Australia United: We'll Always Have Kaiserslautern

7/28/2019 Australia United: We'll Always Have Kaiserslautern

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WELL ALWAYS HAVE

KAISERSLAUTERN

K

aiserslautern began with a pre-dawn alarm, nine and a half hours

before kick-off in Australias first World Cup finals match for32 years. Even this early, some of the fans were quite overcome, the

corridors filled with a common refrain.

This is the day Ive been waiting for all my life, I heard as I left

room 503. I felt like shadow boxing so I did. Another Aussie fan

walked out and caught me. She waved. We were all excited.

Inside the lift, optimism was tempered by a sense of gravitas. This is

it, said a man wearing a green novelty football pitch on his head. He

was speaking to a friend also wearing a green novelty football pitch on

his head. Good luck, the friend said, and they fell into a hug. Good

luck, I offered. Given wed never met before we went for handshakes

rather than the fully-blown embrace. Stay strong, first pitch-head

intoned earnestly. We can do it. Nine hours to kick-off.

Others in the breakfast room had been following the Socceroos

longer than I had. The lines on their faces and the credibility-enhanced

old-school shirts on their backs proved that much. But since Iran1997, the Socceroos qualification for the World Cup finals had been

my number one sporting obsession. Id travelled to Uruguay and

Sydney. Id sat through horribly unbalanced Oceania group games.

Id written articles for The Age, denouncing the briefly-won full spot


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for the Oceania confederation and arguing for our chance to fight it

out as part of Asia. And then FIFA had whipped the spot away again

and Id felt sick. No, Oceania didnt deserve that spot, but nothing

was as unjust as the one-off do-or-die fifth place in South America

maelstrom. But wed emerged out of it, victorious in the face of a

category five Los Celestes cyclone, and now it was THE DAY. The day

Id dreamed about. In my dreams, I had skipped the mundane details

like breakfast. Had it been part of my fantasy, I certainly wouldnt

have guessed the pre-dawn repast would be called frhstck.After a frhstck not cooked by Frank Farina, we hit the streets as a

golden stream, hundreds strong, flowing, singing, surging towards the

local Frankfurt S-Bahn station.

On the way, we painted footpaths and escalators golden, or in my

case a fairly alarming shade of daffodil. I was wearing a hideous,

skin-tight, polyester yellow, American football-style shirt, with the

words Vons Inn, 917 East River Road, Grand Island flowing across

the chest in lurid green. Even though I had an official Socceroo jerseyback in my case, I felt compelled to go with this hideously yellow

advertisement for Von for the simple reason that Id picked it up in a

second-hand shop on the afternoon of the Uruguay game. Hideously

Yellow Von had successfully dragged me through the trauma of the

penalty shootout that night, so it was getting another start today.

Rationally, Im willing to concede that superstitions are stupid, that

what I do has no impact on what people who really matter do. My

choice of shirt, even if it were made known to Jason Culina, will not

make him run faster. My rabid fear of putting the Mozz on the boys

when predicting good results is, of course, ridiculously arrogant, in

that it assumes that by merely speaking, I can affect such vagaries as

Craig Moores judgement on a slide tackle. Still, I cant help it. In my

ultimate powerlessness, I want to trick myself into feeling I can at least

do something. And believe me, I do a good job. Most of the time, I can

pretend that Im actually making a distance. Its sort of pathetic, butgiven Im rational on important things such as seatbelts in cars and

wearing sunscreen, I think I should be allowed the odd superstitious

indulgence.

Across the carriages, other fans had their own Hideously Yellow

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Von equivalents, no doubt having convinced themselves, as I had,

that they can make a difference. Thomas Zammit was also wearing

his exact November outfitblue jeans and two Aussie tops. The only

problem was the temperature in Sydney had been mid-teens, whereas

the forecast for Kasierslautern was 35 degrees. Even at this time of

the morning, I could see the signs of overheating shining across Toms

forehead.

I dont care, Tom shrugged stoically. I dont mind being hot. Im

not taking off either layer. What made this all the more impressivewas that in terms of absorbing hits for the team, Tom had already

done his bit. The previous day, in Frankfurts old city, the very same

official Socceroos shirt he was now wearing had been shat on from

above by one of Frankfurts greediest birds, a moment that had Rita

shrieking, Its good luck, its good luck! It means were going to win!

Tom had been less sure, believing that bird shit equals good luck was

nothing more than positive spin dreamed up by some Pollyanna-type

unable to accept the raw stinking truth about good things being goodthings, and bird shit being bird shit. But sitting on the Aussie Express

on the way to Kaiserslautern, he was pulling his own superstitious

weight. Not only was he enduring a stupidly hot continuity of outfit,

he also had Garfield.

My Nonno Charlie gave it to me at the airport. Hes had major life-

saving operations, and always keeps Garfield at his bedside. Its got

him through a few tough times. When I play a soccer game, he gets

me to touch it before the start of the game. So when he was saying

goodbye at the airport, he handed over Garfield.

