BEAUTIFUL CHAOS: The Socceroos and the 2014 World Cup

by Adam Peacock

  Like some form of high-octane interpretive dance, Robben senses these movements, not through planned thought, but by pure instinct, and shoots. Spiranovic belatedly dives, but the ball cuts a narrow path past his right boot and Ryan’s left hand by a matter of millimetres.

  1-0. Reality, again. That sinking feeling, surely what will turn to despair given what happened to Spain. Spain, though, didn’t have Tim Cahill.

  Straight after the kick-off, as the Dutch reacquaint themselves with the notion of superiority, Louis van Gaal sits more comfortably on the bench and the Oranje-clad masses are still high-fiving each other, Bresciano feeds the ball to Leckie, who is barrelled from behind by his bodyguard Martins Indi. But before the assault, he manages to flick the ball onto Ryan McGowan, standing in the shadows midway between halfway and the box on the right flank, minding his own business. Instead of doing the expected, which is to stop, assess, perhaps play backwards and keep possession, McGowan, out of instinct encouraged by his coach, chooses the most offensive option, which is to send the ball to Cahill on the edge of the Dutch penalty area.

  Split seconds are what defines greatness in any sport. The best see it before others and react before most realise there’s something to react to. Those split seconds for Tim Cahill occur when the ball leaves the boot of a teammate who is looking to cross it to him. As soon as this happens, Cahill has worked out where the ball will fall. Not a prediction – there is margin for error in that term – Cahill knows exactly where it will fall. It was evident in Cuiabá. It’s been evident in America, in England and in 70 matches for his country. It was evident at his first professional club Millwall in London.

  Dutch defender Stefan de Vrij is the latest to not notice what Cahill sees, or react to what Cahill has already reacted to. Side by side as McGowan plays the ball, Cahill and de Vrij are separated in those split seconds. The Dutchman is suddenly in no man’s land as the ball, out of the shadows of the stands and in blaring sunlight, begins its descent. Now with space, Cahill readies himself, and slows his movement for balance. Not his head, nor his right foot. He lashes his left foot through the ball, sending it blazing off on another trajectory, one the Dutch keeper Jasper Cillessen does not expect. To be fair, Cillessen is in the overwhelming majority of millions watching, but the problem is he’s the only one who can stop what’s coming, and that’s an issue because his feet are still on the ground when the ball zooms by, crashing off the underside of the crossbar and in.

  1-unbelievably-1.

  Postecoglou has his own split-second moment. ‘It was one of those where time stops. You think that’s gone in. Then you’re looking for a sign, the officials, the crowd, Timmy … somebody is going to say that isn’t a goal.’

  No-one dares. No-one can. The goal is perfectly legal, absurdly perfect, and by the time Postecoglou realises this, delirium, in its most joyful form, is apparent in every corner of the Estádio Beira-Rio. Grown men who wouldn’t go near a dance floor if you paid them are jumping up and down screaming like tweens during a One Direction encore. Dutch fans applaud. What else is there to do? The players sprint from all corners, Spiranovic from beyond halfway, to join Cahill in celebration.

  The next day, when the delirium has died down (almost), Cahill explains how he did it.

  ‘Everyone was expecting me to peel off, jump early probably head the ball towards the back post and try and loop the keeper. Sometimes in the moment, the way that ball came over my right shoulder and the way that it dropped, my whole technique was ready, I was pumped. You gotta have a shot at the title … and I know nine times out of 10 I’m going to win, on and off the park. Because I believe, mentally, physically, I’m fearless. If I hit Row Z, it doesn’t matter to me. Taking those opportunities is one of the most special things, but that strike has to be up there with one of the best.’

  Farcically, FIFA would rank Cahill’s goal as only the sixth best of the tournament. True judgement lies in the fact not one Australian would swap it for the five supposed ‘better’ strikes. Time will honour Cahill’s effort, but its context in this contest is measured by the fact that the Dutch are not only aware of their opponents, but rattled by them. Like a heavyweight champ who has been stung by a booming left hook from the despised underdog, they are on the ropes, and unsure how to get off them.

  Bresciano has a glorious chance, set up by Leckie who has given another Dutchman a bath, but he blazes over with his left foot, falling to the ground and looking every bit his 34 years. The effort seems to hurt almost as much as the miss.

