BEAUTIFUL CHAOS: The Socceroos and the 2014 World Cup Read online

  BEAUTIFUL CHAOS

  THE SOCCEROOS AND THE 2014 WORLD CUP

  ADAM PEACOCK

  Table of Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  PREFACE

  1. THE LONG WAY THERE

  2. BEAUTIFUL CHAOS

  3. THE FURNACE

  4. PORTO ALEGRE PANDEMONIUM

  5. FAVELA LIFE

  6. SPAIN PAIN

  7. WATCHING BRAZIL WATCH BRAZIL

  8. THE NEW MESSIAH?

  9. WINNING

  10. ONE DAY

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  PREFACE

  Swear words. Lots of them.

  Mile Jedinak, the Socceroos captain, stares at a ball, on a spot, 12 yards from goal. Twenty thousand Australians in the stands can’t bear to watch him, while the balance of the stunned crowd, clad in Oranje, can’t believe what they are witnessing.

  Dutch players are gradually swatted away by the Algerian referee, Djamel Haimoudi. His controversial decision to award a penalty for handball remains in effect.

  Jedinak stands on an artificial bank of Lake Guaiba, a huge expanse of a waterway which puts the Port in Porto Alegre, and where 50 years ago they decided to build a big football stadium. Brazil is a land full of surprises and diversions from the conventional, especially for a Westerner: creating a sporting cathedral on top of a river is one example … footballing minnows Australia taking the lead against a powerhouse when it was meant to be whooped beyond submission is another.

  All along, Jedinak stands. The Socceroos skipper, o capitão, is oblivious to everything else as 43,000 other humans watch him, along with the millions on television, awaiting his next move.

  That he’s even here is improbable. Not good enough for the initial stages of Australia’s professional competition, the A-League, he got a break only because someone else got injured. He went on to impress at the Central Coast Mariners, who fell into a big hole when he left for Turkey. He impressed in Turkey and moved to England. Still unfashionable, at unfashionable South London club Crystal Palace, he impressed yet again and became captain as the side was promoted to the riches of the Premier League. In 2013–14 Jedinak played every game of their first season back with the big boys and let no-one down, least of all himself. Just weeks after that season ended, here he is, standing over a penalty to put Australia 2-1 up against the Netherlands. Jedinak can handle pressure. Others can’t. Twenty-one of his family and close friends have made the trek to Brazil to watch him play, including his two young sons, perhaps the only two people in the vicinity without the slightest clue what pressure their dad is under.

  Referee Haimoudi blows his whistle, giving Jedinak the go-ahead of to move forth and strike.

  One, two, three, four, five quick steps. Left leg then planted next to the ball, pointed to the right, sending the Netherlands keeper Jasper Cillessen that way. But Jedinak contorts his big frame and sends the ball the other way.

  The net bulges. GOOOOOOOOOOALLLLL!!! Pandemonium in Porto Alegre.

  The captain is swamped, likewise every Australian in the crowd, be it by good mates they have saved for two years with, by those they met at the pub before the game, or by total strangers brought together for the first time by Mile Jedinak and his liquid nitrogen veins.

  Australia, who really shouldn’t have bothered showing up, are on the verge of the impossible in Brazil, the best part of the world to play the world’s biggest sport.

  Holy shit.

  1.

  THE LONG WAY THERE

  Champagne, beer and happiness.

  As the rain pelts down on an otherwise nondescript Sydney winter’s night, deep within the bowels of ANZ Stadium a locker room is awash with celebration. The usual hallmarks of a sporting contest just finished fill the air; the smell of sweat almost suffocating, tape and mud strewn across the floor. Not that those responsible for the celebration notice. The Socceroos have just qualified for the World Cup.

  It is no real surprise – Australia are heavyweights in the Asian region – but the way it was achieved suggests anything but dominance. With no margin for error allowed in the final three games of qualification, a draw in Japan was sufficient, a belting of Jordan in Melbourne was required and a late winner over a stubborn Iraq on this particular night was enough. Just. For the third time in a row, the Socceroos have scored an invite to football’s biggest party in a place renowned for football and parties. Never mind the how. That’s left in the past and for tomorrow’s hangover.