Rufus from Sydney was doing his superstition by subtraction. He

was notwearing a brown corduroy hat.

I wore it to the Confederations Cup, he said. And we lost both

games. So Ive left it back in the hotel room.

The search for assistance was all around us. We met an inflatable

rock wallaby named Skippy, and a lucky Snoopy who was surprisinglynot called Snoopy, but Spike. As we rattled across the Rhine at Mainz,

I met the red-bearded Dawson brothers from Sydney, who were

quickly dubbed the Groundskeepers Willie, after the red-bearded

cartoon character on The Simpsons. Mark Dawson, who if anything,


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was slightly more Groundskeeper Willie-ish than his older brother

Peter, produced a crocodile tooth from around his neck.

Ive worn this for every game Ive seen Australia play and win. From

Uruguay last year, going back to Argentina in the World Youth Cup. I

got it in New Guinea when I was nine. A mate of the old mans carved

it for me. I bite on the thing when the boys are taking a kick.

Groundskeeper Willie-Mark clamped down on it now and, with

a mouthful of tooth, introduced me to his brother, Groundskeeper

Willie-Peter. They both had defence force backgrounds, andGroundskeeper Willie-Peter had taken a serious physical risk in

deciding to come. He had suffered some vascular difficulties over the

past year and, with painful varicose veins in his legs, he had been

instructed by his doctor to stay home. Groundskeeper Willie-Mark

explained that it was never really an option.

Weve been promising ourselves since last time they made it that

wed go next time. I was 12 in 1974. Its justification. Justification. It

means were here with the rest of the world. Were not pretending likewe were at the Rugby World Cup, were not pretending like we were

at the Olympics. Anyone can win at tiddly-winks. This is actually a

game that meansshitto people. Everywhere on the planet this means

something.

His blue eyes sparkled with anticipation. And today, were going to

win.

***

A Japanese television crew wobbled into our carriage and asked us

the question, What is football? I weighed my answer, wondering

if I should offer some chin-stroking pontification on the Australian

politics of the word football - how four codes were squabbling over it

as though embroiled in a neighbour-to-neighbour fence dispute.

But theres a time and a place for that debate and its surely not whenyoure an hour from a World Cup venue, on a train full of round-ball

fans. The Japanese interviewer had felt the air, and wanted something

transcendent. He gazed at us, urging one of us to pull out something

special, like the existentialist Frenchman from Algeria, Albert Camus



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much-quoted line: In football, everything is complicated by the

presence of the opposite side; or Nick Hornbys lovely quote in Fever

Pitch on fandom as a means of escaping real life: Who wants to be

stuck with who they are all the time?

I genuinely think I was on the verge of something a memorable,

pithy aphorism that traversed notions of nationalism and the idea of

football as a sort of sporting Esperanto when suddenly the on-board

sound system kicked in. Living Next Door to Alice was being played

at serious volume. I was going to have to work hard to make the sixoclock news in Tokyo.

Football is the best international representation of sport

Alice! Alice! Who the fuck is Alice?

And its never better than um than at the World Cup

I was gone. All I could think was that someone, somewhere had

to get used to not living next door to Alice. Rita buttered up well,

describing football as her heritage, her reason for getting out of bed in

the impossibly early morning, and then did us all the favour of askingKenji, the Japanese cameraman, what football meant to him.

I love football because football is very similar to life, Kenji said.

Because just like life, you have to take care about the very short-term

future, and then that passes to the next future, and then the future

after that.

The whole cabin nodded, processing a sentence that had wafted

across us like a Stephen Hawking thesis. Eventually, I asked Kenji

whether he thought there were differences between the way the

Japanese and the Australians played football.

The Japanese think too much. Australia is much more playing with

feeling, with heart.

Kenji had barely finished his sentence before a conga line of Aussies

emerged through the glass door of the carriage. Sushi, sushi, sushi

train sushi train, sushi train, they sang as they snaked joyfully past

our cabin. Maybe Kenji was right. From the look of them, they wereliving for the short-term, with no notion of incremental successive

futures. They were just being the best sushi train they could be.

***


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A day that is a contender for best of life wants to have a pretty good

middle section, and Kaiserslautern started delivering right from the

first step off the train. We disembarked as a mob into a mob, and

although mobs sometimes get a bad rap, this one was friendly, and

singing in the way that only mobs can. Apart from a brief hiatus in the

train cabins, we had been singing, chanting, and howling pretty much

since we left the hotel. We werent about to stop now.

Aus-sie Aus-sie Aus-sie Aus-sie, we boomed in the acousticallyimpressive echo-chamber of the station platform. It was pointedly

not the Aussie Aussie Aussie, a chant that would be joyously absent

from the supporters song book for practically the entire World Cup.

