A Memorable Night

John Aloisi, with 32 years of history on his shoulders, stands proud. He stands defiant. He stands determined. Sweat pours down his face, seeping through his golden jersey. But he doesn’t care, he barely notices. Since the very first time he laced up football boots, he has dreamt of being a hero. Now is his chance. This is his moment. One more successful penalty and Australia end 32 years of disappointment. 80,000 people in the stadium have their eyes fixated on him, countless others hold their breath in front of televisions. The referee blows his whistle, Aloisi runs in, reaches back with his left foot, and swings…

A lot has been made about the meteoric growth of football in Australia in the past few years. The enlightened argument is that the government initiated Crawford report of 2003, an in-dept analysis about the infrastructure of the sport here, was the main turning point. Through the Crawford report, the wrongs of the past were highlighted and removed, paving the way for the new and modern age of football which we know today. The stale National Soccer League, dogged by racism and financial mismanagement claims, was disbanded and made way for the highly successful and better marketed A-League. The old regime of Soccer Australia was replaced by a Football Federation Australia (FFA) which had plans and ambition.

However, when all is said and done off the pitch, it was still the actions of those on it who spoke the highest volume. While the Crawford report changed the infrastructure of the game for the better, it was the Socceroos who ultimately did the most for the profile of football in Australia.

The one single defining moment, so deeply entrenched in every Socceroo fan’s mind is of course the night of November 16, 2005, when we leaped the final hurdle and whatever injustice FIFA could throw at us to make it back onto the world’s biggest stage.

The build-up, the anticipation, the events, and ultimately the glory of that perfect spring night will live with me forever.

Cast your eyes back to 2005, and recall the lull Australian sport was in at the time. We had to endure the humiliating loss in the Ashes to England for the first time in nearly two decades, the Wallabies and the Australian teams in the Super 12’s were all struggling, and the league and AFL were dormant in their off-season. The Australian public was for once starved of a champion.

Despite the 0-1 loss in Uruguay in the first leg, there was an air of optimism about the side. The local media finally decided to embrace the game they had shunned for so long, devoting many pages on the Socceroos, while the Sydney Morning Herald even declared that they will forever call the sport by its rightful name of “football” in its pages. Uruguayan superstar Alvaro Recoba’s “divine right” comments prior to the game whipped up a frenzy, as he inadvertently sparked a sense of nationalism never before felt about football in Australia. All eyes were on this single “wog-ball” game. This match united the nation.

While every Socceroo fan will remember this night, personally it was an even more momentous occasion as I, along with seven of my closest mates, was at Stadium Australia to witness the historical occasion.

A quick getaway from work that afternoon saw us crammed on a packed train, full of fans in canary yellow. We chatted with people, chanted the Aussie Aussie Aussie war cry, and stepped into the stadium full of expectation and hope.

We found our seats just as Johnny Warren’s tribute came on, and the respect and love shown by everyone who stood to attention in memory of the great man was touching. The famed words, “Johnny, You’ll Never Walk Alone,” flashed across the scoreboard, a positive omen for what was to come.

Passion is a word often used when talking about football, but what came over me that night was something more. Something pushed me to the point where I was one of those who unashamedly booed the Uruguayans. While I’ve always admired the skills and grace of the players regardless of which team they played for, that night I neglected my love for beautiful football for the love of my country. We spited the Uruguayans, from their national anthem to their every touch.

Masterful tactician Guus had caused the biggest surprised that night by naming Harry Kewell on the bench. This obviously caused some confusion, amongst the Uruguayans as well as the fans, but Guus proved that you should never question genius at work. As the first half an hour dragged on, it was obvious that it was a war of attrition. Australia were flat, and didn’t look like penetrating the Uruguayan defence. Having bottled up Kewell’s adrenalin and emotions by sitting him on the bench all this time, Hiddink finally unleashed the winger onto the Uruguayans.

And now, Harry had a point to prove.

