Chris Rattue: Thank goodness for the Italians

There's nothing like the game itself to sort out your true allegiances.

Soccer's World Cup has provided a handy reminder of this, how when it comes to the crunch those pre-tournament mental gymnastics can go double-flipping out the window.

The case in point concerns the Australian soccer team.

If my informal surveys are anything to go by, not many fellow citizens shared my mid-May desire for Australia to advance well beyond the group stage, or to advance at all.

I figured outlandish Australian success in Germany could be good for the world game at the bottom of the world, even though the cocky Ockers have got too big for our boots and given Oceania the big fend-off.

The basic survey question went like this.

Hey, mate. Wouldn't it be great and glorious for soccer in these parts if Australia were to get to the quarter-finals?

The basic survey answer went like this.

@$% off. Australia are a bunch of etc. etc. I hope they get smashed apart by Brazil, torn to shreds by Japan and stuffed like a chook by Croatia. I hope they get a great reception in the second round - on their televisions in Sydney.

An acquaintance of American origins put it like this.

"I support any team who is playing Australia. And I give even greater support to any team who beats Australia."

And this is a man who was waiting tables in Wisconsin when Trevor Chappell delivered that infamous low blow. Even new Kiwis learn fast.

The only New Zealanders with a kind word for Australia had one thing in common - they had the Socceroos in the office sweep.

As I say, it was a very informal and unscientific survey and had a margin for error that would find room for the Blues management board.

But not only was it impossible to find anyone who supported our transtasman cousins, it was impossible to find anyone who would refer to them in a family-type way. The air was blue about the green and golds.

Finally, yesterday morning, I found out what they meant. It took the do-or-die game against Italy to do the trick.

There they were, the enemy, prancing around like a real soccer team, stringing passes together, looking as arrogant as ever, threatening to beat Italy.

Visions of John O'Neill flooded into view, followed by John Eales, a couple of Chappells, the victorious headlines - you get the picture.

It brought home the dodgy realisation that it is difficult to get the full enjoyment out of sport without being unsporting. Sports lunacy isn't just about who you want to win - it's as much about who you want to lose.

And sports rivalry can run very deep. Where Australia is concerned, it's a canyon mounted on a famously deep Siberian lake. The good news, should you share in this unsavoury self-truth, is it means that even when you're own team is out of the loop (read All Whites, to be shortly followed by England), you can have a passionate interest in a contest.

Antipodean antipathy led to moments of sheer agony yesterday. Quite frankly, the dismissal of Italian defender Marco Materazzi shaped as potentially the most painful incident of the tournament.

As for the Socceroos' performance - they played quite well, in a very limited sort of way. Kind of. That's as far as I'm prepared to go.

I could have chanted like a South Korean, done the haka like the Croatian coach and joyfully gesticulated like Big Phil Scolari when Italy got a 90th minute penalty.

Thank you, referee, Italy and Mr Totti. Thank you.