Two children, one beautiful game
There’s a young fan.
This fan is wearing a South Melbourne top, waving a flag in the air reading “Forza Hellas” — waiting eagerly to watch the biggest match of their life so far.
They’re only seven, but through generations, they’ve been told.
Puskas. Postecoglou. NSL titles. Oceania Club of the Century. NPL titles. Dockerty Cups. An Australian Championship.
And on the other side, there’s another child of the same age.
They’re wearing a Melbourne Victory jersey.
The history doesn’t run as deep, but their older cousins have told them about Thompson, Berisha, grand finals, Original Rivalries, Big Blues, Australia Cups.
At AAMI Park, they are on two completely opposite sides.
Neither of them really understand the gravity of what’s happening — they just know it’s big.
And none of their educators want them together.
But despite their distance, both physically, and for the next 90 minutes, emotionally, they are actually uniting something.
You see, if you stopped for a second amid the extraordinary atmosphere that played chorus to the Australia Cup Final, you may have noticed it.
Juggernauts of Australian domestic football’s past and present were uniting in the most incredible way imaginable.
But let’s not get confused here.
South Melbourne and Melbourne Victory fans were arguably brought to AAMI Park in the name of disunity — certainly towards each other.
But for the sport as a whole? They were unifying. You might say they were trailblazing.
We had two fantastic active supporter groups thundering away all their classics.
The right amount of hostility — not too much to create fuel for mainstream media scrutiny, not too little to disengage you at all from the match.
A crowd invested in every tackle, potential counter-attack, Max Mikkola throw-in.
And that’s off the pitch.
On it, though the match itself wasn’t incredible, there was a feeling the players had extra fuel, competing beyond just the carrot of a trophy.
For South, a chance to announce itself — or rather re-announce itself — to a landscape beyond the local NPL scene.
For Victory, a chance to show why it believes it’s the biggest club in Melbourne — and as some of their fans surely would’ve said, the chance to “shut them up.”
High stakes, impeccable tension and a myriad of storylines.
Absolutely no room for apathy, for complaints about a crowd number, about policing, a pitch’s condition, and even refereeing (another good game by Alireza).
A game where everything was in place for ‘limbs’, and please, the later the better. Just give us a moment, or moments, we can easily sell.
Because although Australian football does regularly have drama on the pitch, it rarely shows on occasions when it’s really needed; where the soap opera of this sport can easily rub onto the casual theatre-goers.
Not this time.
First, a superb effort by Denis Genreau sparking the classic Seven Nation Army moniker.
And later, a gradual build up as Hellas slowly knocked on the door until it finally creaked open.
The anticipation finally released when Mikkola turned in a ball seemingly being swallowed into the net by the active behind.
Then penalties, where the number of storylines seemed to double in about five minutes.
Javi Lopez, the unlikely hero.
Harry Sawyer, the man whose name was once sung with pride by the Clarendon Corner, now being booed out of spite.
He misses, and then the most important player in the fixture — historically speaking — follows suit.
Jason Davidson skies it, bringing a euphoria not felt in decades to a fanbase whose love for his father knows no bounds (you literally couldn’t have scripted it any better).
Now breathe.
Regardless of your allegiance, think about how it all played out.
Wasn’t it exactly what you’ve always wanted, what we’ve always wanted?
It doesn’t really make sense how unity can be a key theme of a match-up long built on a nasty division.
Some will always be angry of the origins behind the night and why the fixture exists.
Others might have seen the value in what their rival brings to the table — even if they’re too proud to admit it.
Either way, somehow, they could surely all agree it was perfect. Well, it is perfect.
And maybe, just maybe, in 10, 20 years’ time, those two young fans will look back and think of this moment as a turning point.
Of a time where collective unity, in trying circumstances, sparked optimism again.
Maybe.
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