Day 19: Australia v Italy

Back in Sydney battling jet lag, I join 90% of the Australian population in front of a screen at 1am Tuesday morning.

The record book will show Italy won 1-0, but Australians will remember the horrible circumstances for a long time. A dubious penalty three minutes into injury time was a cruel way to end for a team that had given so much. The fact remains, however, that Australia showed few signs of penetrating an Italian team down to 10 men for most of the second half, and it seems Guus was intent on hanging on into extra time and relying on superior fitness. He made no substitutions until the 83rd minute, as if saving fresh players for later. The tactic did not work, which takes nothing away from his wonderful achievemens with the team in a few months.

As a pivotal moment in Australia's campaign, I thought the penalty deserved lengthy analysis, so I wrote the following piece for crikey.com.au which they ran (edited) on Thursday 29th.

The Italian Penalty

It’s already been labelled as the greatest injustice in Australian sporting history. There is no doubt that the Round of 16 penalty awarded to Italy against Lucas Neill will be remembered forever and cause ongoing debate within Australia.

But take a look at the international press today. Ghana is complaining that officials always favour Brazil, and Spain believes Thierry Henry dived when awarded the foul which led to the second French goal. Across the world, the losers are complaining about the referees, and hints of conspiracy theories and favoured nations abound. I have just returned from three weeks at the World Cup, and much of the refereeing has been pivotal and poor.

It’s often the case in life that the greatest virtue of something is also its greatest weakness. A vase may be beautiful due to its fineness and delicacy, but it also makes it vulnerable to breakage. In football, a goal is a truly wonderful thing due to its relative scarcity, and the difficulty in scoring builds the tension that is one of the great attractions of the game. This may sound a strange concept to a lover of basketball or Aussie Rules, but that is borne of a different expectation from their sport.

The lack of goals, however, does create its own problem. It means one single incident can turn a game in a way that could not happen in basketball. If you score a hundred times a game, who cares if the referee is wrong on one or two calls. In football, the focus on that one decision after the game may be intense.

Let’s consider the Italian penalty by examining the nature of refereeing. I played competitive football for 25 years before qualifying as a referee and officiating at Premier League games. As I player, I rarely had doubts about what was a correct decision. If I was involved in an incident, I knew my own motivations. How could I be penalised for an elbow to the face when I was simply using my arms to jump higher? Even watching my favourite teams, there was little ambiguity. I had a particular point of reference, in the same way a capitalist or a communist may view a social issue.

Much to my surprise when I started refereeing, amid a cauldron of volatile personalities and nationalities, a desperate desire to win, and a necessity to make instant choices without replays, decisions became far less clear. Did that player dive or was he tripped? Was that a body check or did the two players simply run into each other? Was that a deliberate handball? As a complete neutral, the referee judges each incident on its merits, and often has to interpret motivations without being inside the mind of the perpetrator.

And it’s not simply yes or no, foul or not. There are four stages of ‘punishment’ to judge on each foul, and the referee must decide between:

*No foul, play on.
*Foul play, award a free kick only.
*Foul play, deserving a yellow card.
*Dangerous play, deserving a red card.

Imagine that. Every one of the hundreds of incidents in a game must be instantly graded according to a scale of 1 to 4. The referee must stay up with the game when the ball can be hit 75 metres by some of the fittest athletes in the world, with billions of people receiving replays from every angle.

Now to the Italian penalty. Lucas Neill slid in front of Fabio Grosso to make a tackle. Grosso turned the back inside Neill, placing Neill between the ball and the attacker. Grosso then fell over Neill, and maybe he dived. The crucial point, though, is that Neill does not simply lie on the ground. He actually raises his left arm as Grosso goes over him. It’s highly likely the Italian would have dived in any case, but the referee sees the incident in its entirety. He was a few metres away, and saw what looked like Neill’s attempt to block his opponent. No hesitation, no doubt in the referee’s mind, penalty. Lucas Neill had an outstanding tournament, but he should not have gone to ground and then raised his arm and created the opportunity for the Italian.

Mark Viduka called it a ‘soft decision’, and Craig Foster called it ‘50/50’. It was not a ridiculous penalty decision, it was not a stupid refereeing mistake. It was a reasonable judgement call that the official had to make, even if it was harsh and could have gone either way.

I suspect most Australians, many new to the game, are particularly upset because of what might have been, and this clouds their judgement. We almost reached extra time, we played well with the majority of possession, and we somehow ‘deserved’ to win the match. Whatever the reason, the penalty itself was not a complete injustice, and welcome to the beautiful game.

Day 18: Fly Back to Sydney

Expecting to arrive Monday morning, what happened to Sunday?

Day 17: Dubai

It's 25 June in Dubai, Saturday night I think. I'm about to lose a big chunk of Sunday coming back to Australia.

I have 24 hours in Dubai to break the trip home. When the plane arrives at 6.45am, it is already 35C, and within a few hours, it is 45C, and it feels just like that amazing day in Sydney a few months ago. I catch a taxi from my hotel to the Mall of the Emirates, a massive, air-conditioned centre which seems to contain every prestige brand from anywhere in the world. It is also the home of Ski Dubai, a 400 metre ski slope (obviously indoor) that has to be seen to be believed. The taxi driver shows me a building that will soon be the world’s tallest, at 200 stories and 750 metres. Building goes on 24 hours a day.

