Round Ball Fever

The Boy Factory is not usually a hospitible place for The World Game. The round ball has been booted for many more centuries than that weird egg shaped one. There are millions more players of soccer, billions more viewers and supporters. There is more money in the salaries and sponsorships than any other sport (though golf has the biggest prize money). And the World Cup Finals are the Biggest Sporting Event in the world.

And I love it.

Last World Cup, with Guus, and Viduka, and the new A League, Australia was on a football upswing. Things were good. Unreasonably good, really. We were punching well above our weight and made it through some very lucky games. I have hope, and I have belief in the Socceroos, but I would never profess to having a depth of confidence in them. I mean we got really lucky, but we are really not a footballing nation. Rugby? Yes. League? One of the few. AFL? The only (though Gaellic is similar...). Cricket? Carve it up. Speed skating...? Well, our Socceroos are a little like Steve Bradbury.

George Negus, self confessed football tragic, describes us as a bit like a third world country when it comes to development in football. As our focus is split between codes and sports, our athletic talents are divided and conquered. Hence the long times between trips to the World Cup Finals waterhole.

The Socceroos tragic opening this year was very tricky to watch. What with the sandpaper lining my eyelids at 4am, it wasn't just the emotional impact of watching the boys in blue (and NOT green and gold???!?!? What is WITH that??!?!?) impale themselves on their own mediocrity. Germany really are a superb team. With their crisp white uniforms (a little too white, perhaps?) and brilliant ball skills. And a vast depth of experience playing as a team.

I was bitterly disappointed in the way that Lucas Neill's boys played. There was no trust. There was no passing. There was great gaping corridors opening up in the back line. I was almost surprised the Aussies weren't laying down strip lighting so the Germans could see their way towards the goal a little better. There were so so many failed offside traps. There was so much backchat to the ref.

And then there was the ref dishing out cards to all and sundry for the minorest of taps and slides. Timmy Cahill was sent packing on a red for a nothing tackle based more on momentum than malice. The tiny ex-Samoan really holds the hopes of the nation on his fairly low-to-the-ground shoulders (hey! look at the judgement from the tall girl!!.... he is probably about my height...) and with the red, Cahill was promised a few extra days holiday.

And of course there is the coach blame. Verbeek actually didn't field a striker til about 3/4 the way through. Cahill was playing up front, but he is a midfielder...? There was no towering Josh Kennedy... and Kewell (also a midfielder) was decidedly noticable in his absence from the field.

The Mighty Under 14s have the benefit of my watchful yet inexperienced coaching eye each Saturday morning. They hear my ladylike bellow from the sideline; encouraging, cajoling, instructing. Dramatically falling over when breakaways miss the goal mouth. Biting my fist when the ball sneaks behind our backline. And each week we talk about trust. We talk about passing. We talk about filling the gaps, about letting each other run out, about picking up the slack behind each other. They still need me to talk about the importance of shooting - you can't score if you don't shoot (the same advice applies for chasing tail, too).

On Saturday morning, if my boys play like the Socceroos did, they will be seriously punished at training next week.