Obviously the 06 World Cup for Australia and Cahills' goals v Japan and Kewells' v Croatia. Other than that like Mr, Robbie Keanes' equaliser v Germany in 2002. Beckhams' penalty v Argentina. All the past highlights that we remember the great goals like Maradona etc, but also Argentinas' team goal v Serbia in 06.

Hopefully we can add to the list in the next month.

Ireland - Italy in '94. Myself being one of a handful with Irish heritage in a school full of Italians.
Ireland - Germany in '02. With a German flatmate who thought they had it in the bag before the equaliser.
Australia all over in '06. Watching in a pub in Singapore with a then AFL fan, who became a football fan with Cahill's second. Danes & Dutch alike singing our praises.

A life in World Cup finals
May 18, 2010

For football tragics like Sean Mooney, life is defined by its World Cup final moments.

Some people remember where they were when Kennedy was shot, when man walked on the moon, when Bangladesh beat Australia at cricket.

I remember where I was for FIFA World Cup finals.

I know I am not alone in using the four-yearly football festival's coup de grace as a yardstick of my existence, as a way of carbon-dating my own life's turning points.

There are others, too, who look upon the World Cup's deciding game as part of their very fabric - up there with their own family's hatches, matches and despatches.

The first final in my lifetime (let's call it F1) was played in Munich in 1974 and, by a happy coincidence, it was the first one that Australia was involved in.

Of course, I don't recall F1 itself. I don't even know if I could have watched it even if I wasn't still in nappies, living as I did in the western-NSW town of Parkes.

It came at a time when The Netherlands' philosophy of "total football" was flying high - until it went down 1-2 in the final to West Germany.

The world wasn't prepared for such Dutch treats, just as Parkes wasn't quite ready for my Canadian father's pancake shop.

Why my dad thought Parkes was the place to open a pancake parlour, I'll never know - just as it remains a mystery why Holland couldn't overcome the Germans after routing Argentina 4-0 and Brazil 2-0 on their way to the final.

I don't think maple syrup and blueberries have ever made it big in Parkes. When they do, perhaps Holland will win their first World Cup.

By 1978 we were living in Adelaide. And you know what? The Dutch lost this final too, this time 1-3 to Argentina.

Adelaide wasn't quite ready for my dad's pancakes either, although we held out a bit longer - just as the Netherlands pushed Ossie Ardiles' Argentineans to extra time.

F2, played in Buenos Aires in a climate of political unrest, was won by arguably the lesser team and to the benefit of nation's totalitarian regime.

It wasn't fair, but life seldom is - a lesson I learned and pulled out of the vault when Australia was bundled out of the 2006 World Cup in dubious circumstances by eventual champions Italy.

1982. Spain. F3. I remember the hot sun, the smell of paella in the air, rioja flowing in the streets. Well, I don't really, as I was in Sydney, and it was the kind of mid-winter, middle-of-the-night World Cup that we are used to in Australia.

The final was fought out between Italy and West Germany, the Squadra Azzurra winning 3-1.

The way the Italians only just scraped through to the final appealed to me, as my school report cards at the time involved a lot of phrases like "could do better" and "disappointing".

It's why I've always had a soft spot for the Italian team - one that was sorely tested in the wee hours of June 27, 2006.

Mexico 1986 is widely regarded as one of the best World Cups of all time. It came in just about the worst year of my life. I was a hormonal, unpopular and unsightly teenager whose father had just died.

I felt like the unluckiest person on earth. Then I discovered that earthquakes killed about 20,000 Mexicans before the World Cup kicked off, and that they were only hosting it after the original choice, Colombia, had gone broke, along with most of its people.

This knowledge put my teenage torments into perspective, and the sight of a boy from the slums of Buenos Aires taking his team to F4, and a 3-2 victory over West Germany, became my inspiration.

Maradona became a kind of father figure for me, scarily enough. In the years that followed I'd follow his crazy career, and I came to realise that ugliness is never far from beauty.

Italia 90 was the first World Cup to be televised on SBS, thereby giving me a chance to choose a wholly more appropriate father figure in "Uncle" Les Murray; he's been a regular in my living room ever since.

F5 is also the first final I remember clearly, which is ironic considering that it was my first year at university, and so one of my life's haziest.