Instead, it was an adaptation of the old Ol Ol Ol Ol. Yes

it was simple, and yes it was derivative, but it had notes, and didnt

require some Aussie Aussie Aussie wanker to mount a rostrum, and

demand noise in the form of grunted ois. Even more excitingly, there

was some variety on the song front, and as we snaked our way fromthe station to the town centre pedestrian zone, the golden throng

veered from Waltzing Matilda to Skippy to Elton Johns Crocodile

Rock morphed into Aus-stray-lee-aaaaa, la-la-la-la-la-la-laaaa. It

seemed we were standing at the precipice of a new, more musical

barracking era.

The Aussie choir had its ugly moments too. A group of supporters

grabbed hold of the inflammatory English 10 German Bombers song,

which England coach Sven Gran Eriksson personally requested be

ditched for the tournament, and adapted it to Three kamikazes in the

sky.

The tune is Shell Be Coming round the Mountain and in verse one,

we learn at considerable length that there were three kamikazes in

the sky. Then the Royal Aussie Air Force arrives to shoot one down,

so that there are two kamikazes in the sky. Then it drops to one

kamikaze, so you can see its just like 10 Green Bottles but historicallyand racially provocative. The same group of Aussie yobs also served

up the Id rather be a convict than a Japagain an English rip-off,

but one that lacked for something given the Japanese fans were quietly

going about their business, and hadnt called us convicts to begin with.



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But these were some of the few hiccups for what was generally a

happy, enthusiastic, multitudinous, witty choir. It was the tournament

where the football fans taught the newcomers to sing. The reality is

that singing is not a big part of Australian sport. In cricket, it may

be that in the games gentlemanly traditions, singing was seen as

boisterous, rowdy behaviour that simply wasnt cricket. The Barmy

Army are in the process of turning that on its head. In Aussie Rules

footy, its almost completely absentmaybe because the grounds are

bigger, and so dont lend themselves to the intimate act of singing.Maybe its because integrating two sets of fans dissolves potential

choirs. Maybe its because the thrill-a-minute, wham-bam action of

Aussie Rules doesnt sit well with singing, which flourishes in a lull.

As for rugby, it does have singing the Welsh, Scots and English

are particularly strong of voice but it tends to be old standards

sung boisterously at the start of games, like Land of Our Fathers or

Scotland the Brave.

Football is the code where singing thrives before, after and duringgames, and where the song book is vast and ever-changing. Its not, as

many heathens claim, because the game is boring and theres nothing

else to do. Its more that between the intense but often sporadic

climactic highs and cathartic lowsthere is down time. Time to

absorb the rhythm of the game. Time to study the patterns the players

make in position or with the ball as they strive for advantage. Time to

fear. Time to fret. And certainly, time to sing.

Kaiserslautern was easy to love. For starters, it is a great word to say

the locals put the accent on the slough part of the word, (possibly

to deflect attention from the Kaiser bit, possibly for the simple love

of the slough). With a centrally located, beautifully cobbled Old City

(Altstadt) within, and a population of 100,000 it was small enough to

be engulfed by the visiting fans.

Even by 11am, the main pedestrian street was so packed that

anything quicker than an amble was impossible. And so we ambled,snapping photos of the svelte Japanese woman in the spectacular

flowing blue-and-white kimono, and the not so svelte Australian man

with the stuffed bra and the Dame Edna wig. On either side of the

street, the locals had set up a long row of white tents and the smell of


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pork and the mist of barbecue betrayed the culinary emphasis of the

day. We were in south-west Germany in the Bundesland of Rhineland-

Pfalz, and never mind that the French border was less than an hours

drive away. In Kaiserslautern, even though the town was named after

a Roman Emperor, this day the sausage was king.

The beer was flowing too, but despite a sense of elation and a day

that was already nudging 30 degrees, I resolved to wait a few hours.

Basically, I didnt trust myself. The further we traipsed down the

pedestrian mall, the better the party seemed to be, and I was worriedthat with four hours to go until kick-off, early drinking might lead

to later drinking which could possibly jeopardise a lasting memory

of the game, or even worse, cause a frantic mid-match toilet stop.

And for anyone who has read Roddy Doyles brilliant sporting essay

on Irelands passage through the 1990 World Cup, The Beautiful

Republic (contained in My Favourite Year, published by Phoenix,

edited by Nick Hornby) it contains a great sporting truth:

Wed discovered this years ago. When one of us went to the toilet,a goal was scored; not always, but it was frightening how often it

happened.

In 1990, with his head against the tiles of a Dublin pub, Roddy

Doyle scores the equaliser for Ireland against England, even if the

history books say it was former Everton left-winger Kevin Sheedy (no,

not the former Richmond back-pocket-plumber) who scored Irelands

first ever goal in a World Cup finals. Given I was already doing my

omen work with Hideously Yellow Von, I wanted to see the goals,

enjoy the glorious agony of the full 90 minutes.

