Viva the boys, the boys!

We could feel the tension as we weaved through the explosion of gold. And, kindly, a couple of white guys downing castles shared their table with us. They were happy to meet some foreigners; even if we were Australians. Milo, the younger of the two, jumped up to include us in the next round and ran off to the bar. The other, who's name passes me by, sat back cigarette in hand as if tranquilly admiring the chaos around him. I looked up at what I could see of the screen; the boys, the boys were just stepping off the bus.

Milo returned with beers in hand and we began a pre-match analysis, 'well most importantly we can't lose', he added, 'we just can't afford it'. There was fear in his voice throughout the discussion. He talked of overrated players, the skill of Mexico and some less than impressive performances from the team in recent years (they haven't qualified for any recent major tournaments). However, a change of manager in the form of Brazilian Carlos Alberto Parreira and his six month training camp in the altitude of Johannesburg with the unfriendly jubalani ball had seen an undefeated run in their last 11 matches and had given rise to hope of success across the nation.

The players simply looked overwhelmed as they marched to the pitch for the ceremonies. Soweto's Soccer City provided the scene. The orange calabash turned yellow for the occasion. Over 90,000 were packed in, most with a vuvuzela. The stadium's design was deliberate: it was a reflection of Africa; the tournament's centrepiece; and a multi-billion Rand investment in a country that faces many crises; including extreme poverty and crime and corruption.

There had been on-going discussion in the press regarding the value of the World Cup considering the scale of investment. But it seemed that on the eve of the opening every South African had found a common ground for approval. Sepp Blatter, the FIFA president, was speaking, though intermittently when he found space between the vuvu blows, and championing Africa. He spoke it was proof South Africa can achieve anything, that to be here tonight was a victory already. The roar in the bar was deafening.

When the new democracy was united under the Springbok banner as they lifted the Rugby World Cup the players didn't know the words to their national anthem. Right now, it seemed every single South African was singing as if they held nothing dearer. Some players had tears rolling down their cheeks as they sang the trilingual tune and I suspected there wasn't a proper dry eye around us either. I had known it already and now I felt it: tonight had stopped being about football a long time ago.

Since the Rugby World Cup 15 years ago the hope of the nation had been in a slow decline because of a primary underlying problem evident in every aspect of life: every South African is still not equal. The laws of apartheid were banished and its physical aspects relegated to the horror pages of history but its influence has continued. Apartheid is not about the physical segregation; that is a by-product. Apartheid is a mentality, a mechanism to “divide and conquer”.

A majority that is oppressed, when united will overcome its oppressor. But a majority segregated further (by family, location, level of darkness) is prevented from doing so. By dividing the black, coloured and Indian populations into multiple miniature faux races the whites were the majority and thus were able to occupy the country. Nelson Mandela turned this around without the logical (seemingly inevitable) repercussion of a civil war and will forever be one of the great men of history. But now it is down to education, time and moments like these to banish apartheid for good.

And as the referee blew his whistle, and the boys kicked off, and the vuvuzelas roared, the country cheered. And there was hope.

The Procession.

The parade of people flowed from the city centre, beneath the omnipresent table mountain and out to the ocean; to the stadium. We met the flow someway along and stepped in to be carried the rest of the way. There was not anything you could do but shuffle to the mass beat of it all. We walked a while before our destination materialised in the distance. We were beginning the approach. There was a change in the atmosphere; the vuvuzelas became more consistent; drums and music floated around us; people danced and Africans busked in the street. High above on either side people hung out of windows; waving, shouting, cameras flashing. In temporary slits through the crowd I could make out rows of people, perhaps three deep, here just to witness the spectacle in the afternoon sun – it was a Saturday after all. They applauded us as we walked. The excitement grew: we were the lucky ones, we were here to participate.

The grass was a brilliant green. It appeared perfect; flat and sharp. The goals stood at each end, beckoning action. Encircling up, the white seats were filled; Argentine and German colours overpowered the scene. Straight beyond my view of the opposite corner flag, between the corrugated roof and the top tier was the silhouette of Table Mountain – seeing to it that perspective is duly maintained throughout. Behind me, behind the stadium gates, sat the Atlantic ocean and views to the horizon. Above, the sky was pure, a gentle sea breeze maintained a freshness.

The Argentine shirts were bouncing, their anthem had began. Thousands in the blue and white jumped to the rich tune. Then the vuvuzelas blared; time for the Germans and apparently an Opera. A deep voice bellowed a couple rows behind us, emphatically pounding out every word with all his might was an aging German. Skye took his photo. The stadium backed the man as those rough, harsh words sounded down to players below. Again the vuvuzelas; time for kick off.

The dream was over quickly. But down eight minutes in, it was always going to be tough. Those in La Albiceleste colours were resilient and continued to stand and to deliver support and the team came out determined in the second half. But they were ultimately silenced. So was Di Maria and Tevez and Messi and Higuain and then Aguero. Maradona consoled his former number and favourite though not the legal son as we looked on. A blur of the Germans and their fans celebrated on the peripheral. Though Skye seemed pretty happy with himself. It was my second time seeing Die Mannschaft and it was the same scoreline. My two teams had been done. I was done, twice. It's personal now... so come on Spain - my boys!

We slinked out to greet the night sky, Skye's German scarf ruffled in the cool sea breeze in some kind of symbolic victory. His friend had an apartment nearby, just off the foreshore. We farewelled Darryl and River and made for the braai. The scene was spectacular; the balcony offered endless views of the Atlantic on one side and on the other, green point stadium lit up in its brilliant best. It stood in great reverence, looking as if it was the sole culprit for its country's energy crisis. Though having been constructed by Germans it was apparently happy just to bask in its victory of a job well done, awaiting the next match.