The final was a rough and unattractive affair, a bit like the bed-sit I was minding.

I remember the burning terraces, the crowd violence, the drunken spectators - and that was just in my flat. For the record, the final itself was between West Germany and Argentina, and it was decided by a late German penalty. Argentina became the first team not to score in a final. I developed a soft spot for them, too, as I felt like the only bloke not scoring at uni.

USA 94's F6 was a funny old game. Held in the Rose Bowl in Pasadena, of all places, it was between Brazil and Italy. I took my then girlfriend to watch the game in Leichhardt.

We drank litres of coffee laced with whisky that had, by the early hours, put us in a state of twitching paralysis. It turned out to be the perfect condition in which to watch a goalless draw decided by penalties.

Brazil won, and the mood in Norton Street turned anything but contento - as a couple of guys who decided to drive down the strip in a Mini with Brazilian flags hanging out the windows soon discovered.

In retrospect, that final was an accurate reflection of my relationship with my viewing companion: passionate, hard-fought but ultimately doomed to end in tears. And so it did, as I set off to see the world a few weeks later, while she shacked up with a professional footballer.

France 1998. A year of returns. The World Cup was back in its birthplace and I was back in Australia with no idea what to do with myself after four years mooching about in countries that worshipped the round ball.

F7 ended up being fought out between the hosts and Brazil, and I watched it with a hot cuppa and some toast, waiting for a sign. Or at least a goal or two. Brazil went down 0-3, with their star striker Ronaldo staggering around the pitch looking lost, lonely and ineffective.

That's how I felt, wandering Sydney trying to rekindle old friendships, get over a romantic misadventure and hold down a job.

Of course, Brazil bounced back to be the dominant force in world football. I didn't do too badly myself, finding a decent job, meeting my future wife and suddenly realising that what I thought was heartbreak was actually a lucky escape.

Korea/Japan 2002. The joy: a World Cup with live prime-time games.

I watched F8 on a huge screen owned by a neighbour who'd invited me over for " the big game" a few weeks before, only to reveal that he'd meant the State of Origin.

The final, with its inevitable conclusion of victory (2-0) to Brazil over an uninspiring Germany, was an unfortunate end to a tournament that threw up lots of welcome surprises. Saying that, the fact that this was an unprecedented fifth world title for Brazil prompted me to name our new puppy 'Cafu', after the Brazilian captain: then the first man to play in three World Cup final matches.

Now the local kids call our dog Cat Food, but I'm sure he knows that he's sort of related to footballing royalty.

F8 was the first time the World Cup's two most successful teams had ever met each other at the tournament, and this taught me that even in inevitability one can find surprises.

The ensuing four years would confirm the truth of this, as I would do what married-with-mortgage types usually do: have kids (although my wife vetoed my name choices of Diego and Erinaldo).

F8's ultimate lesson? The conclusion may be foregone, but it's the experiences along the way that make the journey interesting.

So what of F9? That wonderful battle of Berlin between Italy and France fought out in 2006. Did the fact that Italy scraped through by the narrowest of margins, as they did throughout the tournament, show me that a never-say-die attitude was the key to success?

Perhaps, but I prefer to believe that the red-carding of the most celebrated player of his generation, Zinedine Zidane, for head-butting an opponent was part of a greater cautionary tale.

Who were the heroes and villains of this great match? Who was "in the right"? I guess it all depends on whose side you were on.

And there was my lesson: if you can find it in yourself to appreciate both sides of an argument, then you are well placed to appreciate the beauty of the bigger picture, rather than the ugliness of the disagreement itself.

Well, maybe there's nothing earth-shattering in that, and maybe I'm just getting overly philosophical in my old age. Nevertheless, I already find myself preparing for my next life lesson on July 11: F10.

This time it will be delivered from the Dark Continent, and I'll be up with a hot cuppa and some toast, waiting for a sign. Or at least a goal or two.


http://www.theage.com.au/sport/soccer/a-life-in-world-cup-finals-20100518-vbwx.html


Do you remember where you were during the España World Cup Final in 1982, when Marco Tardelli scored for Italy & went nuts? \:d/
Which was the most memorable as far as you are concerned?