One of the drawbacks of not drinking, however, is that its much

more annoying when people throw beer on your head, and that

was very much the case down at the Fritz-Walter-Stammtisch, an

improvised bar and outdoor music venue that had been set up in front

of the oldest church in Kaiserslautern, a patch the Aussies dubbed

Burger King. This was the epicentre of the pre-match party, visiblefrom three blocks away as a mosh pit of Australiana, and a place

where you could catch up with hits from home, such as Hunters

and Collectors Holy Grail, Slim Dustys Pub with no Beer and The

Choirboys Run to Paradise. The boys (and it was mainly boys in the



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mosh pits hot pumping heart) were celebrating the high notes with

some fairly erratic cup work.

***

Theres something about football that lends itself to externalised

optimism. In the flush of a big tournament, everyone will say that their

team is going to winunless its playing Brazil, in which case its at

least going to draw.Its because goals are so difficult to score, which means that the gap

between two teams of vastly different abilities, at least in the optimistic

mind, can still be closed down. The first round game between Sweden

and Trinidad and Tobago was a perfect case in point. The Swedes were

clearly superior, possibly by as many as three or four goals, and yet

with the Trinidadian keeper Shaka Hislop strung across the goal on a

string of elastic, a 10-0-0 formation, and Swedens Zlatan Ibramovic

spraying his shots, 0-0 became a tournament-rattling reality. For theWorld Cup minnows, it was a miracle to justify miraculous hope not

just for T & T, but for all of us.

I interviewed hundreds of people in Germany, and the only person

I spoke to at the entire World Cup who predicted a loss for the team

he was supporting, was me. Its not that I wasnt barracking with all

my heart for the Socceroos. Its just that I have a problem with the

Mozz. I fear it, worship it, loathe it, am controlled by it. For those

unfamiliar with the Mozz, think of it as something akin to The Force

in the Star Wars movies. Invisible, omniscient, vindictive, vigilant.

Some incorrectly refer to it as the Mocca (which just makes the

Mozz angrier), others as Murphys or Sods law. What the Mozz does

is inhabit the ether of the entire universe (try to stay with the science

here) wafting around, waiting for the faintest murmur of expressed

opinion. Then It will act, swooping down, striking hard, possessing

any relevant animal, vegetable or mineral, and transforming the resultto the oppositeusually one that is profoundly shit.

Here is a list of notable occasions where the unwary have been

struck down by the Mozz over the course of the last century (from

the Mozz bible, I Wish I Hadnt Said That, Christopher Cerf and


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Victor Navasky, Harper Collins Publishers, 2000). Ive listed the top

three, in 3-2-1 order.

Three votes: I believe it is peace for our time go home and get

a nice, quiet sleep.Neville Chamberlain, Prime Minister of Great

Britain, September 30, 1938, after friendly discussions with the

German Chancellor, A. Hitler.

Two votes: One hundred years from now it is very likely that of

(Mark) Twains works The Jumping Frogalone will be remembered.

Harry Thurston Peck, editor of The Bookman, January 1901.

One vote: The singer will have to go. Eric Eastern, new manager

of The Rolling Stones, in a remark to partner Andrew Oldham,

assessing Mick Jaggers value to the group, c1963.

While the Mozz doesnt mind interfering in such affairs as these, for

recreation it likes nothing more to kick back on some intergalactic

couch and mess with sports fans. So it was that when I was invited

onto a panel called World Cup Corner for the FairfaxDigital online

forum, I played it safe with the Mozz, and tipped a 1-0 loss to Japan.My co-hosts Ian Syson and Jason Steger both predicted narrow

victories for the Socceroos, but I was happy taking on the Mozz

placatory role. Doing my bit for Guus and country.

The problem though was explaining all this to Socceroos fans in

Kaiserslautern when they asked me whether I thought the boys could

win. With the songs and the throngs, with the most electrifying pre-

game atmosphere Id ever been a part of, the temptation was to throw

the Mozz away, to let my guard down and scream, Aussies 2-0! But I

had to be strong. The next future, Kenjis next future, our next future,

might be depending on me.

Eve approached with the apple just after wed passed through

security. She came in the form of Steve and Nick from Sydney.

Earlier, Id seen them prevail 6-4 in a classic game of table football

(or foosball) against two Japanese opponents, thanks to what they

described as some high pressure attacking and defensive efforts.Theyd claimed the win as an omen, and said the ratio would be

maintained for the real thing in an hours time.

So thats either 3-2 or 12-8 to the Socceroos, Nick said, without

cracking a smile. What about you, Tony? Whats your prediction for



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the game?

Of the thousands of kilometres wed covered to this point, it was

clear the last one would be one of the toughest. The stadium was

on top of Betzenberg Mountain, and we were just beginning what

appeared to be a lengthy ascent. A cyclone fence ran at either edge of

a concrete stairway, and beyond that, an elm and poplar forest did its

best to provide some much needed shade. For me though, the Mozz

lurked behind every tree.

I actually reckon 1-0 to Japan.What? Nick, who was a few steps ahead, stopped in his tracks.