  Holger Osieck, the gruff German coach whose reputation wobbled through the final part of the campaign with the fortunes of his team, stands in the middle of a huddle preparing to speak. As the first syllable threatens to leave his mouth, a beer is tipped over his head. The moment is lost and everyone jumps around yelling nothing in particular with cackles of laughter the backing track. Holger the gruff German joins in.

  Captain Lucas Neill is beside himself with joy. The notion of playing in a World Cup is one thing. To play in Brazil gives it greater meaning, as if you’ve qualified for a golf major at St Andrews, or a tennis grand slam on Centre Court at Wimbledon. Neill, capped 92 times and at age 35, is like a little kid, his mind already 12 months ahead, relishing the prospect of leading his nation out in Brazil; not the home of football but certainly where its heart beats strongest.

  Josh Kennedy, whose head directed the ball into the back of the Iraqi goal just moments earlier, shuffles around the room in his hotel slippers, beer in his hand, smile on his face. Not much ruffles Kennedy, a tall, slender, unassuming type from country Victoria who has been known to save the national team with crucial goals. That he bears an uncanny resemblance to Jesus Christ adds to his ‘saviour’ mystique.

  The 40-year-old ‘veteran’ Socceroo, Mark Schwarzer, sits in the corner, his long-limbed frame folded into his chair, a big smile on his face. The heroics of eight years earlier at the same ground in that penalty shootout against Uruguay weren’t required tonight, though his reputation remains in the same stratosphere. The next day Schwarzer would miss the public reception in the centre of Sydney to catch up with his brother before flying back to London for family time – a holiday with his wife and kids. Tonight would be the extent of his celebrations, so he’s making the most of it in his own way.

  All four men – Neill, Kennedy, Schwarzer and Osieck – are in the moment, and deservedly so. Odd then, in 12 months time, not one of them would make the World Cup.

  ----

  Late autumn 2014, and in the middle of Kogarah Oval on a sparkling Sydney day, Ange Postecoglou stands, a Hellenistic statue in a tracksuit with a stare that could crack concrete. As his players zip around in a passing drill, his expression and posture do not change. It’s an enthusiastic training session – quick movement, instructions barked from assistant coaches, encouragement bellowed from players. There’s clapping for more of the same when something goes right, clapping for reassurance when something goes wrong. Throughout, Postecoglou, just eight months in as Socceroos boss, watches, silently absorbing everything as the biggest task known to Australia’s national football team takes shape. This is the way he operates. Assistants handle the practicalities while like a computer, Postecoglou processes the data, speaking only when he has to. Every word has to mean something, so it’s better to be economical as to not devalue the message.

  Postecoglou was given this opportunity because of disasters which followed that jubilant night back in June 2013. A few months after the victory over Iraq, in September, the Socceroos went to Brazil, a reconnaissance mission of sorts, to discover the World Cup surround
s and measure themselves against quality opposition, the famed Seleção. A measure was found all right. A telescope was needed to determine the gap in class. Brazil were at their ruthless, flamboyant best. Their lithe superstar, Neymar da Silva Santos Júnior (commonly known as Neymar), ran rampant and the Socceroos were embarrassed. Sure, they may have had fight and determination, but those characteristics were swamped beneath a dazzling exposé of talent and ability. First set, Brazil, 6-0.

  One month later, France, who had just snuck into the World Cup after a victorious play off over Ukraine, welcomed the Australians to Paris and mugged them. Wave after wave of attacks unable to be dealt with hit the Socceroos, as if one team were playing one version of the sport, the other, an entirely different one. Second set, France. And game, set, match, Holger Osieck, 6-0, 6-0. After Australia’s worst back-to-back losses since 1955, Osieck got off the bus at the team hotel, went into a meeting with FFA CEO David Gallop, and was sacked. Eleven days later, Ange Postecoglou was given the job to save Australia from complete obliteration on sport’s biggest stage.

