A Cup half full.
I went to bed last night with two distinct expectations. Firstly, I would have some sort of nightmare about spiders. I hate the things with a passion and have been dreaming about them a lot lately, which isn’t fun. The second anticipation was also realised; I would wake up to a World Cup group in which Australia would seem well and truly screwed. Apparently, a lot of people were entertaining the possibility of anything else.
That’s the impression I get, at least, after seeing what is a more depressing Twitter feed this morning then after Mandela passed away. The negativity is comparable to Melbourne Heart’s goal difference.
It’s a World Cup, ladies and gentlemen, the world’s biggest festival (please, spare me any arguments about the enormity of different festivals). Why is it such a monumental tournament? Because the best players in the world game, some of the best teams in the world, are there, and there to win. It’s not as if we were going to draw Guava (with no disrespect to Guavalona, as I’ve heard they’re called). No matter what three teams were dished out alongside us, the challenge would be gargantuan – and that’s the beauty of the World Cup, why we toiled for thirty two years to get here after 1974.
Australia has endured an exceedingly tough period since the fairy-tale of 2006, and frankly, we’re in no position to win anything on paper. On paper, we’ve quite comfortably secured our position at the bottom of any group who’d dare draw us. Any possible group would require us to play out of our boots.
The group we did draw is full of some of the most technically progressive and exciting teams in the world. Spain are perhaps the best there is, we’ve always enjoyed a game against the Dutch, while Chile play an exciting, free-flowing brand of football. Stars such as Xavi, Van Persie and Vidal will take the field against us. It’s a real honour to face these three teams in an environment where they want to cut our throats, where they are desperate to beat us. Let’s demolish the twats.
We’re nowhere near the best team in the world, and never really have been – but who cares? This isn’t AFL. Let’s go out there and play our hearts out for the green and gold, with memories of 74, 06 and even 97 embroidered into the jersey. Let’s cheer our boys on for every minute of the group stage in which they too give their best. Let’s celebrate every goal we score as if we’ve won the competition. And most importantly, let’s cut the nationwide sobbing session. That is, of course, unless you are a Melbourne Heart fan – my condolences.
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