Steve stared at me accusingly, as if hed just seen me smack someone

elses kid.

You dont think well win? His eyes bulged still further. Steve

honestly couldnt believe what he was hearing. My choice of the 18th-

ranked team (Japan) to beat the 42nd (us) was about to lead to an

ugly dispute.

You dont think well even draw? Nick added, riding the lastsyllable in disbelief.

The apple was so red and shiny. How crisp and refreshing it would

be in this stifling heat. Well, I must admit I did make that prediction

a few weeks ago, I said, quietly, steering a dangerous path. And Ive

since read that (champion Japanese midfielder) Hide Nakata reckons

the Japanese are playing without heart

So you do reckon well win then? Nick said. I looked around,

carefully. The Mozz ran strongly in me. Id already sorted out the

1997 decider against Iran (were playing too well to lose, we should

be five up) and two US Presidential elections (the US Supreme Court

must force a recount). This was dangerous territory. I lowered my

voice.

You know I reckon we probably will win it, I said. Hideously

Yellow Von was saturated from the extended climb. The Fritz-Walter-

Stadion was the playing field of the gods.Commit to a score, Nick ordered. Commit to a winning Aussie

scoreline.

Okay. Australia 2-1, I offered, falling into line with the dozens of

others Id interviewed who predicted a similar scoreline. Cahill and


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Viduka to score.

Thats better, Steve said in a headmasters tone. He offered me his

hand. Dont worry, mate. Its destiny. Its all going to work out.

I shook his hand, and stared at the concrete monolith before us.

The roof was being held up by diagonal red beams. Below, we were

surrounded by lush, green forest. Steve and Nick said their goodbyes

and moved forward to scan their tickets. In seconds, they were inside,

celebrating the moment with raised arms. Along the turnstiles, others

were doing the same. I was at a sporting event where the very fact ofentry was being celebrated like a 20-metre, curling wonder strike. I

watched Steve and Nick disappear into the crowd and contemplated

what had just happened to me. After weeks of resisting, Id done it. Id

tipped the Socceroos.

Forgive me, Mozz, for I know not what I do.

***

Number one, Mark Schwarzer.

Yeeeeeeees!

Number two, Lucas Neill.

Yeeeeeees!

Number three, Craig Moore.

Yeeeeeees!

I was holding back just slightly on my Yeeeeeeeses trying to leave

some crescendo room for when my favourite player was announced.

Viduka, Kewell, Grellaall great, but not my adopted son.

Number 14, Scott Chipperfield.

Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeesssssss!

Tam took a photo of me as I leaned back and gave it my all.

How could anyone not love Chipper? The Socceroos didnt have a

Zidane-type talent, but at least in Chipper, we had a Zidane-type

bald spot. I loved the fact the scouts missed him until late. I lovedthat he races dish-lickers. I loved the way that he constantly uses the

expression beers with mates. And I loved that he was driving buses in

Wollongong at 23 and now, seven years later, was about to walk out in

a starting XI at the World Cup.



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My favourite Scott Chipperfield quote appears in Andy Harpers

profile of the squad, The Socceroos: Voodoo to Destiny:

I used to drive the bus from Stanwell Park into Wollongong every

day. It was a beautiful drive down the coast road from Stanwell Park.

Id meet a lot of people and a lot of them were Wollongong fans

and they would want to talk soccer on the bus. I worked there right

up until I came to Europe. I am thinking about going back to it. I

certainly wouldnt mind. It was pretty relaxing and you meet a lot of

people.I gave another cheer for Chipper, and didnt mind when it coincided

with the announcing of John Aloisi, another favourite.

Heres to the bus driver, bus driver, bus driver.

Heres to the bus driver, bus driver man.

***

Our anthem sounded deafening, while the Japanese anthem soundedlike the theme from Brokeback Mountain. Apparently, it began life

as a 31-syllable poem or waka, and the funereal melody was added

by a composer called Hayashi Hiromori in the latter half of the 19th

century. In the patriotic fervour of the moment I preferred ours,

although still believe that the plodding rhythm and girty words leave

Advance Australia Fair very vulnerable in any serious anthem-off.

The Egyptian referee blew his whistle and suddenly it was no longer

about newspaper pundits or earnest men sitting around television

panels. It was finally about the players, the substitutes, the coaches

and, given it was now 38 degrees, the water boys. We had our role

too. In the aftermath of Sydney, Mark Viduka had talked about the

Aussie fans as a collective 12th man. Again today, we were delivering

passionately and yellow-ly. In the first minutes, the blaze of yellow

rose and fell with the ebb and flow of the game, and also with the

steady succession of Stand Up for the Socceroos chants descendingfrom the rafters. Our seats were near the front of the first tier, just to

the right of the goal Australia was attacking. At five minutes, directly

below us, Viduka fired the teams opening shots first with his right

foot, and then on the reboundagain with his left.


