It’s hard to recall a more dramatic regular A-League season climax than the final scenes between Brisbane Roar and Melbourne Victory on the weekend.
Having squandered several gilt-edged opportunities and tallied 17 shots to four throughout normal time, Brisbane still mustered the energy to fashion two clear chances at the death.
As the ball bobbled to defender James Donachie only metres out, emotions all around the stadium – especially among Brisbane fans – must have been at fever pitch.
Lawrence Thomas moved sharply in the Victory goal – as he had all game – and denied the chance. And yet still, there was time for the ball to find the feet of two-time Johnny Warren medallist, Thomas Broich, just outside the six-yard box. If ever there was a fitting moment for a true champion of the A-League to ensure his legacy, it was now.
When the German arrived in Brisbane the Queensland club was just one of two inaugural sides with empty silverware cabinets; yet here he stood on the very threshold of adding a third premiership to the Roar’s three championships. Controlling off the knee, with the whites of Thomas’ already protruding eyes stretched to saucers, one breath was held by over twenty thousand. Broich lashed with his right, but from seemingly nowhere a desperate last-millisecond lunge from Connor Pain saw the ball ricochet harmlessly wide.
If the tears of loss were clear to see on the faces of Brisbane fans, just imagine the delight of supporters of Adelaide United, who knew that the final whistle and the nil-nil stalemate it brought had handed them their first Premiership in a decade. And yet, imagine is all you could – because in this most dramatic of A-League season closes the true winners on the day were nowhere to be seen.
For those who schlepp week-in, week-out to their stadium, to the airport for away games; for those that shell out significant coin for the privilege of supporting their team; enduring the salty lows on the off-chance that just once or twice something amazing will happen – there is no feeling more important than that transcendental delight, that goal, that final whistle, that moment, when nothing in your life matters except for the present, and the knowledge that forever you will say: “I was there”.
Sport provides such crystalised moments – with which the complicated nuance and nagging drudgery of life outside the stadium can often have little to compare. To rob fans – fans that have waited ten long years for their team to triumph – of that singular perfect moment is nothing short of a travesty, and an absolute blot on the copybook of FFA.
Yes, there’s a commercial imperative; the fixtures across all 27 rounds of the A-League are staggered to maximise television coverage. But how much would it actually damage the ongoing financial viability of the game for the governing body and broadcasters to agree to run the final round simultaneously?
We see it in almost all the major leagues around the world. Broadcasters such as Fox Sports could use their latest whizzbangery – multiple channels and red buttons for armchair fans to keep abreast of the many twists and turns of a title run-in – as in fact they do in their coverage of the English Premier League.
But for those inside the stadium – for the comically red-wigged Steve and his mates among the Red Army who bleed for their club week-in, week-out – what a tremendous feeling that would be.
Someone with a radio pressed to their ear tells you about McKay’s remarkable early miss. Phew – what a let-off. Seconds later, a freekick to Adelaide – rapture, Isaias has hit the net! The half ticks on, your team is ahead but should news of a goal from Brisbane arrive, it will all fall apart. Stomachs knot.
A goal in Wellington, it’s Santalab for the Wanderers. It’s still in our hands, but a one-goal margin over a side with Fornaroli, Mooy and Novillo still makes you nervous. Santalab grabs a second – this is bad news, Western Sydney are breathing down our necks.
Sorensen’s had a brain explosion – what a wonderful buffer! Whatever happens in Wellington shouldn’t matter now, it’s just us and the Roar. Minutes pass. Maclaren’s through one-on-one!
Everyone around you tenses – hello, Lawrence Thomas! You never really rated the guy personally, but thank heavens he’s having a blinder. As you hear about Brisbane’s sustained pressure your guts churn; the wonderful performance of your team before your eyes could still be for nought.
It’s extra-time – only minutes to endure; Donachie goes close; it’s Broich through on goal... Connor Pain!
With the full-time whistle of the Brisbane game the whole bay erupts; friends – who have made the interstate away trip, who have followed this side through the heady run in Asia under Aurelio Vidmar to the forgettable days of Levchenko and Usucar under Rini Coolen – all hug together, all cry together, all celebrate together.
The TV cameras switch – the heartbreak of a crestfallen Jade North, the anger of a dressing-room destroying Ross Aloisi, contrasting the jubilation and unbridled celebrations of Reds supporters.
That it all came to pass courtesy a resolute effort of their traditional rivals, Melbourne Victory, and that man, Kevin Muscat, whose own personal history with the Reds is etched into the fabric of the A-League’s brief history, just adds to the spectacle.
To see the heartbreak of failure without seeing the joy of success is to cheat all fans of the full gamut of emotions that football can bring. If the FFA wants to give the Premiers’ Plate the respect it deserves, it needs to act.