  Then from a free kick just inside Dutch territory, Spiranovic is left all alone in the box. He has metres of space, seconds to spare, akin to a lifetime on a football pitch. The issue is he’s the only one who doesn’t realise this. Off balance, rushing, he splurts a feeble shot at Cillessen who is not troubled.

  ‘To be honest I thought how much time can you possibly get in the Dutch box? Once I shanked it I looked around and realised I could have controlled it, taken a few touches …’ and he pauses for a moment before uttering, ‘… anyway.’ That last word lingers, not as long as the thought will, the type that acts as sleep deprivation in weak moments. Luckily, keeping an eye on van Persie and Robben doesn’t allow time for dwelling.

  Cahill, adrenalin from his goal still hissing through his veins, attempts to harass Matt Leckie’s supposed marker, Bruno Martins Indi, into error. For once, his timing is awry and he collects the Dutchman after he gets rid of possession. Martins Indi flies head-first into the turf and is knocked out cold. Cahill gets a yellow card for his trouble, which means he’s suspended for the next game. Opponents question his need to be so rough. The Australian responds with words to the effect of ‘why the **** would I mean to do that?’

  Van Gaal is forced into a change and switches formation to a traditional four at the back – moving his two wide men Daryl Janmaat and Daley Blind to fullback positions – and bringing on another winger, Memphis Depay, thus virtually matching the Socceroos 4-3-3 set-up.

  Not that much changes in the minutes before, during, or seconds after the half-time break. Whatever wisdom van Gaal has passed on in the dressing room is almost rendered irrelevant from the re-start. Normally, when a professional team – or any team of adults for that matter – kicks off to start a half, they pass backwards and across to players in space, to get a feel for it. To settle in. Normally, when a team of under 7s kicks off, the kids try to get the ball as quickly and directly towards the opponent’s goal. There is no subtlety, just instant hyperactivity and no other thought but to try and score. So what do the best 11 players Australia has to offer do when starting the second half at 1-1 against vaunted adversaries? The under 7s tactic, of course.

  Very few in the stadium, least of all of the Dutch, are fully concentrating. Nothing usually happens immediately when the second half starts. Far removed from a normal game, Leckie finds Tommy Oar straightaway and they both surge forward like they’ve stolen something. Oar then sweeps the ball back to Leckie who bumps off Daley Blind and cuts the ball past Cillessen and into the back of the net. Leckie’s bump of Blind is deemed illegal. No goal. The tactic is still best suited to under 7s, but the reasoning is only due to interpretation, and even that is questionable. Blind crumpled rather easily. Eight minutes later, in the same part of the pitch, Australia would get their dose of luck.

  Oli Bozanic, on for Bresciano who has succumbed to his bad back, cuts a ball on the edge of the area that smacks into the left hand of his marker, Daryl Janmaat. Penalty! Harsh, really harsh, Janmaat needed the reflexes of Bruce Lee to move his trailing arm. The Dutch are livid at referee Djamel Haimoudi. On the flipside, can an Algerian be contender for Australian of the Year?

  Up steps captain, Mile Jedinak. He’s in the midst of one of his best games for his country, a colossus in the middle of the park, winning every loose ball, towering above all for every header. The Dutch have played right into his hands, and now he has the chance to make them pay. There was no discussion about who would take the penal
ty. Jedinak is a leader through actions more than words. As emotions unhinge all around him, Australians unable to grasp the notion of taking the lead, the Dutch unable to fathom the whole ridiculous situation of falling behind, he calmly gets the ball, places it on the spot and waits for everything to calm the hell down so he can get on with it. He stands, stares, and finally a moment of near-enough silence is punctuated by the high-pitch screech of the whistle. He moves forward, so in control of the situation he contorts his frame against the wishes of his feet. Ordinarily, when a ball is kicked, the opposite foot planted next to the ball is pointed in the direction of where the ball will go. It’s a natural movement. Jedinak plants his left foot, pointing to his right, then swings his right foot around, making a liar of his left, to send the ball to his left. Whether it be that refined moment of biomechanics, or that Cillessen just guessed wrong, it works. The net bulges. Australian hearts explode. 2-1.

  For four minutes, the football world is incredulous, brilliantly and blissfully so for anyone from the backwater of where these Socceroos are from.