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Ooooooooooo, we ooo-ed boisterously, applauding the Aussie

skipper. Corner to us. Go Bresh! Around us, noise billowed from a

crowd that was blooming like a field of canola.

Yeeeeeeeesss! we screamed again, thinking that the Bresciano corner

kick had found the head of Viduka, but suddenly the goalkeeper was

there too and he could use his hands. We groaned as he punched the

ball away.

The ball pinged around the park, and such is the lot of the terrified

fan, almost no section of the pitch offered any respite. At our attackingend, we suffered the possibility of a golden moment tempered by the

disappointment of each opportunity unravelling. At their attacking

end, we endured the panic of imminent disaster, tempered by relief

when disaster was averted. The only time to relax was when the ball

was out of play on the halfway line being retrieved for the throw. And

even then, only when it was our throw.

To fans of other football codes, the ones who accuse soccer of being

too low-scoring and therefore boring, the only way to discover thebeautiful game is by abandoning neutrality. Take the plunge. Pick a

team. Make the fans decision to pin a healthy slice of your temporary

happiness to the fortunes of that team. Suddenly youll discover why

football is the most blissfully stressful of all games to watch. Become

a barracker and, in an instant, the ridiculous skill of curving a ball

35 metres onto a teammates moving forehead wont just be a matter

of abstract beauty, a sporting curiosity to hang on the wall; it will be

of living importance to the chances of your team. To be a fan is to

experience the explosions of joy and the daggers of disappointment a

single goal can bring, and in all the time and space between, there is

the fear. The fear of what might happen. The knowledge that in such a

low-scoring game, every act is important.

I thought back to what Kenji had said on the train. Watching

football is indeed about mapping futures, moving from one to the

next. Even an inexperienced football fan will quickly start spottingpatterns. That team goes wide to the wings, a player is released near

the corner flag, the ball is crossed to the strikers, and hopefully, it

connects sweetly with a foot or head. But the magic of the game is

that the predictable pattern is sometimes tossed aside by a burst of



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speed, or a brilliant pass or a step-over dribble, and suddenly the brain

is working again, casting aside the predictable future outcome and

re-evaluating for the next most likely event, given the surprise change

of circumstances. Its a continual guessing game, and when theres

emotional investment in the outcome, its continually stressful.

At the 20-minute mark of the first half it was still 0-0. Tam felt sick.

I was exhausted, unable to hit the high note for the second Waltzing in

Waltzing Matilda. Heaven knows how many futures we still had to go.

***

How on earth had it happened? Nakamura, with his red Dorothy

slippers, had only been looking to cross, lobbing the ball gently into

the penalty area, hoping for a friendly head or boot, but somehow,

horribly, before you could blink, Schwarzer was lying on the ground

and the ball was in the back of the net.

The goal happened at the other end, so I saw it through binoculars.It was as though the tragedy unfolded in slow motion. The achingly

slow parabola of ball in flight. A mess of bodies in front of goal. The

dawning realisation that the ball was still in flight and that there was

nothing between it and the net. The desperate shout of Noooo! and

a jerking attempt to find the referee in my glasses. The silence of our

crowd, and the distant roar of somebody elses crowd. The referee

pointing towards the centre. The sound of a seat being kicked. Come

on ref! COME ON REF!

The goal played and replayed on the big screen. Then Goleo IV, the

World Cup lion mascot arrived in animated form to rub our noses in

it. GOOOOAL! he roared. Piss off Goleo IV. I was still swearing at

cartoon characters when Harry hit the crossbar, directly below. Our

clapping had an air of desperation.

Stand up for the Socceroos. A few hardy fans were trying to

lift the rest of us with Pet Shop Boys tunes. I stood up, even thoughI didnt feel like it. I felt like complaining about the referee, sharing

wisdom harnessed from a red bucket seat at 150 metres.

The ref-er-ees a wan-ker! The ref-er-ees a wan-ker!

It clearly wasnt just me who felt that way. Guus Hiddink was being


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tackled by the fourth official to stop him plying some justice Clint-

Eastwood style against officials further up the chain of command.

You know what? I think it might have been Schwarzers error, some

renegade said as the goal was replayed again. Im not sure thats a

foul. Schwarzer kind of runs into him.

He was a better man than me. I wasnt in the mood for objective

analysis and neither was Tam, whose precious Schwarzy had been

barrelled. We were in the mood for some lynchin.

***

Although some blamed Schwarzer, most blamed the referee. I was the

only one blaming Steve and Nick from Sydney. Why me, Mozz? I

asked as the second half slipped away, the sand funneling through the

hourglass at a rate that defied the laws of physics. Please Mozz, listen

to me. I didnt mean to tip Australia. I really think Japan will win. 1-

0. Like I said so many times. Have some mercy, Mozz. It was one slipup in the jingoistic heat of the moment. But it seemed the Mozz was

having none of it.

