IT’S not unusual for me to be bouncing off walls in the dark of an early morning, trying to find the opening in the front of my flannelette pyjama pants to relieve an ageing bladder.
Old man issues. It’s not something you can do quietly – accentuated by the flop-flap of moccasins, a trickle, and the symphony finale a flush of the toilet.
Sunday morning wasn’t overly different. But this time, I knew there were thousands with me.
Instead of shuffling towards the porcelain, I made my way to the coffee machine, perched myself in the recliner and reached for the remote – not before realising my bladder wasn’t as in tune with the importance of occasion as my head.
Toilet stop. Back to the recliner. Volume to medium.
I’m not a soccer fan. But I am a proud Australian, and even this old fool could appreciate the velocity of the achievements of our Socceroos.
At my age, dressing myself at 4am for a trip to the city to stand in the streets with thousands of others wasn’t going to be an option, despite the atmospheric appeal.
I would however, be doing my bit to sit and cheer home the impossible.
Sport can do unusual things to our brains and our bodies, instilling unbridled belief that being connected to an outcome will in some way alter the result.
That sitting in front of a television set thousands of kilometres from a game can transcend pride through transmission waves, back through the cameras on the sidelines, and into the hearts of our players.
That yelling at the decisions of referees can somehow make them change their call. I’ve not seen it happen yet.
This is about passion. Being along for the ride. Like a great movie, knowing the characters, the consequence and the significance. Then, riding the emotion as the plot ebbs and flows in a way nobody can predict the end.
Normally, I’d tell you drying paint and growing grass had more entertainment value than a game of soccer – a game that can end in a scoreless draw, a game in which an out-classed team can fluke a winner in the dying minutes, a game which plays with a ball of predictable bounce.
The World Cup however, is less about football and more about the theatre, where victory is driven by a love for our motherland, not by money or bragging rights.
Watch the fans as they cry for not only their team, but their country. Watch the players sing national anthems with horrible voices at the top of their lungs. Watch as people who are normally average turn into Superheroes because they’re wearing the colours of their country.
Most of the world will have enjoyed a fairytale underdog finish to this 90 minutes of theatre. But few of them actually believed it might happen.
We did. Because as Australians we’re passionate about our roots, our country, our blood. We know we’re facing an uphill battle, but we believe that miracles have and do happen.
And maybe – just maybe – today one might happen for us.
We believe that there’s some sort of telepathic power that allows us to extend our energy, our will and our fervor into the 11 men who you know will be doing their best.
Alone, or with others, you’ll watch a screen of whatever size with intensity that shuts out all around you. During that time, you’ll lean with the curve of the ball, ride every tackle, curse every mistake and scream uncontrollably when your team excels.
Because this is a 90-minute movie, and nobody – not anyone – knows what will happen until the final whistle blows.
Unlike other movies, you’ll be invested, adding your little piece of patriotic energy to that of a nation.
Soccer’s not my game, but this is a World Cup of a sport played by every nation on the planet – and until the end a faint glimmer of hope is as real as the sky is blue. That our country might be the one to punch above its weight to stand aloft, flag waving, national anthem playing in the background, standing taller than we’ve ever stood before.
It didn’t happen. But were we proud that we gave it everything we had. Too right we were.
“Wayne, what are you doing?” Dreaming, Wanda, just dreaming.
