I was there hugging complete strangers the night John Aloisi scored the penalty that would take the Socceroos to a World Cup for the first time in 32 years. We also started at the World Cup itself when Tim Cahill brought us back from the dead against Japan in Kaiserslautern, staying on to see out our next three games before Fabio Grosso’s dive cost it all.
I was also there the night Jonny Wilkinson’s drop goal sank the Wallabies in the 2003 Rugby World Cup final, I watched from the Brewongle stand as Michael Bevan hit Roger Harper down the ground to seal a famous ODI win on day one of 1996 and fell down. in Trinidad and Tobago to see the Aussies bowl to a Brian Lara-led West Indies for just 51 in 1999.
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I’ve also been on hand to see Newcastle, South Sydney, North Queensland and Cronulla break their first rugby league drought, survive Caxton St after a rare NSW win at Suncorp Stadium and win gold at the Olympics Sydney. But when the bar conversation turns to great sporting moments you’ve seen yourself, I retreat quietly to my schooner and wait for the inevitable.
“Why don’t you ask this goose about the time he got away in Steve Waugh’s century at the SCG… the idiot lost everything,” cries one of my so-called mates. This is not very true.
Yes, I’m an idiot, but I watched most of the matches, but not the most important part. Twenty years ago (January 3, 2003 to be exact), I went with the old man, my brother and some friends to take on the second day of the fifth test of grace.
It would be Waugh’s last game in the broad green unless he could produce something special. Not at nine at tea, there was nothing to suggest this would be his day.
Steve hadn’t been at his best. And while he was going at a reasonable pace an hour after tea, he wasn’t exactly hitting the Poms attack in all parts of the ground.
It was about then that a husband turned to me and said the fateful words: “I drove… do you want a lift home?” Do I want an elevator at home? There were two children under three in the house who had been up since 5am and a young lady who could probably do it by hand.
I was at least eight to 10 dinghies deep and the public transport option – with a quick recap at a Circular Quay pub – would add at least two hours to my ETA. I looked at the angel and devil standing on either shoulder and for once I chose the one in white.
“Thanks, that would be great. When are you going?” I asked my driver. He informed me that the Barina would leave the SCG car park just before the stumps to avoid the congestion created when 8,000 cars squeeze into an exit the size of a rat hole.
Mark Waugh also departed before brother Steve’s century
So, with no real indication that Waugh would reach triple figures, we left with about 20 minutes to go. I was in good company. Mark Waugh was coming out at the same time, who was going to Harold Park, convinced that his twin had no hope of getting a ton that night.
“He was going so slow, I thought ‘come on, get on with it,'” Mark would later say. As soon as I reached my husband’s car, which was about 700 meters away from the SCG, I heard a deafening scream and immediately felt sick to my stomach.
The car radio confirmed my worst fears. The great Steve Rodger Waugh had reached his century on the last ball of the day and the SCG was going crazy without me.
I had walked away from one of the greatest moments in Australian sport – one that would be analysed, remembered and replayed for the rest of my life. Did I mention I was an idiot?
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