Every taxi driver I meet is Pakistani, and their biggest names in sport are not Michael Ballack or Ronaldo, but Shane Warne and Brett Lee. A billion people on the sub-continent and cricket is bigger than football. There, I said it.

I go to the beach where the famous Burj Al Arab Hotel is located, the one with the helicopter pad hanging off the side. It is not as fantastic ‘in the flesh’ as I expected from seeing photographs, perhaps because the city is in a 45C haze and the air seems heavy with dust and sand. Cars are covered in a thin layer of this dirt, and you get the feeling that the desert would claim back this land given half a chance.

The sea off the beach is the Arabian Gulf, and it is warmer than bath water. The heat is amazing, and it is sustained for months. The city survives on desalinated water, and every car, building, kennel and mousehole is air-conditioned. But my overwhelming impression, despite a few amazing structures, is that it is much the same as many Asian cities: traffic is chaotic, drivers are crazy, it is dusty and dirty, it has an Arab and Pakistani underclass who hang around the streets, and most of the buildings are single storey hovels. It also hits you between the eyes, coming from Germany, that there is no alcohol. Germany has it on every corner, while in Dubai, there are no bars, nothing in the shops, and people sit around drinking juice, tea and coffee. It makes me realise how alcohol plays a massive role in Western culture and socialising.

In the evening, I catch the old ‘souk’ boats to cross Dubai Creek, really a saltwater river through the city, but I can’t find anything worth buying. Even the locals mop the sweat from their brows, and gee, I could kill a beer.

Day 16: Oehringen and Goodbye Germany

Spend a good part of the morning chatting over breakfast with my Argentinean/German host couple and three other Australians staying with them. Everyone is still on a high, grateful to have witnessed an exciting game and impressed by the Australian team’s resolve. All three Aussies arrived yesterday without tickets, and had little trouble at prices up to E200, or double face value. FIFA’s much-publicised identification system was a bit of a non-event.

Our hosts have loved having many nationalities stay with them. The husband, Armin, says, “I’m so excited you came to stay with us,” while his wife runs around making ham and eggs and cheese and helping everyone to enjoy their stay.

My flight from Munich to Dubai is not until 10.30pm, so I spend much of the day driving around. I travel up to Oehringen, where Australia has been training and staying, as someone told me the players relaxed around the town. No sign of them, but many Australians are there on a ‘morning after’ pilgrimage.

Thanks to the brilliant SatNav, returning the car to Munich about 300 km away is straightforward. I have driven over 1,000 kms in the last week without a serious hitch, at one stage overtaken by a Porsche Carrera which must have been doing 250 kph. It is startling how quickly a car at this speed closes in on you – one glance in the mirror and there’s nothing there, next it’s up your clacker. At 240 kph, a car is covering a kilometre every 15 seconds.

I am not staying in Germany for the Italy game next Monday, for several reasons: I want to see my cuddle-bunny and two girls, and we’ve all got tickets to Coldplay in Sydney next Tuesday; I’ve seen four games and had a great time; and all my arrangements are in place to return via Dubai and I’d rather avoid the hassle of finding a ticket, arranging transport and accommodation for another four days, and cancelling and rescheduling my return plans. I have safely seen Australia through to the next round.

So I leave Germany with some wonderful memories, of excellent German hospitality and catching up with old friends, of football games at 3pm and 6pm and 9pm each day, of an adventurous Australian team which has played with style and resilience, of two weeks of sunshine, of joyous and loud Australian singing, of reading Debbie’s funny blog each day, and of the way many nations of the world can come together to celebrate football with much humour and friendship, leaving their politics behind.

Stuttgart Photographs Menu

The following photographs are (unfortunately, not in chronological order):

1. Aussie team comes over to wave to me after the game.
2. Killed a few hours at the fantastic Mercedes Museum (where I was pleased to see my car is still the current model in Germany).
3. On the wrong train to the game, full of Croatians.
4. One of the tent cities for fans on a budget (a hell of a way to do it when German B&B with great breakfast was only E30 a night.
5.After party in Schlossplatz in the centre of town. Aussies v Croats v Pommy Party Crashers.
6. Meet up with brother-in-law Declan before the game.
7. Fans go mad after Harry scores equaliser.
8. Feeling no pain.

Australia v Croatia Photographs

Day 15: Australia v Croatia WE GO ON!

A quick posting for anyone who needs a fix on the morning of the game. You all know the result so I won't dwell on that.

It's now 1am in Stuttgart, and I've just returned home after the game. There are still thousands of Australians and Croatians in the centre of the city, although we stayed in the stadium as long as we could. Half an hour after the game, the players came out and did another lap of honour, and they hung around at the end where most of the Australian fans were seated (or standing, as we were for most of the game). They played Australian songs over the loudspeaker, and I must say, it was quite emotional when everyone yelled, "I come from a land Down Under", and belted out AC/DC songs.