Around us, some were turning to more traditional prayer forms,

others to a strained rendition of the national anthem. For his

part, Guus was turning to strikers. Tim Cahill, Josh Kennedy and

John Aloisi were subbed on at the 53rd, 61st and 75th minute

respectively. We were playing more positively now. When Viduka

rocketed a powerful skimming free kick under a jumping Japanese

wall, I honestly thought wed equalised, but goalkeeper Yoshikatsu

Kawaguchi was down quicker than you could say Yoshikatsu

Kawaguchi. Despite some shoddy Japanese defence all around him, he

was having a blinder.

***

A few years ago, I attended the famous Story scriptwriting course

run by Robert McKee (the same Robert McKee screenwriter Charlie

Kaufman portrayed in the film Adaptation). At some point he talked

about structuring a story in three acts, and how at the end of the



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AUSTRALIA UNITED

second act, the hero should be facing his or her greatest obstacle.

For example, in a romantic comedy, the couple has to be torn apart,

vowing never to speak to each other again, not until Brad respects

Angelina for who she has to be. In an action/adventure, Bruce Willis

has to be tied to a chair in a burning primary school, mistakenly

believing that his son is dead and that the dyed-blonde guy with the

nasty scar is on his way to blow up New York. It sets things up for

Act Three, the third act climax. Angelina and Brad fall in love again.

Bruce Willis rediscovers his roundhouse. Its the way of the classicHollywood ending. Do anything else, and its arthouse.

Unfortunately, sport is often unsympathetic to this sort of

storytelling. Woody Allen, a keen Knicks fan, once famously said that

he loves watching sport because its the only theatre where even the

actors dont know how it ends. (have to check quote!) There was no

reason why Vidukas beautifully timed free kick, and Kawaguchis

stunning save should have been the rock bottom that set things up for

a third act climax. It could so easily have been an arthouse ending, thesort where Icelandic songbird Bjrk plays over the credits.

Instead, we got an ending straight out of the McKee lecture notes. At

83 minutes, a Lucas Neill throw catapulted into the box, Kewell flung

his boot at the ball, and to supplement his famously handy miskick to

Bresciano for the goal in Sydney against Uruguay, jammed it over to

Tim Cahill. Somehow Cahill steered it between a thousand legs, and

into the back of an unguarded net.

Suddenly, the world was in magnificent disarray. My most vivid

memory is the jumping.

Yeeees! Yeeees! I screamed, hugging my beloved partner, before

the guy from the row behind leaned over the top and took over. Next

he turned his affections to me. Yeeees! Yeeeees! he cried, as my

binoculars bounced up and nearly hit him in the face. I knew what he

meant. The boys were on level terms, and we had the run of it.

Soo-per, Super Tim

Soop-er, Super Tim

Soo-per, Super Tim

Super Timmy Cahill!


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We sang it loud and strong, back to our barracking best.

Unfortunately, we were cut short by a Japanese attack. Oh God, surely

we wouldnt concede now?

Fukunishi, his hair dyed red like the rising sun, was the one with

the ball. He was charging at Schwarzer, just him and the keeper.

Yeeeeeesss! we screamed as the shot screamed narrowly wide. Now

the barracking was back at full volume.

Aus-stray-lee-ahhhh,

la-la-la-la-la-la-la

A minute passed. Australia took it forward. Just outside the penalty

area, Aloisi tapped it deftly to Cahill, who stopped, checked the

ball, ripped off a shot, and as the ball pin-balled from post to post,

unleashed 10 million screams across Australia.

I was exhausted now. Wed been bouncing for seven minutes and, inthe 38 degrees heat, I wasnt sure I was fit enough to be this happy. It

was impossible. Praise be to Josh Kennedy, with his giraffe gait and

fluorescent yellow boots. He was the one who had sparked this. The

boys had snatched victory from the jaws of defeat, and unbelievably

with 92 minutes on the clock, the Socceroos were 2-1 up and charging

forward for the rinse and floss.

Aloisi! Aloisi! Aloiseeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Now it was just funny. It

was the sort of goal Australia never seems to score. Striker runs at

defender, defender backs off, striker clinically slides it into the corner.

3-1, 3-1 3-1, we sang. Japan was exhausted and we were Brazil.

There had to be just seconds left.

Peep! Peep! Peep! Good on ya ref! No hard feelings about before.

The players and officials descended into an enormous group hug,

and we continued on like popped corn at full heat. The sound system

kicked in, and we were blasted with Stand Up for the Champions, asyrupy World Cup anthem the organisers had sculpted from Go West.

We sang along, changing the word champions to Socceroos, the

kitsch production drowned out by the efforts of the grandstand choir.

The players walked down our end, and clapped us for our support.



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I hoped they forgave us for the quiet patch we had around the 70-

minute mark.

Three points. Whatever happened against Brazil, wed go into the

Croatia match a chance to qualify for the second round. I gave Tamsin

a hug. If youre reading this Gene, you were in it too. You might even

remember itit was manic and unbalanced and your mother stopped

breathing.

