The great thing about that title is that it can be read both forwards and backwards:
Amman, a plan, a penalty, pantsed
Destnady, tlanepa, nalpan, amma.
Um … yes. You can see why I’m so proud of it.
I’m also strangely proud of the Socceroos. Not because of the way that they played, which was dreadfully, but because it felt like the final dance for our finest generation. It was Ali versus Holmes, Barry Humphries circa 2012, or — for Aussie rules fans who need an AFL reference in every article — Geelong versus Fremantle last weekend. Not that the true national football team in the true international football code was ever a heavyweight in the Ali sense, but in the toughest of global arenas, it’s impossible to underestimate what the 2005-2011 Socceroos achieved.
As the third football code in the country the team climbed into FIFA’s top 20 teams and stayed there (highest ranking 14th, September 2009). It qualified for consecutive World Cups, once beautifully and magically, once with the martial discipline of a well drilled unit. At Germany, the Socceroos made the last 16, and were more than competitive against powerhouses Brazil and Italy. I met a Brazilian in the snack bar at half time in Munich with the scoreline at nil-all and he was virtually in tears, yabbering, ‘You have to understand, you are Australia and we are Brazil. This is not acceptable’. The Grosso penalty was a moment of national catastrophe in a sport that, until that time, wasn’t sure it could generate moments of national catastrophe. What if that penalty hadn’t been called? Would we have beaten the Ukraine and made the last four? Would we? Could we? If only some novelist would write an alternative history that posed that very question.
In South Africa 2010, the good fortune of our qualification campaign deserted us in the form of the Kewell red card against Ghana. The spectacular, no-spleen left intact, gut wrenching effort against Serbia said everything about this great generation of Australian players, even if the Germany 0-4 was equally eloquent in expressing its limitations. Remember that Argentina and England also conceded four to the Germans. We were bad on that night in Durban, but we were also made to look bad.
Last night, we were just bad. For years, the Socceroos have managed to slip the noose on impending disasters like this one: Schwarzer’s penalty save in China in 2008 to keep us 0-0; Bresicano’s late winner against Bahrain in Manama in 2008. At the time, in my euphoria, I penned another palindrome: ‘A man, a plan, an escape, Manama (backwards: ‘A man, a mepac, senanal, Panama) and also sang the Muppets’ ‘Manamana’ song loudly to a sleeping house.
This time I felt my 40-year-old, post-football-career knees creak as I made the middle of the night halftime hobble to the pantry for some mood improving Maltesers — and it felt like the players were creaking too. In sporting terms, they’ve become ancients. The great Timmy Cahill, 32, a man who will retire among the best five the nation has produced, has been offloaded from the Premier League while his beloved Everton could still raise a dime. Lucas Neill, 34, is superannuating his way around the Middle East. Mighty Mark Bresciano, 32, has seemed resurgent, but has now twice made half time or before, injury related departures and is surely closer to being commemorated as a statue rather than celebrating as one. And as for Schwarzer, my wife Tamsin is desperately, hopelessly, and eternally in love with Mark Schwarzer and the great thing is — SHE’S HALF A CHANCE BECAUSE HE’S ABOUT HER AGE!
Then there are the ‘youngies’ from Germany — Archie Thompson, David Carney and Luke Wilkshire who are 33, 28 and 30 respectively. There are our hot young recruits post South Africa — Matt ‘Nearly 30’ McKay and the up and coming Saša Ognenovski, who is in his Jesus year at 33. There’s galloping Jesus himself, Josh Kennedy, who is a mere slip of a lad at 30. And even Mile Jedinak and Alex Brosque, who I’ve been regarding as our fresh young hopes for Brazil, will each be 30 if and when they make it.
Last night, as Jordan pressured us in a way that no other team in qualifiers has pressured us, the team was finally, tragically and depressingly exposed. Of the players in their prime, McKay and Carney produced a stream of continuous errors, Jedinak conceded the penalty, Wilkshire is a shadow of his 2010 self, and Brett Holman played what for him was a rare bad game. Of the oldies, Saša and Bresh were subbed off injured, Schwarzer was barely called upon, and Cahill was depressingly quiet after that fluffed early chance. Lucas Neil, who for years has used his exquisite touch to compensate for diminishing leg speed, finally appeared too slow. By the time Jordan’s second goal went in, I felt like pouring a 3am port and toasting the golden generation for what they’ve given us. Because it felt over. And it probably is over.
Where are the up and comers? Robbie Kruse was okay, but he hardly looks to be in the Kewell or Viduka class (okay, it’s some class!). Chris Herd seems to be bluing with the coach. Zullo, Troisi and Rukavytsya float in and out of favour. Rhys Williams is always injured. Scott McDonald is shy of international standard. Matthew Špiranović was terrible last night, and never seems to be as safe an option as big, imposing Saša.
Sometimes, when there has been a great team, it’s hard for younger players because there is a lost generation. It happened with the Australian cricket team, with quality players like Haddin or Hodge only getting their chance when they were on the wrong side of thirty.
But with the Socceroos, the situation is even more worrying.
It’s not as if the golden generation has kept other world class players out of the team, and now they’re getting late-career games just past their prime. The players replacing the likes of Kewell, Bresciano, Grella, Emerton, Cahill, Moore and Viduka are just nowhere near as good. As in NOWHERE NEAR as good. As in, what the f*ck went right in player development between 1990 and 2000 and what is going wrong now? Is it a lack of technical coaches? Surely extra dollars poured in during the elite sports funding glut around the Sydney Olympics? Is it the weakness of Australia’s local competitions? Or is it just luck, the unpredictable ebb and flow of sport.
I don’t have anything resembling an answer. Every Sunday at 9am, on ABC Grandstand digital, I do the ‘Top of the League’ football hour with the infinitely more knowledgeable Francis Leach, Carlos Alberto Diego and ex Socceroo Steve Horvat, and the noise these three have been making is something along the lines of ‘the youth of today, they don’t know how to work’. I’m not sure how fair this is, although it does seem that the reality of middling leagues offering big money to unproven talent provides a temptation for our best prospects to meander comfortably along in Middle Eastern money pits, enjoying the air con while their football stifles.
Yes, in the opinion of our show, all our best young players should play somewhere near Yorkshire, in winter, where they should start as apprentices, putting black on boots and licking the road clean with their tongues. Seriously. We really believe this. Please listen this Sunday.
And until then, toast a team that has given us so much pleasure. For the darkness, my friends, is finally upon us.