The Australian support at the game was fantastic, in full voice even when Croatia went ahead twice. This team has a lot of fighting spirit and the fans can feel it. Kalac received a hammering from the crowd, and Sterjovski is out of his depth, but we love the rest of them. Put in Bresciano and Schwarzer for these two and it's a strong team. What a great game Neill, Moore, Kewell, Cahill and Emerton played.

It was a memorable night, as good as the Uruguay and Japan games, which makes three fantastic football matches in a few months. As in those games, we high-fived with total strangers, and shouted until our voices were gone. The Croatians were friendly and took it in good spirits, and there will be a few Australians who don't go to bed tonight (especially since many of them are living in tents and camper vans, and the streets are just as good on a warm night in Stuttgart).

And so to bed, more tomorrow, hopefully with a few pics.

Day 14: Stuttgart

It's 200 kms from Buchanau to Munich, and a further 200km to Stuttgart, so the voice and I set out for the journey together. I now know how to make sure she only speaks English. Interesting how quickly you adjust to driving at higher speeds, and we do 150kph most of the way, and it only takes a little over 3 hours.

In Stuttgart, I am staying with a young family, he a native of Stuttgart and she a buxom Argentinean. It's the only way to describe her, I'm afraid, as it's a bit like catching a ferry at Circular Quay and not seeing the bridge. I concentrate hard on what she is saying, how important it is for the Argentinean people that they do well in the WC. The economy is so bad, she tells me, that her uncle was a professor and they closed his university and now he sells sausages on the streets.

The family is hosting people for the WC, and they have a noticeboard signed by Mexicans, Swiss, Dutch and a few Aussies, as well as Germans. They are so keen to please, they give me a beer and then drive me into the centre of Stuttgart to show me around. It is a spectacular city, built at the bottom of a giant bowl, and in the centre, a massive Fan Fest, far larger than the ones I visited in Kaiserslautern and Munich.

I have a frustrating session in an internet cafe - the connections in the last few days have been crap. They can only handle text rather than photos. Place is packed with Aussies emailing home.

In the evening, I sit with a couple of knowledgeable Aussies in the Stuttgart Fan Fest area. They seem to know all about European football, as we watch the Argies play Holland. I've heard a few stories now that scalpers are not getting great prices for tickets, selling as low as E50. Apparently, a lot are on the market from Third World football nations (their names are printed on the tickets, but nobody checks at the entrance) who sell them for personal or fund-raising purposes.

Lots of Croatians in town ready for tomorrow's big game, none of them less than six feet tall.

I run into Chris Sozou again. He is on an organised tour, but has given up attending most of the trips. He says there are too many people, and much waiting around, and then the trip is barely worth it. He attended an open training session for the Australian team at their base in Oehringen, and 5,000 people turned up. They let the locals in first and the Australian fans could not get near to the team. Still, I plan to check out the town in the next couple of days.

Arber Photographs

Photographs are:

Mostly, views from the top of the Arber towards Czechoslovakia.

Plus me, totally pooped after climbing to the summit.

Day 13: Buchanau, near Zweisel

I awake in the hotel at the top of the Arber, and looking out of the windows, thick white clouds fill the valleys and you cannot see the villages below. As it clears, just beyond the nearest town of Eisenstein, the houses and hotels are in Czechoslovakia, barely the length of a football pitch from Germany. The scenery is spectacular, tall pine forests interrupted by houses and fields in the valleys.

It is already sunny and warm, and it is hard to believe that a few months ago, the Arber was covered in 5 metres of snow, burying many of the buildings. Since I was last here, this has become a serious ski resort, with gondolas and several 6-person, high-speed lifts. Only one is operating today to bring hikers up the mountain. The slopes are dotted with snow-making machines, like giant crickets reaching over the grass.

It’s a modest hotel, and there are 10 guests staying overnight. Over breakfast, I chat to a man from Hamburg who is taking a couple of weeks to hike through this range. He has a six-hour walk ahead of him with a back pack. Igo tells me later that he sometimes receives mail packages for his guests which contain clean clothes for them to change into, sent by their wives to various spots in the mountains, scheduled to arrive a few days apart.

In the afternoon, we return down the mountain to their other home in Buchanau, and after watching an excellent German side win 3-0, we take a long walk around the small village that looks more typically Swiss than German. It even has its own small castle. Then we head out to dinner at a nearby restaurant. Igo tells me amazing stories about his music career throughout Russia and Asia, before returning to Germany to establish the hotel.

We watch England do enough against Sweden to win the group but draw the match, and the English press will give them a caning. It looks like the end of Michael Owen’s illustrious international career, and Rooney still looks rusty.

Day 12: Arberschutzhaus near Eisenstein

Today I am visiting some old family friends, Igo and Od Fischer, and their home and hotel in Eastern Germany. The hotel, Arberschutzhaus, is a wonderful place to stay, up a mountain at 4500 feet in the Bavarian Alps on the Czech border (see www.arberschutzhaus.de). Unfortunately, the internet access is slower than when Bill Gates was a boy, downloads are measured in pixels per hour, and it has the world's only version of Windows 62. So my blog updates lose a couple of days.