  ‘I had a vision in my head about how we wanted to tackle it,’ said Postecoglou. ‘Although, the day after I got the job, I didn’t know what I was doing: I was totally confused. The enormity of it hits you and when you’re so close to a major tournament you realise you have maybe three games to get this team ready.’

  Not just get it ready, but perform a personality transplant. In between the zenith of the 2006 campaign and 2014, the Socceroos stood still. Yes, they qualified for two World Cups, job done by Pim Verbeek and Holger Osieck, but there was no next step. The next step was the same step.

  ‘What happened after [2006], we fell into this cycle of trying to preserve our reputation … instead of growing from that,’ said Postecoglou. ‘It was great, but we want to be better. We tried to protect that legacy as much as we possibly could by continually putting up reasons as to why we hadn’t moved on from that.’

  As those same steps were trod, the coach was undergoing a perception transplant. Sacked in 2007 by the governing body as coach of Australia’s junior national teams after failing to qualify for the Under 20 World Cup, he was seen by many as damaged goods. Two years in the wilderness ended when Brisbane Roar hired him. Under Postecoglou’s tutelage, they relentlessly passed their way to back-to-back A-League titles, fundamentally changing how the game was played and thought of domestically. Australian club sides full of Australian players simply didn’t deliver ‘tiki-taka’, the system of high possession and fluid ball movement.

  Following on from that success, Postecoglou moved back to his hometown, to Melbourne Victory, where he was in the early stages of another renovation (and where again his team would not be involved in anything remotely boring), before the national squad’s straight-sets shellackings by Brazil and France led to a higher calling. He didn’t like what the Socceroos had become. He understood any national coaching job was a test of willpower, ability and the capacity to deal with the insistent advice from anyone who watches. But the whole premise disturbed him.

  ‘I always try to separate it and look at it as an Aussie fan. I was never really comfortable with our approach, the way we played games and the way we spoke about our team and our players and the way they spoke about themselves. I felt it wasn’t reflective of what I know Australian sport and Australian football is about.’

  Ever since he took over as a 29-year-old as coach of South Melbourne in 1996 (where he won two National Soccer League titles) Postecoglou’s teams have carried a common genetic factor. Attacking intent: always asking questions of the opposition, trying to dislodge them from their comfort zone. So after taking over a team that was metaphorically mute, unable to ask any questions of France and Brazil, the immediate issue was how he intended to transform them. A spring clean was needed.

  Critics slammed Osieck and his predecessor Pim Verbeek for not looking to the future. Yet those two men were merely figureheads of a system that allowed it to happen. Qualifying for World Cups was the objective. Why would it have been in the interest of Osieck and Verbeek to invest heavily in the future when all the stocks in their reputation were held in the present? Those bellowing for new blood had their hopes re-ignited, even though the World Cup was a matter of months away, because the new coach’s reputation preceded him, and with good reason.

  ‘Whenever I’ve walked into a place, the one constant is people usually walk out, which I don’t take personally, it’s just how I do things. I’ve never gone into a job thinking I need to do this, or that. My whole premise is to assess what’s going on and make some good judgements from there on.’

  Sure enough, two weeks before his first game in charge – against Costa Rica in Sydney – Postecoglou was hit with a surprise. Goalkeeping legend Mark Schwarzer announced his retirement from international duties. His final stint for the Socceroos included picking the ball out of the net six times in Brasilia, but sentiment exists in a parallel universe to sporting reality from time to time.

  Just ask Lucas Neill. The Socceroos’ managerial change occurred when he was playing for Japan’s Omiya Ardija, his fifth club since the 2010 World Cup. He was the target of much angst – one website suggested he was to blame for the 12 goals against France and Brazil. Still, he was selected for the Coast Rica game – but not as captain initially. No-one was and for the first time ever, there was more speculation about the leadership of the Socceroos than who should be Prime Minister, which some viewed as a maturity of the sport, while others, notably Postecoglou, saw as meaningless waffle.

  Neill played a full game against Costa Rica, though just before full-time turned to fans who had booed his every touch and advised them to ‘fuck off’. It was his last action as a Socceroos player. Postecoglou never selected him again.

