevideo had been well reported. Add in some media hype and thirty-two years of hurt since they had last qualified and the crowd was out to make its mark. It will hopefully be the only time it will ever happen but it certainly made its point with a few of the Uruguayan players looking a bit shaken by the sheer intensity of the crowd.
Despite that they were by far the better team for the first half hour and should have put the tie beyond reach when Recoba latched onto a long ball and shot wide when it was easier to score. Soon afterwards Popovic was subbed almost immediately after being booked for running across Recoba with his arm up and ‘accidentally’ smacking him in the face with his elbow. In most cases it would have been a deserved red card but given that Cahill had minutes earlier received a hand in the face which was waved away by the referee there appeared to be a high degree of leniency. The Uruguayans attempting to slow down the game, giving Oscar-winning performances in play-acting and basically being a mix of the worst parts of Sheffield United and Bolton also seemed to be testing the referee’s patience. Within two minutes of coming on Kewell had jinked into the area and made a horrendous miskick which just happened to land in the right spot for Bresciano to blast home. The exultant roar from the crowd was unbelievable. Three decades of missed opportunities and dashed hopes escaped in that fleeting moment. A seething mass of green and gold rippled joyously through the crowd. The tie was level. It may well end in agony again but sod it; we celebrate the good times and deal with the bad ones when they happen.
Half-time arrived with a trip to the toilets – the only time ever where there’s a queue for the gents. “Hurry up, guys”, someone called from the back, “more than two shakes and it’s a wank”. Forty-five minutes away from possible World Cup glory and the thoughts become more about what can be lost than what can be won. Bloody hell, I’ve obviously been watching Palace too long which has produced that mindset. We’re 1-0 up, getting on top and John Safran has removed the curse put on the national team by a Mozambique witchdoctor in 1970. Nothing can stop us. Except a Uruguayan goal which would mean we’d need another two. I go to the football for fun. If I say it often enough I may eventually believe it.
The second half became a tense time with Australia pressing and Uruguay playing on the counter. The crowd stayed loud and proud and gave a special send off for “Uruguay have a divine right to be at the World Cup” Recoba (that would be because they finished fifth in the South American group?) when he was subbed. Two free headers in the box for the away team should have seen them score but Schwarzer wasn’t required to make any save of note in the second half or during extra time. Australia had a few chances and I thought one was in on 114 minutes when Viduka volleyed a cross but a perfectly placed defender’s foot blocked it.
So it came to penalties and you could feel the crowd wondering if this was yet another way to fail to qualify. Yet Kewell scored and when I saw Uruguay’s first penalty taker stutter in his run up I just knew it would be saved. Taking a note from the way Nico Vaesen stayed upright in the shootout against Sunderland, Schwarzer held his ground and moved after the ball was struck, palming it away. It was a weird feeling watching the next four all go in. I was at the nerve-shredding shootout against Tranmere back in 2000 but I felt a lot calmer here (even though there was far more at stake), not as nervous yet with a thrill coursing through me that bordered on the sexual. These are the moments for which we go to football; the collective gathering, the shared electricity, the anxious pause as fate tosses its coin. The man who had played a captain’s role in the two games, Viduka, stepped up to the ball. A nation held it’s breath and then exhaled as he shot to ask “how the hell did he put that wide?”. Uruguay had to score to level it but Schwarzer pulled off a magnificent save which brought an even bigger cheer than the goal. 3-2 ahead after four penalties each.
We need Aloisi to score… Aloisi must score… even someone like Aloisi must be able to score… it’s only twelve yards for god’s sake… we’ve lost on away goals before so we can’t lose on penalties now… John Safran’s lifted the curse… there’s 82,000 here so we can’t lose… we were in Germany last time as well… do it for Johnny Warren… it’s thirty years of hurt… it’s only twelve yards… it’s the World Cup… Aloisi must score…
“Yeeeeeeeeeeeesssssssssssssssssss!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”, screamed out Craig Foster in the commentary box as Aloisi stuck to the script. Stockport in 2001 was nothing compared to the joy and relief that erupted as the ball went in. The crowd went joyously ballistic as the players raced around the ground. I discovered the one downside of allowing beer in the ground as those behind threw their arms into the air. The cups stayed in their hands, the beer went up then down again and all over me. As if I was going to complain. We cheered, we laughed, we shed some tears of joy, we sang ‘Down Under’ and we celebrated. Forget cricket, forget rugby, forget AFL because football was now the national sport. We celebrated some more. Those outside celebrated. Those in the city celebrated all down the main street. And on the next day when the police reported there had been no trouble or arrests we celebrated some more. A hastily arranged gathering for the team in one of the main parks brought a crowd of many thousands one of whom put it to Popovic that “Recoba had no divine right to stick his face into your elbow”. The Palace man smiled.
Australia will go into the Asian qualifying group next year which means playing against consistently better opposition. There is also the Asian Cup every four years. Guus Hiddink is contracted as coach through to the World Cup and the domestic league is slowly gaining credibility with the mainstream. The timer has long been counting down on Australian football but the world game finally arrived before it hit zero. The future awaits.
* ‘Sheilas, Wogs and Poofters’ is the title of Johnny Warren’s autobiography which is also a history of football in this country. He was the captain of the only previous Australian team to make the World Cup finals in 1974 (which consisted mainly of part-time players) and he along with SBS (a predominantly foreign language TV channel) were responsible for keeping football alive in this country. He was claimed by cancer in 2004, a year before seeing the event for which he had fought so long and hard.