So I drive out of Munich and head north east towards the Czech border, following the instructions from the female voice in the dash. I realise, as we are belting along the autobahn at 150 kph, that I do not have a map, and I’m just obeying her voice. I’ve input directions to a place called Bachanau, to meet Igo and Od at their home, but I could be heading for Mars. Then without warning, she stops speaking English and reverts to German, and I suddenly feel alone. The English voice had become good company, not in a ‘blow-up-doll’ sort of way (“I spent the night with her, and most of the next afternoon” – sorry, couldn’t resist an old Dom Arera gag), but a friendly voice in a strange country. When she says, “Follow the road until further instructions,” I say, “OK, fine by me”. I wonder if she’s reverted to German because she’s tired on this little game. I follow the directional arrows on the dash and somehow arrive at Buchanau.

Debbie and I first came to this part of Germany in 1982, as part of a year working and backpacking in Europe. Debbie’s father, Reuben, had worked with a German guy, Igo, at the Gallface Hotel in Columbo, Ceylon (where Debbie was born) in the mid-1950s. Reuben played clarinet and Igo was on keyboards. Igo returned to Germany and except for a contact phone number, there was no ongoing communication. He opened a hotel at the top of a mountain in the Bavarian Alps, near a place called Bayerisch Eisenstein. And so Debbie and I rocked up to a public phone at the bottom of the mountain, 25 years later and with no prior warning, and Debbie calls his number says, “Do you remember Reuben Solomon?” and the doors of the hotel are thrown open as if close family had arrived.

Now I am back at the top of this mountain 24 years later, and Igo and his family are still the same, as friendly and welcoming as ever. I have the run of the menu, the bar, and the rooms, with all payments refused, and the football is on the television from morning to night. During my stay, I try the beers, the schnapps, the ice cream and the apple streudel until I'm ready to burst. I think I’ve died and gone to Bavaria.

I take a long, exhausting walk in the deep forest, which looks exactly the same as it did half a lifetime ago. Major world events, such as the fall of the Berlin Wall, the technology revolution, September 11, and Manchester United winning the treble, have come and gone, and this forest in this mountain is untouched.

At sunset, I climb to the peak, and moments later, a single-seat aircraft flies past no more than 25 metres away, and the pilot heads down into the valleys and buzzes the tiny villages. It’s like an aerial stroll in his back garden, and he does not seem too worried that he’s about to miss the next game. I’ve heard there are people like that.

Several Germans have told me that the WC has changed the way Germans allow themselves to demonstrate their nationalism. Due to a past which most would rather forget, the last two generations of Germans have rarely showed national pride in an open and overt way. The WC has liberated them, as the world has come to Germany and given everyone permission to wear the colours and wave the flag. Most Germans have deliberately understated this for 60 years. Furthermore, their coach has picked a young side and removed some of the older players who were a further link to the past, and the country wants to get behind its young team. Everyone is joining in, even at the top of this mountain surrounding by timeless forests.

Munich & Brazil Game Photographs

Day 11: Australia v Brazil

On the train to the game, we are in a carriage full of Australians, and they are not only lively and vocal, but they have a surprisingly wide repertoire of songs. When did this happen? Some songs are crude, such as “You’re Just a Third World Country” (and we’ll ignore the fact that you’ve won the WC five times), and “You Fat Bastard” references to Ronaldo, but most are amusing.

The CFS group puts on quite a show, with everyone in their Aussie gear. Amber’s green and gold hair looks a bit like Kath’s in Kath & Kim, and Matt, Kylie and Ben all have extravagant hats. There is a festive mood, but not the spread of Brazilian girls in bikinis that some were hoping for. One girl is somewhat underdressed but runs away when dozens of Aussie cameras, including mine, converge on her.

Sarah and I go to the Prestige area for lunch with Christoph Weller, an Executive Director at WestLB, and another of his clients. It’s a great setup and we have a fine lunch (salmon entrée, venison main, black forest cake dessert) before heading into the glaring sunshine.

Australia plays exceptionally well in the first half, and the team is certainly not overawed by their opponents. We are near the pitch on half-way and it is special to watch the likes of Ronaldo and Ronaldhino a few metres away. Brazil score immediately after half-time when Adriano is not closed down, but Australia press forward and have many chances. Kewell is brought on with 35 minutes to go and misses an absolute sitter. He also has other good chances, and although he plays well, he’s simply not as deadly as he was a couple of years ago. Bresciano also fluffs one, and Brazil score late to make it 2-0. My Man of the Match was Lucas Neill, an absolute tower of strength at the back, and Emerton played well. It was a game that Australia could have taken a point from, and it was splendid entertainment.

After the game, back in the hospitality area, we have a local speciality, warm leberkase, which is tasty and another of Germany’s ‘manufactured meats’. The only beer in the stadium is Bud (brewed in London), which the Germans think is hilarious, "I'd never drink that, I've never seen it in a restaurant or bar".

Earlier, Japan and Croatia drew nil-all, a good result for Australia. Assuming Brazil beats Japan, Australia only needs a draw with Croatia to progress to the next round. On today’s form, the lads have the skills, fitness and team work to make it happen.

