Writing this has been strangely therapeutic.
Who can believe it? Four years of preparation, training, and old-fashioned hard work by the national team and coaching staff culminated in this one sudden-death game. Not to mention all the frustrating negotiations with European Clubs for player releases (more specifically, all the times we swore at Leeds Utd. for screwing with us). Or all those times we grinned and bragged about Australia¹s show of strength against the traditionally strong teams even though we knew that those matches didn¹t matter (recall the matches against Scotland, Hungary, Brazil, France, World XIŠ). But for all the hope, effort and guts of our boys, when it mattered the most, it all came to nothing.
Goddammit, ever since the previous WCQ catastrophe (Iran although we can lay that to rest now that we have Uruguay to agonise and stew over for another four years) every effort has been made to ensure that Australia would qualify for Korea Japan 2002. But our place amongst the World Cup finalists was anything but assured.
The system certainly didn¹t grant Australia any favours. We were denied our right to automatic qualification as Champions of Oceania. We were belittled by FIFA, which put the comfort of its bureaucracy and aristocrats above the interests and rights of its players and their national teams. The South American qualifiers were allowed to dawdle for much to long to be tolerated, putting Australia at a disadvantage.
The Socceroos had to bear with these difficulties and the weight of their own expectations, hopes and fears, and of course that of the fans. They also had to deal with the loathing of the Uruguayans, whose numbers had grown from a small group of 30 odd to a mass of 70,000.
In such an uneasy atmosphere, the Socceroos boldly stepped out onto the pitch at the Estadio Centenario. Imagine the thoughts that rushed though the minds of the Socceroos when they first saw the stadium filled with roaring fans, willing for them to stumble. Or when the stadium seemed to explode with euphoria at every goal. Would you dare feel the sheer desperation and despair that our boys felt for what must have seemed like an eternity during the last gasps of the game? Or the inconsolable devastation and emptiness at the final whistle that will linger with them untilŠ untilŠ well, who can say when these fresh wounds will heal?
Everything fell apart for the Socceroos; it was as if they had not trained together before the match. They lacked the chemistry, and understanding that had worked so well for them at the MCG last Tuesday night. One wondered what happened to Viduka and Emerton, who barely had any chance to show their worth, and how the entire midfield could fall apart within five days. There were moments of brilliance from Lazaridis, Kewell and Skoko, incredible saves from Schwarzer and a heart-stopping clearance of the line from Murphy. Sadly, the Socceroos payed the price for their lacklustre performance. Silva had scored early to make it 1 0 at half time, and substitute Morales netted twice after the break to end all hopes of an Australian resurgence. The 3 0 loss paints a clear picture of just how clinical the Uruguayans were. To their credit, they came back from a one goal deficit in Melbourne to convince the world without a shadow of doubt that they are World Cup material.
Some say that the Socceroos should have qualified as Oceania Champions. Some say that we faltered at the last hurdle. Some say that we just weren¹t strong enough, and that we were outplayed by a team with more maturity and skill. However, we did not deserve to win, or even draw today. One cannot bear analysing the Socceroos¹ the mistakes and all the chances that went begging. Even more so, the Uruguayan goals that sunk our hopes. Images of Silva, who came back from a seemingly impossible injury, and substitute Morales scoring and celebrating for Uruguay that flash on our news reports an in our newspapers now evoke the same emotions as the images of Mark Bosnich helplessly picking the ball out of his goal, and the images of his team mates¹ utter despair from four years ago. These images are what the fans, players and coaching staff are all trying desperately to forget. We will remember the joyous Uruguayans, Frank Farina¹s slumped shoulders and bowed head and our own boys¹ dejected walk back to the change rooms.
When will they ever be truly forgotten? How will Frank Farina and his team feel as spectators next June?
The gap between the national team¹s successes broadens another four-year stretch, and a nation of (somewhat dormant) fans grows ever impatient. Will the Socceroos be at Germany 2006? For the recently converted ³fans², this is something they will ponder while reading the match reports and maybe it will cross their minds in three years time. Perhaps their liking for the world game will even be reignited come next June. For those of us who are truly followers of the game, these memories will linger with us, as we struggle to understand how it slipped through our fingers. As we have done for so long, we will remember the anguish and vow to do all we can to set things right.
We will wait and we will try, again