Holger Osieck has had a good three weeks. I mean this in a football sense, for his mistranslation of ‘Mulieres taceres in ecclesia’ as ‘women should shut up in public’ when the correct translation is of course ‘women should shut up in church’ sets back all progress that has been made on the vexed and often ignored issue of women shutting up in church.

When made aware that although he was correct in remembering ‘in ecclesia’ took the ablative, but may have caused some offence to say, half the Australian population, Osieck sought to clarify:

“I used it at home to tell my wife, because sometimes she was a little bit, let’s say, too talkative.”

So that fixed that then.

In the end Holger was partially forgiven, perhaps because some allowance was made for English being his second language, perhaps because none of us wanted to distract him from the job at hand, which was trying to avoid tactical howlers like the one that became known as Thwaitecornthwaitegate at Suncorp Stadium three months ago.

He chose the right squad. Lucas Neill, having endured months of public pillorying for lack of speed, lack of match play and love of the Emirati dirham, responded with three near flawless games. As my friend Rita puts it, ‘his passing is as perfect as his cheekbones’.

Saša Ognenovski, who was out of favour for inexplicable reasons that I hope relate to injury, showed that a sure footed Clydesdale is sometimes a better bet than an untried thoroughbred. Yes, the Big Man should have scored, and yes, that would have meant I’d not have lost four years off my life, but in the end, he’s paid to defend and in the slip and slide of that desperate second half, did that well. I’ll live with his miss. Just for not quite as long.

Do I look forward to Messi or Ronaldo charging at our backpeddling central defenders in Brazil?

Um … no. Not really.

Robbie Kruse, who with his move to Bayer Leverkusen becomes Australia’s highest credentialed footballer, showed it across three games. Brilliant against Jordan, great against Japan, good against Iraq. Tommy Oar, who might be slightly behind Kruse with ball control, makes up for it with speed and determination. He was our best last night. The performance of these two, as well as a couple of late cameos from Tom Rogic, gave the first glimpses that golden generation could progress seamlessly into golden regeneration.

Osieck can take credit for some handy substitutions. Against Jordan, with the scoreline anchored at 1-nil, he introduced Archie Thompson, perhaps sensing that his buzzing enthusiasm and an ecstatic 40,000 strong home crowd might give the team a little of what Victory fans call ‘Archie Thompson da da da da!’ It worked. Two minutes after his introduction, with the stadium abuzz, he combined in the build up to Kruse’s wonderful left foot strike for a two-nil lead.

Against Iraq, it will become folklore that Tim Cahill, the man who Francis Leach described as ‘pound-for-pound Australia’s best big-game performer in any sport since Don Bradman’, was substituted for a Cristo Redentor lookalike who hadn’t scored for the Socceroos in eighteen months. Cahill didn’t like it. He jogged to the bench, and despite the urgency for Australia to play ball, didn’t get there the express way.

I didn’t like it either. ‘Surely there’s room for Kennedy and Cahill’ I gibbered frantically to Dad. But whereas I was picturing what in AFL is termed ‘long bombs to snake’, the Socceroos continued to play purposeful, quick passing football. Encouragingly, they abandoned the patient build-ups, choosing longer through balls to Oar, Rogic, Kruse (until substituted) and Bresciano, which, given the conditions, created some chaos in the box. Eventually, Bresh chipped the most perfect cross in human history onto Kennedy’s head, and 80,000 of us clunked it into the bottom right hand corner.

Josh Kennedy. Bench fodder for a year. Now immortal. And apparently in the rooms after the game he did this thing with loaves and fishes.

For newcomers to the Socceroos, they have been the most brilliant team to follow. I picked them up after the Iran game in 1997, almost as a dare to myself to associate with a team that had unleashed so much heartache. Since then, these players have provided more joy than I could have imagined. Not just because the team has dragged me to unforgettable experiences in Uruguay, Germany and South Africa. Not just because they have been the enabler to my ‘soccer friendships’ — and a big hello to the gang on the train who loudly mocked their ‘johnny come lately football imposter’ as he valiantly attempted to brief a commentator at Eurosports UK about Socceroos form lines and player biographies. Not just because they have been the gateway drug to a domestic love affair with Melbourne Victory and the thriving A-League.

The Socceroos give me joy because they are consistent with their effort.

They chase. They harass.

They don’t give up on neutral balls.

They combine well. Even in this era of dwindling big European league talent, the team has not fallen into disrepair. Old champions like Cahill, Schwarzer, Neill and Bresciano find a yard for their country. Lesser credentialed journeymen like Milligan and McKay bristle with the concentration of playing mistake free. Thompson grins and Ognenovski grimaces, but both radiate the thrill of this late, unlikely, autumn leaf reprieve. They are going to Brazil.

We are going to Brazil.

And it’s brilliant.

Olé, olé, olé olé.