Day 11: Australia v Brazil morning

It's the game everyone has been looking forward to with most anticipation and trepidation. If Australia can take something out of it, not only may we advance to the next round, but Australian football will win the respect of the world.

My host family lays on a massive breakfast, with two boiled eggs, meats, cheese, yoghurt, four breads, coffee, orange juice - I can't work out why Germans are not build like oil tankers. The family seems to think it is amusing to see me in my Aussie shirt, scarf, hat and now, socks, and I start to wonder whether I look rather ridiculous. What the hell, who cares.

In Munich, I meet up with an old friend, Keith Ward, and we take a walk to the famous English Gardens near the centre of town. In the middle of the park, the river is so strong that it forms a wave, and a large group of surfers is riding the wave. Looks really strange with a backdrop of old German buildings and bridges, and I'll post some photographs later.

For the Brazil game, I am being hosted by Westdeutsche Landesbank (thank you, Michael) in the Prestige Section, so I head out early to the stadium to catch the hospitality. There are a lot more Australians in town today, but we still seem to be outnumbered by that other minor football nation. The Brazilian next to me in a coffee shop says to me, "Today, we are not your friends."

Munich Photographs Menu

Since I struggle to format the photographs with the text, here's what the following are:

1. Massive crowds fill the Fan Fest site.
2. Amber, her friend Ben and Sarah in front of the screen.
3. Sarah wins a bet with John.
4. Football pitch built into hillside.
5. The CFS mob taking in the game (can you explain 'offside' again?).
6. Beers all round for the CFS team.
7. Sarah, John and I have lunch before meeting the others.

Munich Fan Fest

Day 10: Munich

It’s early Saturday morning and off to Stansted Airport for the flight to Munich. The airport is a 45 minute train journey from the city, through lush countryside liberally dotted with rabbits. South East England needs a decent dose of mixo.

The public focus on the World Cup in England is complete, in newspapers, television, signs on the streets, clothes, transport, everything. Every second television commercial features the England players, and five of them – Joe Cole, Terry, Lampard, Beckham and Rooney – are the pin-up boys. The country will go into introspective mourning if England loses.

The quality of English football journalism is high, especially Henry Winter in the Telegraph. (see www.telegraph.co.uk/winter). Consider these gems, all in one article:

*Fittingly, against Caribbean foe, this was a rum do.
*Goals came from Peter Crouch and Steven Gerard. A Mersey Killing indeed. (Explanation: These guys play for Liverpool, which is on the River Mersey).
*The first half was particularly dire and “Calypso Collapso” headlines were being prepared.
*Those long skinny legs suddenly resembled spaghetti junction.

Although we are still in the qualifying rounds, it’s been a great World Cup, with many spectacular goals. One of the benefits of being at the game, rather than watching on television, is that you can see the structure of the entire team off the ball, not only what the camera follows. It shows more clearly the dilemmas faced by the coaching staff in setting team tactics. Sometimes, I need the game to freeze for a few minutes to absorb everything that’s happening.

For anyone not interested in football or my opinion, stop reading now. Here’s my assessment of the England team at the moment. England has a group of excellent players, and for the first time in a generation, a few are genuinely world-class. The problem the manager is having is how to bring them together coherently. Both Gerrard and Lampard in midfield are best positioned just behind the forwards, surging to the edge of the box rather than coming from deep in defense. But they cannot both play there, which forces one of them, usually Gerard, to play more defensively than he does for Liverpool. This is stifling one of England’s great attacking weapons.

The coaches also demand that one of the forwards, either Crouch or Owen, must get behind the ball defensively whenever the other team is in possession. This is generally a laudable tactic, but Owen is a goal poacher, someone who should hover at the shoulder of the last defender, sniping and darting between big centre-backs and their goalkeeper. Forcing him to defend is losing his potency, especially when he has been injured most of the year and is already less than razor sharp. Not only is Wayne Rooney an important player in his own right, but he improves the balance of the team. He can play behind Owen, leaving Owen to stay up front in his natural role.

Compared with the team that has started the last two games, I’d prefer to see a role for both Lennon and Rooney. I’d give Owen another game and leave Crouch out. It will be fascinating to see the lineup Sven decides for the next game.

OK, back to the log. The plane to Germany was chockers, especially with English and Australians going over for the WC. Chatting to a few, it seems most people do not have tickets, but are just going over to be part of it.

Picked up a car at Munich Airport, and then the fun began. It took me an hour to work out how to make the SatNav speak English, without which I would be stuffed for a week. The car is a six-speed manual, and I’ve been driving automatics for years. So I’m driving along on the wrong side of the road, trying to make the SatNav work, shifting gears with my right hand, and cars are screaming past me at 200kph. I venture into the middle lane to overtake a truck, and I’m doing 140kph and holding up the traffic. The little lady in the SatNav tells me to turn right, and suddenly all the traffic is coming towards me. I pull over and hold my hands up, and judging by the smiles, I think they’ve seen it all before from zee mad Engleesh. It’s quite a relief when I arrive at the house of the family I’m staying with for a couple of days.

