Date: 24/11/2001
By Michael Cockerill in Montevideo
A glimpse. There is a face in the crowd, contorted in anger, a depth of emotion which stands out even in this hostile environment. Screaming, surging forward, trying to break free of a policeman who is preventing him reaching the Australian team.Within hours the images of the Socceroos' traumatic arrival this week at Montevideo airport will be beamed around the world. But if the story is about the behaviour of a collective, its genesis is in the hearts and minds of the individuals involved.
It's not that the Uruguayan fans hate Australia; it's that they love football so much it hurts. And at this point in time, the Socceroos stand between their team and a return to the grand stage of the World Cup. The man straining to get his hands on Tony Popovic thinks he is doing the right thing by his country. The truth is, he's not thinking at all. And he's not alone. The stories of the excesses of South American football are legion. Hardly a day goes by without a wire report emanating from the continent about riots, referees being beaten up (often by players and officials), of players being car-jacked, of fans committing suicide when their team loses a decisive result. Even an Australian media generally loath to devote time and energy to the world game laps it up.
Thus it was when the Socceroos arrived in Montevideo to a typically riotous welcome. Images of skipper Paul Okon being spat at, of jostling and screaming fans trying to shove past flimsy security filled the news bulletins. The unspoken message to the Socceroos ahead of their deciding World Cup qualifier was: "Welcome to the big time, boys." But what exactly is that?
Another glimpse. It is the Estadio Monumental, Buenos Aires, in 1993, the last time the Socceroos played in South America with World Cup hopes on the line. With the legendary Argentinian Diego Maradona on the teamsheet, this is as big as it gets. And the action off the pitch is just as intoxicating.
It is at least half an hour before the kick-off and the top tier of the concrete bowl stadium is jam-packed. There is a drop of dangerous proportions from this section of the ground to the next. The terracing is steep and slippery.
Suddenly the massed ranks separate, but this is a rehearsed routine. After a few minutes an area the size of a tennis court has been cleared. Three or four ultras (sport fanatics) left inside start running as hard as they can at the edges of their new domain, human pinballs bouncing off the fans packed on the perimeters.
But it is when they walk to the top and then sprint as hard as they can downhill that you can't help but watch in morbid fascination. Standing between them and the certain death of bouncing off the railing is the thinnest line of fans, perhaps two deep. This ritual goes on for several minutes, the men at the bottom of the slope holding firm as the ultras crash into them at full pace. One mistake and there will be a fatality but the line holds firm. It is only when the Argentine team appears on the field that the ritual ends.
In South America, it seems, there can be no more honourable fate than that of a football martyr. Socio-economics ensure the sport remains rooted in the working class. While soccer in Europe is upwardly mobile, in South America the game cannot, and will not, sell out.
And so the fan who tried to attack Socceroo Tony Popovic at Montevideo airport on Thursday is tolerated, if not encouraged. He was simply supporting his team. The depth of this feeling is hard for a westernised - some might say sanitised - society like Australia to understand.
Sport may be part of the fabric of our society, but fundamentally it weaves its way around the edge. Big crowds fill our biggest stadiums and often they make plenty of noise. But mostly that is where it begins and ends.
Almost without exception, instances of bad behaviour at our major sporting events are related to alcohol. The natives get restless because they've had too much to drink, not because the way their team has played, or the result, eats away at their soul. And all is usually forgotten the next day.
Whenever Australia's Anglo-Saxon sensibilities are challenged by a different kind of fan behaviour, however, all hell breaks loose. Particularly when it involves soccer.
The National Soccer League was Australia's first national sporting competition, established in 1977, years before rugby league and Australian football even contemplated expansion. But 24 years later, the NSL remains a fringe dweller on the sporting landscape. Why?
True enough, those charged with running and developing the sport's domestic showpiece have failed abysmally. But if you're looking for a single reason for the NSL not being what it should be, it's tribalism. That which seduces every kid who grows up in a place like South America also repels Australia's traditional norms.
The NSL is a microcosm of multiculturalism, warts and all. Until recently, the vast majority of clubs were flagships of different ethnic communities. Jumping up and down in a tight-packed group, waving flags and throwing flares may be fine in Europe and South America but it doesn't go down well in Australia. If such behaviour is caught by the cameras, suddenly the NSL grabs the headlines.
Look at the fine print and more often than not there are more arrests at a day-night cricket match. Yet having one too many in the Doug Walters Stand and chucking a few cans over the fence is naughty, but kind of nice. Do it at an NSL game and you're an urban terrorist.
Not any more. The arrival of the internet has given soccer fans in Australia a voice. It is no coincidence one of the sport's most popular websites is called tribalfootball.com. Tired of living in a parallel universe, the fans have begun to assert their rights. And the right they want to express most of all is the ability to add flavour to the Australian game.
At the Melbourne Cricket Ground on Tuesday, large sections of the stadium were reserved for the Green and Gold Army and the Bay 23 boys from Sydney. The Socceroos appreciated the support. Slowly but surely, Australian fans are being empowered to re-create the best, not the worst, of the game's texture.
Those jostling the Socceroos at Montevideo airport will never be at home in Australia. For here in South America, the immortal words of legendary Liverpool manager Bill Shankly ring unutterably true. Football is not just a matter of life and death. It is much more important than that.