The Roar
The Roar

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A view from the back row on the last day at Wanderland

It's an enormous week in Australian football - and not just because the A-League kicks off for another season. (AAP Image/Dan Himbrechts)
Roar Rookie
29th April, 2016
2

There’s a knot of Roar supporters close by. The rest us are doing our best to ignore them.

We’re more focussed on trying to enter the stadium. Ten minutes to kick-off and there are still thousands of us outside. Nobody knows what’s causing the hold-up. All we know is that nobody seems to be moving and we don’t like it.

“C’mon let us in!” cries a man in red and black dreadlocks.

The leader of the Roar supporters is calling out to his group. “Right, they’re going to take us through all these Western Sydney supporters to that gate over there.“ He points to the other side of the crammed entry way. “There’s a thin blue line of cops, stay close to them!” He turns to the Wanderers fans at his elbow, smiles apologetically, “sorry guys, please don’t stab us.”

We find our seats in the very last row. There’s a guy in the black hoodie with the red arm bands. He’s wearing it with the hood up and stands for the entire game with his hands clasped before him in supplication.

A Roar fan is displayed on the big screen. He’s sporting a wig of curly, orange hair. He’s yelling and gesticulating. He’s shouting at somebody, the ref, one his players, one of our players, who knows, but he’s not happy.

The crowd boos. He catches sight of himself on the big screen. He smiles hugely and waves. The crowd boos. He laughs.

Then within just twenty-three minutes we’re down by three goals. Three! This is how it went, Santa’s crazy corner from halfway, Andreu’s hand leading to a spot kick, Andreu’s bum leading to an own goal, MacClaren’s strike and Alberto’s legs, three nil to them!

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Three goals down in just twenty-three minutes. Twenty-three minutes!

Surely this couldn’t be the Wellington game all over again. Could it? Surely not.

But who do we sing for? We sing for Castelen! Santa! Castelen! Castelen! Vidosic! That’s who.

This is how it goes: Romeo Castelen’s free kick from just outside the box flies through a wide gap in the wall and swerves away from the keeper. Brendon Santalab latches onto a long ball, cuts inside a defender and squeezes the ball between Young and the near post.

A Mitch Nichols strike is parried away by Young it falls to Mark Bridge who fires and is also denied by Young, Castelen buries it from six yards. A Dimas free kick is punched away by Young, but only as far as the edge of box where Castelen is waiting, a searing strike and the ball is fizzing in the bottom corner of the Roar goal.

Four three! We’re ahead! Castelen has a treble! Castelen! One-touch-too-many-Romeo. The man with the most skyed, scuffed, skewed shots on goal in the league. Who do we sing for? We sing for Castelen.

Thirty minutes to play. Popa’s possession game. The high press, the ball passed in triangles across midfield. The crowd is anxious. We want another goal. C’mon, it’s been ten minutes since we had a goal already.

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“Kick it forward,” cries a man in a scarf and a bucket hat.

There’s a fight on the concourse. Two men both in red and black. There’s a shove and a this-is-Sparta kick that sends one scurrying away. To be fair he did seem perplexed. He had a look on his face that clearly said, hey what are we fighting about?

The other, after delivering his kick, yells and turns to face the crowd, shoulders hunched, fists clenched, warrior pose. He’s dismayed when the crowds howls it’s disapproval. “Get out of here! D###head!” He disappears down the closest stairs.

Then, just as we are readying ourselves for the Poznan, Henrique breaks downfield, the crowd jumps up in alarm, there’s a great gasp as he draws three defenders to him. Three! MacClaren is left alone in the box.

It’s four all. Four. All. Ten minutes left.

At full time, 10,000 fans stand up and stream toward the toilets, the anxiety inducing game telling on their bladders. The faceless hooded man next to me pounds the sheet metal behind us in frustration. Doom!

Extra time, the players haul themselves around the park. The RBB is jumping. The crowd is exhorting. Ten minutes in, Dario Vidosic finds space on the edge of the box, his curling strike is pushed away by Young. Bridge hustles after the ball and crosses it from near the goal-line. Vidosic is there on the near post to turn it in.

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Dario! Vidosic!

Five four! We’re going to Adelaide.The team hops the advertising boarding and accepts the ecstatic embrace of the rapturous RBB.

Who do we sing for? We sing for the Wanderers!

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