I head straight into Munich to meet a few CFS folk, including JP, Sarah, Amber and a bunch of their mates. After lunch, where JP eats the standard German lunch of half a large pig, we catch a train to the Munich Fan Fest site to watch a couple of games in the glorious sunshine. JP offers odds of $7, the market price, on Ghana beating the Czechs, and then reduces it to $3 the moment Ghana score. A few people place a bet and have the pleasure of a payout as Ghana win 2-0. Then it’s more bets on the next game. JP needs money on the table to enjoy a game fully. The Fan Fest is so packed that they stop people entering. See pictures following.

There seem to be more Brazilians than Australians in town today, so let’s hope the invasion is on for tomorrow when the party really comes to Munich.

Day 9: London

More marketing meetings today, and the trip to London has been well worthwhile - I've probably met 20 people and it was a good chance to explain the CFS product.

Back to Germany tomorrow, and a 5.30am start to make the plane. That is shaping up as the biggest challenge of the trip, and then a week of driving on the wrong side of the road. Hope the car has SatNav.

Day 8: London

Not much to report as I spend most of the day in business meetings at Canary Wharf.

In the early evening, England play Trinidad & Tobago. Throughout the city, massive screens have been erected for public viewing areas, but the police have instructed they cannot show the football, even England games, after violence at the first game. So they show the tennis and everyone ignores them - what a lost opportunity. Instead, I watch the game in a smoky pub where the girl in front of me goes through ten cigarettes and three beers during the game. Darling, you'll never play for England at anything except darts if you treat yourself like that. England start to look half decent when they take Owen off, and we all go mental when Rooney is introduced. Such is the excitement, the girl in front of me puts down her cigarette for moment. The photograph shows celebrations after England wins 2-0.

I go for long rides on double decker buses among a Monopoly board of locations, as if I'm a piece on the board. For some reason, nobody gives me £200 each time I pass Mayfair.

Heidelberg Photographs

Everywhere you walk, someone has erected some football posts. Certainly adds to the appeal of all those old monuments and fountains.

The Old Town of Heidelberg from Schloss Castle.

Day 7: London

Over to London for a couple of days of work between games. After many days of experiencing the efficiency of German trains, it is a let down to arrive back at Frankfurt Airport to be told the British Airways flight will be an hour late “because the crew has not had enough sleeping time”. How about getting another crew and flying on schedule.

On the plane, the woman next to me talks loudly on her mobile from the moment she sits down. “I’ve got the smallest seat on the damn plane, because of the way its body curves, the plane’s late, Frankfurt was boring and full of World Cup thingies, my bag was too big, should have brought two smaller ones, the coffee was disgusting. And how are you, darling?” Dreading you coming home, love.

Reading the English newspapers, full of Wayne Rooney stories, I come across this gem in The Times of London. “Deep in the English soul is the feeling that playing football in hot weather is not natural.” That’s it then, wait until Iceland hosts the games.

Fly into London City Airport, which is quite an experience, skimming close over buildings and landing in the middle of Docklands. Met up with Andrew and Nicole and went to Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre (pictured above), a fantastic recreation of the original Globe where Shakespeare’s works were first performed. Saw Titus Andronicus, which is so bloodthirsty and violent that it’s no surprise it is rarely performed.

And now for two day’s work, so don’t expect much on football for the next couple of days.

Day 6: Heidelberg

The sun is shining again (those in chilly Sydney are sick of hearing that, so I'll continue to write it), and it’s a day to play tourist. When the matches are on at 3pm, 6pm and 9pm, you have to run around between games or become a bar stool potato.

At the train station, a Turkish guy serves me coffee, and chats in German. When it’s obvious I don’t understand, he turns to the language we all speak, football. “Guus Hiddink,” he says, pointing to my Australian shirt. “Fenerbache,” he says, tapping on his chest. Did our Guus coach Turkey’s top side? We nod and smile in a sort of ‘Guus is the man’ way and he gives me a free doughnut. I can’t refuse it, and I undo the good work from the laps of the pool.

I catch a train into Heidelberg, location of the famous Schloss Castle, built on a hill overlooking the Old Town. Many of the buildings were constructed before 1500, but most around 1700. It is full of tourists, including many recovering Australians, and is a fascinating place to walk around.

I watch France v Switzerland in an Irish pub, where a sign over the bar promotes Carlton Cold for E4 a bottle, or about A$7. France is lucky to draw: Thierry Henry looks half the player for France than he does for Arsenal. A guy wearing an Australian shirt asks me who I want to win the World Cup. It’s a strange question – I’m wearing the same shirt as him, plus an Aussie cap. Perhaps it’s a game. “I’ve got a French mistress, and I like her to be happy, so I want France to win,” I tell him. His eyes light up. “Does she have a brazilian?” he laughs, in what is quickly becoming the tiredest joke in Germany.

Many of the German urinals have little plastic goals with a ball suspended from the crossbar, and you can piss the ball into the net. Great fun. There’s a genius somewhere who does his best thinking when he relieves himself. Or maybe it was a her, and there’s an equivalent in the ladies loo. Bound to be more difficult, though a penalty shoot-out would be interesting.

