On 16 November 2005, Australian football finally reached a turning point. For 32 years, the Socceroos had come agonisingly close to qualifying for the World Cup, only to suffer catastrophic failures. In 1994, a deflected ball off Alex Tobin led to defeat against Argentina. In 1998, a pitch invader tore down the net at the MCG, shattering momentum and allowing Iran to come back from two goals down. In 2001, Australia were obliterated by Uruguay, leaving players in tears. I swore I wouldn't put myself through it again.
But when the 2005 sudden-death qualifier against Uruguay came around, an old school friend organised tickets and gave me one. 'We have to go,' he said, 'for Marco.' We went to school with Marco Bresciano, who had become a Socceroos star. Our most memorable interaction was in year seven PE, when we collided and nearly knocked each other out. If only I'd known I'd almost wiped out one of the greatest footballers Australia would ever produce.
Our school, Marcellin College, was a Catholic boys school that worshipped the holy trinity: Jesus, footy and cricket. Round-ball matches were relegated to a crudely marked rectangle on the junior cricket field, with a muddy ridge cutting across the ground. Football players spent most matches hurdling the mound. During World Cup qualifying in 2005, Uruguay won the first leg 1-0, so the Socceroos needed to win by at least 1-0. A simple equation, but given their history, the perfect scenario to absolutely screw it up.
Our seats were about 15 rows behind the goal. As the Socceroos walked onto the pitch at Telstra Stadium, I spotted Bresciano and yelled out, 'There he is,' like an excited parent at a school concert. Australia were kicking toward our end. When the match kicked off, Uruguay leapt out like a wild animal released from a cage. Three minutes in, Recoba flashed a free kick just wide, causing a collective gasp. Ten minutes later, Lugano just missed a header. When Recoba sprinted toward goal but blasted his shot wide, the whole stadium was hyperventilating. After 20 minutes of this barrage, familiar dread was rising. People were muttering, 'Not again.' But Australia absorbed the blows and started to punch back.
Before the match, one of Bresciano's old friends told us a story: As a junior, Bresciano was left out of a rep team because the coach said he couldn't kick on his left foot. Instead of complaining, he went home and kicked hundreds of balls against the garage wall with his left foot every night, until his weak foot became so strong opponents couldn't tell which was his preferred foot. That night it was about to pay off for Australia. At 35 minutes, Tim Cahill kicked to Mark Viduka, who flicked a back heel pass to Harry Kewell as he bounded into the box, but Kewell mistimed his kick. The ball wobbled off his boot and fell toward Bresciano, who lunged sideways and scored with his left foot.
We leapt off our seats as if hit by a high voltage shock. Amid the ecstasy, Bresciano stood utterly still, legs spread, arms wide, like a Roman statue carved from granite. As teammates piled on him, he didn't move. He just glared down the field toward the Uruguay players. The message was clear: this time nothing was going to knock them down. He was right. They held on for the remaining 60 minutes and another 30 minutes of excruciating extra time. We endured the tension, but this time, the heartbreak ended.
