Feeling blue, turning green…and gold

I just saw my beloved Socceroos lose a World Cup game to a referee. I also just witnessed my Italian Azzuri bravely win the same game with ten men. But I’m neither wallowing in my beer nor celebrating. I’m not reveling in the simple pleasure of an Aussie meat pie, or the zesty flavour of a penne marinara. No, I’m just thinking about how all at once the World Cup can ask you to dance, and leave you alone by the punch bowl in tears.

In a tournament which has united the world unlike any before it, I suddenly feel a little divided. You see, when I heard Australia would meet Italy in Monday’s Round of 16 blockbuster, my heart began splitting like Ricky Williams from Miami.

Like many people living in big metropolitan towns, I have allegiances to other lands, and to sports clubs other than the New York Jets or Toronto Maple Leafs. If you grew up in Australia or have even visited, you’ll understand that there’s no choice—you are part of the Aussie sports fabric. It’s a birth rite—they might as well stamp it on your passport; Australian and sports mad.

It’s not so much local clubs that have you tugging at dad’s sleeve to buy a jersey or a cap, however, but the national teams. Our boringly successful cricket side, forever popular rugby Wallabies and weirdly amphibious swim team are all national treasures. Missing one of their contests can be likened to skipping your nephew’s tenth birthday party. Don’t expect a piece of pavlova cake later on.

So when the Socceroos qualified for the Cup after beating past champions, Uruguay, the Roos stirred the Aussie psyche. They finally mattered. And for the first time, I was confused about my position, like a goalkeeper uncertain of whether to charge the striker or sit on his line.

Italy or Australia?

Top be honest, I never thought they’d meet in the World Cup. I mean, come on, what were the chances of the Aussies escaping their group? Brazil, Japan, Croatia—it never looked likely. Yet the soccer gods were ready with a cruel joke on this occasion. Testing the willpower of every Italian-Australian going round must rank as one of Soccer Heaven’s best. Nice work Offsideon.

So, there I was Monday, in a sports bar on an early lunch, watching my Aussies—I mean Azzuri, battle for a place in the quarter finals. It was tough. I could hardly watch, and certainly couldn’t eat.

The game’s uneven tempo didn’t help. The ball bounced around Fritz-Walter Stadium in Kaiserslautern, like a plate of sauerkraut being passed down a row—slowly and unsteadily. It was a mess of a match, with loosely-timed tackles and more almost-sort-of hand balls than I can recall in one game. Shots were consistently wayward and passing was about as accurate as a game of pub darts. The whole disjointed spectacle, begged a draw and a fresh thirty minutes.

Plus, I needed the extra time to make my mind up on whom to follow?

Suddenly a changing moment. A red card to Italy’s Marco Materazzi sent a surge of Aussie pride up my spine. How dare that clumsy bastard take down one of our men! But twenty minutes later, as the Italians protected their turf so valiantly, the olive oil in my blood began to seep through my pores. I was sweating marinara sauce. Crikey! Plus my dark hair, and five o’clock shadow that sprung up before halftime would surely giving me away in this Anglo-centric establishment.

Time to yell some Aussie expletives at the screen. “You flamin’ mongrel! Keep your eye on he ball you bloody gallah!” (Generally slang words for a dog or the names of native Australian birds will do in this situation). “You f#@$ stupid cockatoo!”

The Italians made a surprising substitution with about fifteen minutes left, bringing on attacker, Francesco Totti. My nerves began unraveling. History told me that the Italians love to defend, so summoning an offensive maestro was either a special new tactic, or those damn soccer gods were pulling the prank strings just for kicks.

As we now know, Totti won the game for Italy with a penalty and I almost spat my meat pie all over the screen. Ok, so I didn’t have a meat pie, but I wished that I did because that last minute penalty to Italy was one of the worst World Cup decisions I’ve ever seen. More importantly, though, it left me (and I’m sure many others) feeling empty about the final result. The game’s struggle had earned a better finish and both teams deserved a more decisive victory.

I returned to the office with my heart still in tact; half green and gold, half blue. Happily divided. And so, I guess, it will always be. Plenty more games to watch—kangaroo steak pizza anyone?