  ----

  Of the 30-man squad picked in May 2014, Josh Kennedy is the lone survivor of that senior quartet from the Iraq qualifier. Apart from Tim Cahill, the Jesus Christ lookalike is surrounded by inexperience. Clearly someone has recruited the new Apostles from Sunday School. Of the 30 men selected, 18 of them have yet to play 10 times for their country. Or, 18 of them are still in international football nappies. In camp in Sydney, Kennedy looks sharp and set to defy the trend and play in his third World Cup. Then he gets on the plane and his body, namely a troublesome back, betrays him. After arriving in Brazil he can barely get going. When the squad is culled from 30 to 27, Kennedy is on his way home. He would have been in the 23, no question, which makes it all the sadder.

  Tim Cahill, one of the few senior players who would make it to Brazil (photo courtesy Kevin Airs).

  Along with the Osieck sacking, Schwarzer, Neill and Kennedy – 238 caps and 17 World Cup games between them – are all gone. What’s left in the final 23-man squad bound for Brazil? A combined 411 caps and 13 World Cup games. Unlucky 13. To put it into context, world champions Spain go with 107 games of World Cup experience. And there’d be a good chance to see what that means in the flesh, thanks to football’s version of a Stephen King nightmare. The draw. Group B, if not the group of death, is purgatory.

  Spain, world champions, back-to-back European champions.

  The Netherlands, historical powerhouse on the rise under master Louis van Gaal.

  Chile, rapidly-improving South Americans with a relentless attacking mindset.

  The world thought Australia was the runt in a litter of purebreds. The world thought there was a Group with three teams in it and a practice match thrown in. Surely Postecoglou will relent on his renowned cavalier approach, adopt a more defensive mindset to repel the bombardment of attacking brilliance headed their way. Complete and utter humiliation awaits otherwise. Call him stubborn. But no, he would not waver.

  ‘[I have] some core values that will never change – having a positive attacking intent, and playing the game with certain core principles that are non-negotiable. As scary as that seemed to a lot of people, if I had any sort of wavering in my belief, then there was no way the players could have go
ne into those games with any sort of certainty.’

  Never mind the technicalities of actually playing football, Postecoglou would need to be part psychologist and part evangelist to embed his players’ senses with a totally different conclusion to popular belief.

  ----

  Five days before leaving for Brazil the squad attended a $10,000-a-table farewell function in Sydney, with the Governor-General, the Prime Minister and the big end of town all in attendance. Just before the players suited up, Postecoglou stood in front of the group and delivered a message he’d thought long and hard about. The odds of Australia of doing anything at the World Cup were somewhere between 1000/1 and snow in Darwin. He didn’t shy away from it. In fact, he embraced it, then charged in a different direction.

  ‘What are the odds a bloke from the Western Suburbs of Sydney who was working part-time five years ago captaining a Premier League club today [Mile Jedinak]? Or a kid who has a Samoan mum, an English dad, also from the Western Suburbs, ending up one of the stars of world football [Tim Cahill]? Whatever the odds against us doing something over there, you’ve already surpassed them just by being in this room.’

  The players hung off every word and it hit them between the eyes.

  ‘For a kid born and raised in this country to get to the other side of the world, the odds they have to overcome, not by just being Australian, not being Italian or Dutch, not having some perceived better pedigree than an Aussie, they have to overcome ridiculous odds,’ said Postecoglou later. ‘And that’s a part of our sporting nature I wanted to bring out, because I knew the challenge we were going to face would be enormous.’

  To make that bubble around his players impregnable would take some doing, or in his case, saying. Time spent thinking about what he’d say easily outweighed time spent actually saying it. Observing training sessions with seemingly little input, but all the time watching for every sign. He’d allow his assistant coaches, Ante Milicic, Aurelio Vidmar and Peter Climovski, to do much of the talking on the pitch. Team meetings weren’t a daily occurrence. Sometimes Postecoglou would go days without talking to the group as a whole. All along, former players, current players, anyone with a passing interest would offer opinions of the inevitable defeats, valiant or otherwise.