As a married mother of two, the best moment of my life so far was 16 November 2005. I was 17 years old and lucky enough to be in the stadium at Moore Park as John Aloisi scored the penalty kick that secured our first spot in the World Cup in my lifetime.
I feel lucky now that every four years I get to relive the shirt-ripping-off exhilaration and glory of our Socceroos and place my entire wellbeing at their boots.
I don’t let them go it alone though: while they can take care of the training, the athletic ability, the protein and the drills, I bring the holy water to their games. I sprinkle some on the TV.
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For our first game against Turkey, (I say our, as I feel like an active participant in World Cup matches and the Socceroos in general), I ground my teeth all day in the lead up to the match. I was endlessly agonising about how our young team would fare against the bigger country’s might and footballing reputation.
But then it happened – what happens every World Cup or any time the Matildas play: I saw other fans out on the street too, biting their nails, being exuberant, wearing the team colours, rushing to meet mates to watch it together.
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In a crowded pub in Sydney where I unblinkingly watched us SMASH Turkey, my little yet highly indoctrinated son made approximately 200 friends by wearing his Socceroos jersey and being chatty. That’s what it’s all about! Talking to people on the streets, spilling drinks, feeling a tremendous rush when the ball goes in the net.
For the 5am kick-off game (nothing compared to other hostile time-zoned World Cups), I first anxiously woke up at 3:45am muttering about “my sons” and had to force myself to try and rest before the match actually started. Shout out to the fellas in Federation Square and Darling Harbour, but spare a thought for the suburban mums with heated blankets watching the game on the couch, whose mental health is hinging on 11 strangers on the other side of the world.
Even when we don’t win the match, they make us proud. We get to connect with friends who get it, turn chunks of a stadium halfway around the world green and gold, make full-throated yet credible accusations against the referee. Losing is part of caring about sport, but there is no law against taking it very poorly indeed.
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This year I feel that the Socceroos are the earnest sensation we need for this moment. They symbolise trying hard to be the very best at something when it’s easy to be nihilistic; the value of being good boys amid revolting manosphere videos taking over the internet; and – whether they like it or not – they’re leading a very pointed conversation about what it means to be Australian. They’ve shown that paying respect to Tim Cahill with a tribute corner-flag boxing celebration is a part of that and that being from one particular background isn’t.
They’re faces and personalities we’ve grown to love, when the main political conversations about immigrants in this country have all the sophistication of Simpsons quotes.
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So win, lose or draw (some scenarios would certainly find me institutionalised), it’s wonderful to have a moment for all of us to agree on something, to cheer for our team, to talk to strangers, to be a part of something huge and exhilarating. Because we are all a part of it – whether we are on the pitch or not.
