It has been reported that before Australia’s match against Germany, a South African wanted to watch the Socceroos instead of the regular gospel show that his family would watch every week. In response to this, his family beat him to death. It seemed harsh. Judging by the match last night at Royal Bafokeng, Australia is not God’s team.
The line up looked good. Carney on the left for more attacking flair down that flank, and many fans would have had memories of Carney’s amazing strike against the Republic of Ireland last year burned in to their minds. Bresciano in. Kewell up front. This looked like a team that could do it. The images of the Soccerroos in the tunnel staring down the barrel confirmed belief in my living room at least.
Harry Kewell had copped it in some sectors for being a ‘myth’ for the last five months or so. Kewell seemed to take offence at being put in to the same category as Hercules, Robin Hood and English defenders, and was keen to prove that groin or no groin, intercontinental accent or none, he was as Aussie as the referee is blind, and could deliver Australia to the promised land of ground out and satisfactory result.
And it started so well. The living room belief was confirmed, and I nearly tripped over the couch and ruined my World Cup by slamming my head through the glass top coffee table. My balance prevailed, and I half thought Holman would scream out his own name after scoring the goal, a-la Dennis Bergkamp, but you couldn’t tell over the din of the Vuvuzelas, and Pim Verbeek had the look on his face of a man who was about to take out a franchise in a humble pie restaurant and start printing invitations.
We led for around 14 minutes, which already doubles the amount of time we led for in Germany ‘06. Then that corner. Emerton trusted Wilkshire, then trusted him again, then hesitated, the cross came in and the rest is history. At least Harry made it off the field without pulling anything. But Schwarzer’s penalty heroics are not a solid game plan and it was even.
And there it stayed.
For a nerve shredding hour.
In the meantime, Ghana tried to score from further and further out, Moore played himself in to better and better form. Our chances came. And went. Pim made changes that were very nearly the difference. He even brought on Jesus, much to God’s chagrin, and it felt like we could do the impossible, come from the weakest performance at the World Cup so far, to win with ten men. But it remained impossible.
Rukavistya tried to become the first man to score in the world cup finals off his back, the Ghanaians knocked each other out, and the dramatic image of a Ghana defender spitting blood, lying flat out on the pitch, reminded us that it was not quite life and death for a moment.Then it was over. For the game. The Ghanaian lived.
A draw. A hard fought, ground out, almost satisfactory draw. We had almost reached the promised land. The upper-arm of god held us back at the gates. Kewell’s world cup may be over, but Harry Kewell is not a myth. He is a legend.
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