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Opinion
July 4, 2026 — 4:30pm
“Either way you win,” they said.
“Whatever happens there will be consolation,” they said.
But when Hossam Abdelmaguid drove home Egypt’s fourth penalty to knock the Socceroos out of the World Cup on Saturday morning, that’s not remotely how it felt.
To be honest, I’m not sure the feeling quite has a word. Gutted is close, but too absolute. Exhausted is right, but only partial. All that came out of my mouth was, “I feel ill”.
Not really the illness of defeat, though. More the illness you get after a winding road trip down a mountain. Released from the journey, you stagger out of the vehicle, knowing you had to reach this destination but wondering, “did it really have to be like this?”
All week people asked, “are you going to support Egypt?” Are you kidding? In this monoculture? I knew I would be supporting Australia. I wanted at least another week of shared World Cup fever. But the truth is my brain just wouldn’t let me compute the situation.
Sport is one of those things that comes from the gut. You see the shirt, it triggers a response that’s entirely pre-rational. You associate it with a certain feeling a certain instinct. It’s what happens as soon as I see Richmond run out onto the MCG or Liverpool take to Anfield.
Oh, and here’s the other complication: one of Liverpool’s greatest-ever players is Mo Salah, a man who has given me impossible amounts of joy – today, Egypt’s hero, wearing a shirt I’ve always supported, now Australia’s main threat. Never given a good run at a World Cup, and this is his last chance.
If Australia must lose, could it at least be from some Salah magic? Ageing and playing on one leg, he is mostly anonymous. As the game gets desperate he turns it on briefly, slicing Australia open, jinking past defenders like they’re schoolchildren, clearly the best footballer there. But we would be denied even this.
Penalties. Like deciding a philosophical debate with a burping contest, goes the saying. The worst way to lose, the most hollow way to win. Quite possibly the worst of all available worlds.
As the Egyptians career away in celebration, having won their first World Cup knockout game, I can’t resent it, but I can’t smile either.
And that kind of summed up the morning. When Emam Ashour scores Egypt’s first, I’m disappointed, but not livid. When Australia equalises I’m relieved but not thrilled. At various stages, in fleeting moments, I find myself supporting whoever happens to have the ball, then snapping out of it. There was a moment, just before the end of regulation time, where Salah put a delicious cross into the box, met by Ramy Rabia’s head, and Patrick Beach pulled off a wonderful save.
I’ve seen Salah do that a thousand times wearing a red shirt I support. I’ve watched him do it at Anfield. It’s the most extraordinary excitement every time. I can’t help but want that to go in. Then Beach saves Australia, and I’m jolted into feeling rescued. An instant later, I’m sick from all the jolting.
The result for me was that no emotion could just be itself. This is probably the greatest day in Egyptian football history, and it comes at Australia’s expense. Every silver lining had a dark cloud. And that’s not how sport works. Not for me, anyway. Last week, I saw Richmond lose to Collingwood. I saw the Melbourne Storm get flogged by Manly. I hate Collingwood. I can’t abide Manly. This is as it should be. Sport is zero-sum. It’s the pantomime to which we commit. It works best when you feel nothing for your opponent. It’s why the Ashes will always be great.
I admire and envy the “you can’t lose” crowd. They’re better people than I am, grateful for what comes, accepting of what doesn’t. The truth is that had these teams not met each other, there’s a good chance both would have been eliminated. I watch Salah walk around the stadium in tears, applauding the fans. I see what this moment means to him and his country, its people whom I love. My cousins in Egypt are kind and gentle about it on the family WhatsApp group. “Hard luck for Australia,” says Karim. Perhaps by the time Egypt next take the field I’ll see only them, not the yellow shirt they vanquished. God, it would be nice for it to be uncomplicated and raw.
Car sickness fades, then the destination beckons. But what a ride.
Did it have to be this way? Well, not really. Not if Egypt had topped their group instead of Belgium. That didn’t happen because Belgium tonked the Kiwis in their last group game. And perhaps there I can find my most quintessentially Australian solace.
To the extent I didn’t love this experience, there’s at least one thing on which we can all agree: it’s mostly New Zealand’s fault.
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