Whatever happens, well always have Kaiserslautern, I said, getting

the emphasis on exactly the right syllable.Breathless, Tam prised me off and regained her balance. Whatever

happens, well always have Kaiserslautern.

***

I spent the post match at the same outdoor restaurant where wed

spent the pre-match, basking inin orderthe glow of victory, large

cups of beer and the picturesque beauty of a 16th century town squareat dusk. Each rendezvous was another excuse to shriek and carry on.

Rita was incoherent through the initial hug, and Tom smiled under his

16-year-old, sweaty curls as I forced him into an embrace too. I told

you Cahill and Kennedy, he said, sage-like, recoiling slightly from

the none-too-fresh aroma of Hideously Yellow Von.

This is the best day of my life, I said to Tom, just as Id said to

everyone else who would listen for more than an hour. In fact, as a

quick aside to my unborn childif you are reading thisremember

that your birth came after the match against Japan. Of course, your

birth day is the best day of your Daddys life. The truth is, it took your

birth to stop Daddy saying, This is the best day of my life! pretty

much every time the Socceroos took the field from November 2005 to

the end of June 2006. And so you can rest assured, little Kaiserslautern

Aloisi Cahill Wilson, your Daddy has his priorities safely in order.

Later in that old cobbled square, I was hugging my mate CameronFink who, quite incredibly, needed a shower even more than me. Cam

was born for this party. In Melbourne, he was famous for never having

carved out a single day where he began work at nine and finished at

five, surviving on a prodigious talent for graphic design and an easy-


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going tolerance for spending time under the parental roof.

Hes wiry, flowing of hair, tanned, and lights up a room when he

enters it, specifically with his teeth. He left Melbourne University

about a decade after he began there with a law degree he vowed

he would never even collect, let alone use. And in spirit, Cam has

never really left university. In the last 12 monthssix years after

his graduationhe has organised a booze cruise, a naked march

through the city of Melbourne and any number of themed parties, to

which hes come as a fish, a Viking, a Mr Whippy Van, a dodgem car,the Death Star, a Viking (again) and a goose that actually lays eggs.

Ask Cam why he continued to hang around the university and hed

invariably say, the social life. Ask any of his friends why he did, and

theyd say, the first-years. Cameron Fink is a charming man. Who

else has had a 30th birthday where the first speaker begins his speech

with I first met Cameron Fink the morning after he shagged my sister

to which the third speaker responds, I already knew Cam Fink quite

well when he shagged my sister. The second speaker didnt have asister.

Today, his dress was an Aussie shirt, towelling shorts, and the one

and only pair of orange Explorer socks on the planet. He stood before

me, tanned and grinning and shouting, How good was that! Cam

was staying in Kaiserslautern with his travelling mate Charlie, having

both scored accommodation through the website www.couchsurfing.

com. The site operates under the slogan creating a better world, one

couch at a time and involves hosts opening up their homes and living

rooms to travellers, completely free, all on the premise that those who

surf will one day prop up the wave. Naturally, Cams host had fallen

for him, and they were off to Strasbourg the next morning.

They have been so welcoming, Cam said of the Kaiserslauts (or is

it Kaiserslautians?). How good are the Germans? Last night, one guy

found out we liked wine, and then walked us around the town, trying

to find the nicest bottle in the district. In the end, he was distraughtbecause he could only dig up the second nicest.

It was still pretty nice, said Charlie.

We celebrated for a few hours, revelling in the smiles and well wishes

we were receiving, not just from the locals, but from the Japanese



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AUSTRALIA UNITED

too. Australia was better, one fan said, crouched and despondent.

Australia deserve it.

The train back to Frankfurt departed at 9.05pm, which

unfortunately meant leaving Kaiserslautern while the streets were

still jumping, and the golden shirts still had the run of the place. The

consolation prize was a party carriage that was determined to sing and

dance its way into the night.

Take my breath a-way, the masses crooned. As Tom Zammit

pointed out, there was a remarkable amount of slow dancing goingon, given an almost exclusively male dance floor.

Rita had not forgotten she was a parent, as well as a fan. Tom can

have one more beer, she said, heading to the cool of another carriage.

Hes already had one in the beer garden.

In the end, Tom and I had three Camaparis and orange. I know

thats irresponsible and was disrespectful to my friends wishes, but

shes 11 years older, and hes 17 years younger, and just for a moment,

I wanted to feel down with the kids. Besides drinking is legal inGermany at 16, and if youre going to be slow dancing with men, it is

made more palatable with a few drinks.

I got Garfield out at the 75-minute mark, Tom said, as Im Walking

On Sunshine boomed through the sauna-like atmosphere of the party

carriage. I gave Garfield a kiss, and a few minutes later Cahill scored.

And remember, you were crapped on by a bird, I added sagely.

And I got crapped on by a bird, he nodded.

There was no question about it. The boy had earned his drinks.

Australia United: We'll Always Have Kaiserslautern

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