ROBBED!!!

We were robbed!!!!! Apparently. Nothing seems to be missing but according to the Australian media 'we' were supposed to win the football (soccer) game against Italy the other night and it’s a ‘tragic’ end to their World Cup campaign. I don’t know if it’s that tragic. I for one am actually quite relieved. At least now I can stop pretending that I know anything about soccer. Before this all started I thought ‘offside’ was a cut of meat and Guus Hiddink was the colonel from Hogan’s Heroes. The last few weeks have seen me discussing strategy and refereeing decisions and speculating on Australia’s chances. I didn’t want to discuss these things, but I had to in order to keep the peace. I was faking it and I have to admit that I became so good at faking that I reckon I could have played for Italy.

As a male in Australia we are expected to know about sport. If for some reason you aren’t interested in sport, conversing with other males, especially during something like the FIFA World Cup, can be quite taxing.

I’m not very interested in sport. I don’t know why. I have tried to get interested but it just doesn’t happen. Maybe it’s because my Dad never made me get involved in sport. He watched and liked sport but never made me watch it. I tried to play sport… and I was competent enough at the basic skills but I never quite got the whole competitive thing. Maybe that’s because every team I was involved in consistently lost every game. Whether it was AFL, soccer or basketball my teams always got trounced. I learnt to be gracious in defeat. I became very good at that. I never felt the glory of success or the dominating pride of winning. Maybe that’s what was missing. Whatever the cause, I do not get excited by any sport or competitive behaviour. And it seems that’s a problem.

Over the last few weeks I have been accused of being ‘a poof’, ‘abnormal’ and worst of all ‘un-Australian’ because I wasn’t going to watch the World Cup. That’s particularly weird because I actually played soccer as a child in the eighties and the ‘cool’ kids back then called me a ‘poof’ for that. Now it seems that I'm a 'poof' because instead of staying up late to watch grown men kick a ball I was in bed having sex with my girlfriend.

Last week I was told that I should be proud to be Australian because of the Socceroos efforts. I don’t quite get that. Why should I be proud to be Australian because twelve guys are good at sport? By that logic surely the shame of hundreds of racist Australians at Cronulla would eclipse any pride that the Socceroos could instil in me. I wasn’t on the field. I didn’t kick a goal. I wasn’t even in the crowd in Germany so I find it difficult to work out why I should garner any pride in myself based on the actions of men that I don’t know who have trained hard for many years and played their chosen sport well.

I watched the crowds going wild when Australia won. I saw people getting together and bonding watching the games, creating lasting memories of joy, pride and excitement. I heard them in the streets rejoicing and I have to admit I was jealous. I wish I could feel the same way. I wish I could vicariously succeed and enjoy other people’s achievements. I wish I was Australian enough to jump on a bandwagon and be like everyone else. And I really wish that I could just forget the last few weeks as quickly as the Australian media will.

Aussie, Aussie, Aussie…