In the evening, Australia’s next opponents, Brazil and Croatia, play. We need Brazil to win, to ensure Croatia does not collect points, and then Australia can make the second round with a good showing against Croatia on 22 June. Brazil wins 1-0, but their central defence is unconvincing. A disgruntled Brazilian fan on television says, “Ronaldo is too fat. It’s a disaster.” Within minutes, outside my hotel room, hundreds of Brazilian fans hit the streets, horns blaring, bongoes banging and scantily-clad women dancing. The police divert the traffic. It’s a mystery why so many fans are here in Mannheim, when the game was across the country in Berlin. Perhaps they are everywhere, and they come out whenever Brazil wins. They come out a lot.

Day 5: Kaiserslautern, Australia v Japan

It’s Monday and Australia’s day, playing Japan at 3pm. We have waited 32 years for this, and last time, not only did we lose every game, but we didn’t even score a goal. A repeat of that experience would be depressing. The sun is shining in a cloudless sky, and it’s as hot as January in Sydney.

Kaiserslautern is an hour’s train ride from Mannheim, and the platform is packed with the gold of Australia and blue of Japan. Lots of Japanese women are here, while the Aussies are with their mates. The train leaves crammed full, like a tube of gold and blue toothpaste. Germans like to take their bicycles on the train, and at each stop, they try unsuccessfully to board, suddenly aware that Australasia has invaded. Other football fans also try to jump on, but there’s no space, and they anxiously check their watches. The thought occurs to me that the last time a train full of foreigners was this packed was about 60 years ago, heading for … I’d better leave that thought.

All my plans to meet up with people before the game are shot when I see the massive party awaiting in Kaiserslautern, and maybe 20,000 (a wild guess) Australians. The narrow main street through town has been closed, and down both sides are stalls and tents, and it’s a giant golden celebration. The sun is shining, the beer is flowing, and we all know it’s special. At a corner, a stage has been erected, and there are thousands of Australians jumping around to the sound of Aussie classics, from Cold Chisel, Southern Sons, Men at Work, AC/DC and, to much laughter, Rolf Harris. The Aussies are in fine voice, and even “Give Me a Home Among the Gumtrees’ is belted out. It is chaos, yellow shirts everywhere, and locals stand around amused and bemused at the antics. I have SMS conversations with three people (John Pearce from work, an old friend, Keith Ward, and my brother-in-law, Declan), but trying to find each other is impossible. (How about, ‘I’m the one in the yellow’?). It’s wall-to-wall Australians, and it’s easier to have a beer and head for the stadium.

The stadium is spectacular, and I’m at the Australian end where it is a wave of gold, opposite the blue stand of Japan. The guy next to me brings a massive inflated kangaroo to go with his massive inflated gut, but fortunately, the five seats alongside are empty and Matilda has her own seat. The stadium is sold out, but somewhere out there, corporate allocations of a few hundred seats are sitting in an office drawer. Sitting behind me is Anton Tagliafero, head of Investors Mutual, and he is on a high, exuberantly loving every moment.

The team is announced, and Harry’s playing, but I can’t believe Guus has picked Luke Wilkshire over Tim Cahill. Luke is simply out of his depth at this level. Again we play with a lone striker, Viduka, who quickly tires after a couple of early chances. The refereeing is frustrating as he pulls up every suggestion of physical contact. It’s petty refereeing and FIFA must stamp out this whistle-blowing madness. Ironically, Japan goes ahead when Schwarzer is pushed out of the way by a Japanese player, an obvious foul that brings a torrent of abuse from the Australians. Among them, Anton is quite crude in his yelling, questioning whether the referee has a father, and making loud references to various body parts.

The last ten minutes will live forever in the mind. Tim Cahill, brought on after an hour, makes an immediate impact, and Guus crowds the forward line with the big lads Aloisi (thankfully on for Luke) and Kennedy. The Cahill equaliser is not until the 84th minute, and we’d have settled for that. But then he scores again and we all go mad, and the Aloisi third sends the golden end into raptures. It’s hugging and high fives all around, and ‘In Guus We Trust’. Yes, what a genius, as we all conveniently ignore that he had to gamble in the last 5 minutes to compensate for the tactical weaknesses in the first 85.

All through the game, the Australian singing is loud and varied, better than I’ve ever heard before, thankfully without any of the ‘Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, Oi, Oi Oi’. A German group in front of me is clearly impressed when 20,000 blast out the National Anthem, although ‘Girt by Sea’ sounds like one of their own players. The singing is surprisingly passionate alongside the Japanese restraint, who have a strange inclination to high-pitched shrieking at moments of excitement.

Most impressive players for me were Jason Culina and even more so, Vince Grella. These guys are perpetual, aggressive motion, and Guus has turned them into a potent couple. Kewell did a couple of good things but takes too much time and is too delicate, but he is played out of position, when he should be wider on the left, closer to Viduka. Neill and Moore are again strong.
When the final whistle blows, it’s a great feeling that Australia is not just here to make up the numbers, and there is relief that we have scored and won for the first time ever. There is a fine line between success and failure in sport, and five minutes from the end, it all looked so different. The Japanese fans soon leave the stadium, while the Australians soak up the unique moment.