He spent the next 90 minuted baffling the Uruguayan defenders with jinks, step-overs, tricks, dummies and fakes, and I’m sure at one stage he even pulled a deck of cards out of his pocket, offered one to the defender and guessed which card it was. The fans cheered when he bumped chests with the biggest Uruguayan defender after a poor tackle. No one had ever seen Kewell this fired up in a match before. It was good. This was not the lame Harry Kewell who spends all his time on the bench at Liverpool. This was the real deal, the golden child, the flashy Wizard of Oz who was at one time the future of Australian football. Everyone would go on to agree that Kewell played his best ever match in a Socceroos jersey that night in Sydney. Finally the prodigal son had returned.

Indeed, Kewell played a pivotal role in Australia’s goal. Receiving the ball out wide on the left, Kewell played a one-two and cut into the box, ready to tee up a half volley. He let fly with his famous left peg, only to mis-hit it completely, allowing it to roll into the path of Mark Bresciano, who drove the ball high into the net. 1-all, we’re back.

The pandemonium that broke out was insatiable. Cheers, yells, fist pumps, chest bumps, high fives, hugs with randoms, it was all there – an absolute eruption of emotion. Whatever everyone was feeling, they should bottle it because this stuff could end wars. The fresh tray of drinks which had just been purchased went sprawling, but the bourbon-and-coke drenched group in front of us didn’t seem to mind. Instead, they gave us a hug.

The rest of the game progressed along, with the usual ups and downs of a football match. Twice we nearly went ahead, and twice they had open headers to steal it. But none connected and finally the dreaded penalty shootout came.

The ultimate lottery on the sporting field, a penalty shootout is a combination of luck, nerves and luck. However, it’s a great spectacle to watch on TV, and the fact that the game ended in such dramatic circumstances again drew many fans to the game. Those who hate football because “no one scores” now saw guys take uncontested shots from 11 meters out against just the goalkeeper. There’s not much in the Australian sporting world which quite compares to a penalty shootout. No, there’s nothing that compares to a shootout in cricket, AFL, or any of the rugby codes. Which was why so many watched it at home. Here it was, prime time television slot, and one of the most exciting events in Australian sporting history was taking place.

The shoot-out took place at the goals nearest us, and we all rushed to the fence. Arms linked with those next to us, we formed a ring around the field, praying to which ever football god was listening to smile upon us.

Harry Kewell stepped up and blasted the first shot into the net and we erupted with joy. Then the brilliant Schwarzer, unfazed by Rodriguez’s mind games, palmed away the Uruguayans’ first effort and suddenly the dream was becoming very real. As the two teams exchanged successful attempts, the grip we had on each other tightened, with the knowledge that as long as we kept scoring our penalties we were through. Then Viduka guided his shot wide of the goal, and we all suddenly gasped and swore. But to the credit of those around me, we collected ourselves, put our arms around each other again, and continued to believe. In a true roller coaster of emotions, our despair at Viduka’s miss was quickly forgotten as Schwarzer came up big again, denying Zalayeta in what has been described as the biggest save in Australian football history.

Then came Aloisi. With one kick to go, with the weight of the nation on his shoulders, he smashed it calmly into the net, and set off in the now famous celebratory run across the pitch.

While the rest of the crowd was going nuts beside me, I sat back, took a deep breath, and smiled. I love Australia. I love football. I love Australian football, and like any loving relationship you had to take the good with the bad. I’ve sat through three prior unsuccessful campaigns, each time consoling myself that next time would be it. But I didn’t need to anymore. It was time to embrace the joy of the moment. We were going to the World Cup.

History would go on to say that we performed above expectations in Germany, that we lost narrowly to the eventual champions Italy, and that we won many admirers along the way. Our game has since improved on all levels, we have a new football federation who has money as well as a plan, and player registrations for local clubs have increased dramatically since 2006.

Granted, many fans who watched the Uruguay game and the subsequent World Cup are now back off the bandwagon, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that even if not everyone enjoys the game, at least now they respect it.

With qualification to the next World Cup so imminent, it was good to go down memory lane and recapture the great night that was November 16, 2005. It was the night when football in Australia changed forever, and any success in the future of Australian football needs to acknowledge the heroes who guided us to victory that night.

As commentator Simon Hill, no doubt high on jubilation, so delightfully declared after Aloisi’s penalty: “Now, belatedly, wonderfully, joyously, Australia is back on the biggest stage.” Just like Johnny said we would.