  Then three events in rapid succession define how close Australia is to the elite, and how far they have to go.

  Approaching the hour mark, Wesley Sneijder, the Dutch playmaker having a quiet game, combines with substitute Memphis Depay, who spots a split in the advancing Australian defence to feed van Persie. It should be an advancing back four, yet it is only three. Jason Davidson, worried about the threat of his man Arjen Robben, who unusually for a Dutch attack is a mere accessory this time, has played van Persie onside. The Dutch captain has two seconds of free time in the box. Enough said. He doesn’t shoot. He launches a missile that Ryan has no chance against, the net strains with the impact and parity is ruthlessly restored. 2-2.

  Minutes later, left winger Tommy Oar catches the Dutch defence dozing and has the option of shooting from an acute angle in the 18-yard box. He declines, instead crossing to an open Matt Leckie. Oar pings it right at Leckie, but critically, ruefully, excruciatingly … it is neither here nor there, too high to get a foot on it, too low for a header. Leckie tries to chest it into the open net. Power is lacking and the ball meekly dribbles to a relieved Cillessen.

  Twenty-four seconds later, with palpable sentiment from the missed chance still shaking the stands, the Dutch advance into Australian territory. Memphis Depay lets fly with a shot from 30 yards, aimed right at Ryan. Days beforehand, Ryan told his family that the World Cup ball – the Brazuca – has the ability to quicken off the surface when struck well enough. His premonition was about to turn into a nightmare. Depay’s shot skids one metre in front of Ryan, confusing the keeper’s verdict of flight. The consequences are disastrous. He can only make meaningless contact with one hand. Immediately other hands go up to catch falling faces and cover disbelieving eyes and ears. 3-2. Two gifts, 24 seconds apart. The Dutch can’t believe their good fortune.

  By this time, Cahill and Bresciano are off injured, with hamstring and back problems respectively, and their replacements are raw. The Socceroos must finish the game with an attacking quartet made up of Leckie (10th cap), Ben Halloran (fourth cap), Bozanic (fourth cap) and Adam Taggart (seventh cap). Robin van Persie has double the amount of international goals to the cumulative appearances of these young Australians. They can’t create a meaningful response and even with a superb Ryan save, 10 times harder than the one that couldn’t keep out Depay, any hint of momentum has gone, and with it, the game.

  As expected, the Netherlands win, but in the most unexpected manner.

  After the swapping of shirts, the Socceroos applaud their faithful, who respond by bouncing the sound of ‘Aus-sie Aussie-Aussie-Aussie, Aus-sie, Aus-sie’ around the stadium one more time, though Porto Alegre will hear many more alcohol-fuelled versions as afternoon becomes evening. They are an oxymoron: a happy bunch of losing supporters. Some are even applauded from the ground by Dutch fans who have stopped sweating bullets after dodging one. The players see and hear all of this, but can’t share in it.

  ‘We were thinking about what we could have done differently to come out with a result,’ says Spiranovic. ‘My chance, or that Robben shot and blocking it, a million things go through your head. We knew were in such a good position at 2-1, we almost felt like we handed them the win. It’s hard to take the positives and a lot of praise, even if it was warranted, but as a player something eats away at you if you don’t win.’

  After clapping all corners, Spiranovic walks into the tunnel and is summonsed for a drug test. In a tiny room, it’s just him, the tester and Robin van Persie. Not a word is spoken. Awkward silence is only punctuated when the replay of the penalty decision is shown on a small TV. Van Persie still can’t believe it was given.

  ‘Ah, c’mon!’ he says. Spiranovic can’t be bothered to respond, mind churning with what could have been.

  Mat Ryan, too, is silent in his corner of the Australian dressing room, deafened by one thought. After a lonely, despondent walk off, head covered by a towel the whole time, he’s trying to come to terms with it all. Postecoglou doesn’t berate. He comforts, telling the keeper he’ll come back the better for it. They are the only words uttered between the pair about the mistake.

  The Socceroos have no chance of getting out of their Group. Yet for anyone who followed this team to Porto Alegre from far-reaching corners of the globe, the expense has been worth it. Despair turned to joy, then unbridled joy, before resting at despair again. All of life’s certainties in less than two hours. Who needs reality when it comes in this form.