Afterwards, I run into Chris Sozou, who I played with in the CFS soccer team for many seasons, and we have a good chat. He’s been in London for a few years and is returning to Australia. Later, I meet up with John Pearce and his mate Jim (who worked with us both at State Bank, and has lived in London for 10 years), and we visit the official FIFA Fan Zone, an open-air venue with massive screens and bars and food outlets, and we drink marguerites while watching an inept USA lose 0-3 to the Czechs, who are looking good. The place is packed with Australians, and renditions of ‘There’s Only One Timmy Cahill’ ring out frequently. On a raised platform, a couple of strippers from a local night club do some splendid advertising, but I’m here for the football.

It’s back to Mannheim by midnight for me, but John and Jim have another three hours before reaching their hotel in Munich. I drop into a bar for a quick coffee, and many Germans congratulate me, and I ham it up a bit, especially when the goals are replayed on television. There are lots of Italians driving around town, madly waving flags, celebrating a first up 2-0 win.

Regardless of what happens from here on, today made the trip worthwhile.

Australia v Japan Photographs

Day 4: Mannheim

The foyer of the Sheraton is chock full of Australians again. Merde (or the German equivalent. Schiten, maybe). What’s the point of me poncing around Germany wearing my Australian shirt and cap when everyone else is doing the same. It feels like Telstra stadium. Get me out of here.

Any worries I had that public transport would be overwhelmingly busy are quickly dispelled. German trains are expensive but you get what you pay for. They are frequent, clean and comfortable. The seats recline, and each has a power point. On the way to Mannheim, we pass through lush green countryside, with many Germans taking in the glorious sunshine in their allotments that run alongside much of the track. These carefully tended gardens of maybe 50 square metres each are a sanctuary for city dwellers who otherwise would not have their own piece of dirt. We pass a small lake where people are sunbathing, as if it’s Bondi Beach.

At Mannheim, there are plenty of Japanese in town for tomorrow’s game. It is Sunday and the rest of the city is relatively quiet as I walk to my hotel. I am given a big room, in a corner overlooking a central square called Friedrichplatz, with a small balcony opening over the front of the building. The square is bordered by lawns with beds of flowers in full bloom, and in the middle, there is a giant stone water tower which is Mannheim’s major landmark. Water fountains play in the sun, and in the middle of the square, there are stalls and bars, and adidas has set up mini pitches and football shooting galleries.

I take a walk around the square. The stall selling World Cup gear has every country covered except Australia. I tell the cashier, “This town is about to be invaded by thousands of Australians, and you’ve got nothing for them.” She doesn’t appear to appreciate my free advice. From behind, a broad Aussie accent says, “G’day, where you from, mate.” It’s a guy from Alice Springs, and he continues to talk in broad strine. He’s staying in Germany for a month, although he hasn’t been able to buy any tickets, despairing that a ticket to the Brazil game sold on ebay for STG1500. He will go around the country following each of the Australian games.

If man cannot live by bread alone, the Germans give it a darn good try. Everywhere are pretzels, rolls, pizzas, pastries, wurst with roll, pizza with roll, wurst on pizza. I dread the weight gain after three weeks of this. I compensate with copious amounts of fruit, especially strawberries, which are sensational. I hope they don’t cause constipation or diarrhoea (sp?) because I’m living on them today. Whatever it is we buy in Sydney are more like small apples than these sweet treats.

The hotel has an excellent pool, and I burn off the pretzels before watching the Netherlands game. A couple of cars adorned in flags and scarves of Iran are doing laps of Friedrichplatz, horns blaring and bodies hanging out of their windows. Iran plays Mexico an hour later, but the game is in Nuremburg, and they are either lost, or they plan a quick trip down the autobahn.

Mozart lived in Mannheim for many years, and I know why he produced so much work. There’s not much else to do.

I head to a local bar for the Iran game. The barmaid spent four months in Tasmania ten years ago, attending school there. What is it with Tasmania in this part of the world: we don’t even go there from Sydney. I order kartoffelsuppen - potato soup – and it is served with (wait for it) wurst and bread. Not bad, I’ve tasted worse wurst. It’s a lively game, 3-1 to Mexico, and as I stroll back towards my hotel, it’s “G’day mate” every 50 paces. I notice people sitting at benches and tables composing music on sheet of paper. Amazing. Do they come here for Mozart’s inspiration?

Back at Friedrichplatz, I chat to an American who’s been working in Germany, with the military, for a dozen years. He tells me that Kaiserslautern is a major US base, with 50,000 troops stationed there, down from 100,000 before the Berlin wall fell. The base is used for missions into the Middle East, and when the US President comes to Europe, he flies in there. The Germans are worried about the gradual withdrawal of troops, as they inject millions into the economy.

It does not go dark until 10pm, and it’s still warm into the evening. Music is blaring across the square and over my balcony, and I settle in to watch Portugal play Angola.

Frankfurt Photographs