I almost didn’t go. I couldn’t handle another heartbreak. For 32 years the Socceroos got so close to qualifying for the World Cup, but then something catastrophic would happen. In 1994 they lost to Argentina when a ball deflected off Alex Tobin. In 1998 they were two goals up against Iran at the MCG, when an idiot invaded the pitch and ripped the net down, shattering the momentum, allowing Iran to come back. In 2001 I got up in the middle of the night to watch Australia get obliterated by Uruguay, so badly that players left the ground in tears. And 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 had organised a bunch of tickets, and gave me one. “We have to go,” he said, “for Marco.”
