Paperjam

Letter from Australia 8

Travel // Vanessa // 24th November 2003

I have never wanted to gloat so much as I have done this weekend. And walking into work this Monday morning, after the most exciting game in the Rugby World Cup competition saw England snatch that Web Ellis trophy from Australia’s grasp, I still couldn’t stop grinning. I was told I’d be crying this morning. I almost am, but not because England lost, as my Australian workmates proudly predicted. Of course they are not too happy and have already tried to wipe the smile from my face by being sore. But an abundance of newspaper articles sitting on my desk and an 8-page World Cup tribute in The Australian soon put a stop to that. After all, who can deny a picture of Martin Johnson - screaming with joy holding the trophy in the air like it was his enemy’s head – is anything other than friggin’ satisfying!

To give the sporting-mad Aussies credit, the entire World Cup event was handled brilliantly. Even AFL-mad Victoria, where no one really cares about Rugby Union, catered for the onslaught of England, Ireland and Wales fans who descended on the city for several weeks. But in the end the only thing that matters is that England won. And what a sweet victory it was. Made all the more sweeter after all the bitching the Aussie media launched at England (including repeatedly listing their achievements over England, yes, they relished their footie win in February). It was so clear that they thought they would win, that their loss came as a complete shock. Even John Howard refused to look the players in the eye or even congratulate them as he chucked the medals at our players at the end. The cheek of it! What a sore loser. Let’s hope they’re a bit humbled by being battered and embarrassed.

But apart from the media and John bloody Howard, the crowd of 6000+ at Federation Square, Melbourne, took it as they should – the best team won. The atmosphere in the square for 100 minutes was so tense, that when Australia drew at the final whistle, there was no cheering, only a nervous sort of celebration. I couldn’t handle the excitement and only just managed to watch 19 of the 20 minutes of extra time. And yes, I missed the most important part. But can you blame me? I am not trained in the art of supporting a sports team. I watch the football world cup mainly because I have to and yes, I was slightly excited by it, but this was something else. My nerves were shot and when England gave away a penalty a minute before the end the entire crowd stood up. I remained seated. Head hung low. Waiting for the Aussies to celebrate. And celebrate they did. But only for a few short seconds. For the second roar that erupted around me wasn’t from the Aussies, it was from hoards of England fans who cheered from disbelief that we could pull off a win with 20 seconds to go. With a friend’s mum nearly in tears from the stress of it all and me and naughty Nacho (another hostel-mate, not a corn snack) nearly vomiting from the excitement, there were hugs all around. Well, hugs is probably too soft a word. We were all jumping on each other. It was all too much.

So we went and had champagne, got very drunk, and in true Vanessa style, I argued liked a psycho maniac with previously-ecstatic-now-frustrated-doesn’t-describe-it husband. Poor thing. My punishment is that I still haven’t seen the moment when the lovely Wilkinson booted the ball between the posts. But all is well and all the English in the hostel are gloating as much as they can before England stuff it up again and we’re back to square one.