Instead of watching Australia’s World Cup matches from the comfort of my own home (or the discomfort of Darling Harbour), I decided to go to opposition dens – wearing, of course, green and gold.
Locating dens for Germany and Serbia was easy, both having dedicated clubs in Sydney, but for Ghana I needed some help.
Perusing the Ghana Association website, I came across the name of a Ghanaian lawyer, Kwame Koramoah. I cold-called. “I want to go drinking with the enemy,” I explained. “Can you help me find a gang of Ghanaians at midnight on Saturday night?” Kwame thought a chaperone might be in order. “I can take you,” he said. “If I can find a babysitter for my kids.”
A hastily arranged Friday afternoon coffee meant hours of missed calls from clients, but also gave me new insights into Sydney. “You think this is a tough city?” said Kwame, choking on his cappuccino. “After the opportunities this place has given me, I will be happy whether Australia or Ghana wins.” “But you would prefer … ?” “I will be cheering for Ghana.” Good. I had infiltrated. I was drinking coffee with the enemy.
Kwame directed me to the Liverpool Catholic Club for the match. On arrival, my entrance was blocked. “This is a members-only club, sir.” “But I’ve been baptised.” “I’m sorry, sir.” “I blessed myself in the moat. I can do you a sign of the cross!” “Goodbye, sir.” “And I’m with the Ghana Association,” I said, waving my Socceroos’ scarf.
Inside, sipping my members-only priced beer, I scanned past the poker machines to the gathering Ghanaians – feeling ickily nervous I might not recognise my host. I figured it was not Kwame who was dressed as a witch doctor vuvuzela-ing around with SBS cameras in tow. He did not seem to be one of those handing out flags, but I thought he might have been one of the men beating drums on the dance floor.
“Here is the man I am looking for,” said Kwame, rescuing me, shaking my hand. “I am glad you have worn your Australia costume so we can laugh at you when you lose. Here, these are my children.” He sat me down with daughter Elizabeth, 12, and son Kwaku, 8, and then disappeared to dance to the drums.
I sat with the kids. After a quick allergy audit, I fetched them some members-only free peanuts. I helped adjust the Ghanaian flag stuck in Elizabeth’s hair and helped Kwaku to work his camera. I tried explaining the 80s as they laughed at Rick Astley on Rage on the screen. I was starting to feel like a Rickrolled babysitter myself, when Kwame reappeared.
All gathered together now, we watched an enormous Australian bloke and his suitably large wife erecting a no less remarkably large flag. When finished, it looked like a drunk Union Jack was slumped in the corner and spewing up stars. It seemed to heave as the room strained out anthems for the start of the match.
The match was a close one. I had an early opportunity to celebrate in Kwame’s face when Australia scored first, but the equaliser soon brought celebrations, but also sympathy, from Kwame. “We will take that goal, my brother,” he said. “But the red card was harsh.”
Half-time saw plenty of chanting. There were calls of ‘Aussie, Aussie, Aussie’ and, as if swearing an oath of allegiance, the Ghanaians answered each call with the loudest of ‘Oi’s, before returning to their own rhythmic chants. “But the Australians don’t know what we are chanting,” said Kwame. “We are singing: ‘Why don’t you all go home?’” The Ghanaians became frustrated with the second half. “Why are they not playing properly?” asked someone. “Is it bribes?” “No,” replied Kwame and I in unison, “not in the World Cup.”
The match ended in a one-all draw. “You played well,” said Kwame. “But we should have won. Now we must go.” I escaped the enemy den after spending too long calling for taxis without success. It was not really Ghanaian, and perhaps a little too Australian, but at least it had a members-only free bus.