  Socceroos fans after the game in Porto Alegre. Their sign, prophetic, that day at least (photo courtesy Kevin Airs).

  5.

  FAVELA LIFE

  The further you get away from the main square, the narrower the streets get. A sense of direction needs to work overtime as the roads become pavements, the pavements become alleyways and alleyways become slivers of space between walls. Those walls, hastily thrown together with bricks that resemble tiles and with lashings of concrete slapped in between, are home to the millions of Brazilians the country would rather not think about.

  It’s hard not to glance through the small windows to see what lies within. Pungent smells emanate. Garlic fumes spill from one dwelling, an unspeakable waft from another. Families are crowded around watching television, or just crowded around chatting. Whatever they are doing, they are crowded. Not by possessions, but by each other, for each other is just about all they have. Welcome to a favela.

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  Complexo do Alemão (German complex) is a ‘super’ favela, super in terms of size, not quality. Six separate favelas have mutated into one enormous area, home to over 200,000 people. Or 300,000. No-one is quite sure. Whatever the real figure it’s a place bonded by intense poverty and neglect from the greater part of Brazilian society. It’s the part the Brazilian government knows about but isn’t entirely sure how to address; the name ‘complexo’ lends itself to a perfect double meaning. It’s also about as far removed from a FIFA Fanfest and its blue-chip sponsors as is humanly possible.

  After winning the rights to host the World Cup (as well as the 2016 Olympic Games), the Brazilian government tried to solve its problems with the Unidade de Polícia Pacificadora, or Police Pacification Units (UPP). These units were sent into the favelas to clean up the dangerous slums and rid them of the drug lords who ran them. According to the government, UPP intervention has been a success. Delve a little deeper and the jungle is still as dangerous, even though outsiders treat it like a trip to the zoo.

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  Rio is divided into two parts: the South Zone, the tourist epicentre highlighted by Copacabana and Ipanema, and the North Zone. If you drive north from Ipanema, through the leafy suburbs that hug Lagoa (the Lagoon), the banks of which are littered with sculptures, rowing clubs and countless futsal courts, and pass Christ the Redeemer, you reach a tunnel that stretches two kilometres – and two worlds.

  Adeus tourist Rio. When daylight returns at the end of the tunnel, t
he Real Rio is revealed. The North Zone. The urban sprawl, endless back streets and traffic. It’s as if some form of upper-class authority put that mountain there that Christ is perched on to hide what exists beyond. It is an entirely different world, but no less vibrant and enthralling. Colour bounces off the walls through the expressive street art, the cycle of everyday life in full spin, young men crowd around a small car with a sound system fit for a stadium squashed into the hatchback.

  Brazilian car stereo in Complexo do Alemão.

  Noise pollution? Don’t be silly, this is Brazil, if you want to do it, do it.

  School-age boys play a dangerous game of fare evasion, hitching each other up one-by-one through the rear window of a bus which crawls through a busy intersection. The driver surely knows what’s happening – there are eight boys, after all – but every 20 seconds or so the bus moves forward 20 metres and stops. That’s the cue for another kid to scramble through the rear window. The first one has the hardest job. He has no-one to pull him through, but once he’s okay the process is underway and repeated until they are all aboard, laughing their heads off. It would be hilarious to watch too if it weren’t so life threatening.

  Along the walkways, sparks shower down from an awning. A man welds, creating a hot metal monsoon and do you reckon he’s wearing goggles? Don’t be silly. This is Brazil. If OH&S exists, no-one cares, certainly not about something as trivial as searing your eyeballs.

  Those relaxing can be found in butecos, basic street cafés which serve simple delicacies and the coldest beer known to civilisation. Butecos are havens for a favourite Brazilian pastime – talking about football – and there’s a fair bit being discussed on this particular afternoon. The maze of streets seems like it’ll never end before it suddenly does at one of the more unique landmarks in the middle of any metropolis – a cable car station. It leads to the top of Complexo do Alemão above an endless scene of frail concrete structures packed in together so tightly it’s a surprise the dodgy roofing doesn’t just pop off. The cable car ride is smooth, quiet and downright eerie, the skyline dotted by kites flown by kids. Before the UPP, those kites were used by drug gangs to communicate with each other.