Yes, there damn well is, according to Sky News’ Chief Outrage Correspondent Chris Kenny, who reckons the Prime Minister is way ahead of himself in promising a public holiday if the Matildas win the World Cup while the country is in the midst of a productivity crisis.
But Mr Kenny, if the Matildas win, it will be just the boost the nation needs to get its nose back to the grindstone and produce more stuff so we can keep control of the economy before those left-wing fiscal dunderheads squander it on more pointless First Nations-friendly attempts to close the expensive gap.
Anyway, let’s leave spoilsports to wallow in their own grey workaday worlds.
The Matildas have cast a rainbow spell of wonder across the country among women’s sport fanatics, burnt-out company chief executives, weary workers, dream-starved young girls and boys.
Yes, that’s right: boys. Those ruff-tuff, shoulder-shoving, head-knocking, punchy ball-kickers are watching, and God forbid, cheering on the Matildas’ rise to glory.
Apparently, men and boys previously unconvinced by the spectator value of watching women play sport have turned around.
They are watching from loungeroom couches and pub barstools and dissecting Matilda tactics and Raso’s killer goal-shooting skills at coffee shops and school playgrounds.
I know this must be true because I am under the Matilda spell too.
After a lifetime of indifference to sport and its tribalism, I found myself on the TV couch for the Matildas’ match against Canada last week. I have no rational explanation for this, other than a need to see what all the fuss was about.
When the first goal was scored, I did something I’d never done before — I stood up, punched the air and yelled “Yes!”
Slightly embarrassed, I sat down and watched the entire game spellbound by the skill and balletic athleticism of the players and the tension within myself. The terror of a revenge Canadian goal was real. If this is what real sports fans endure every weekend, I suddenly had sympathy for their ragged emotional state on Monday.
When the match against Denmark arrived on Monday night, my nerves were frayed like a torn scarf by half-time after the relentless pressure from those damned Vikings.
There were moments that for me, earned the well-worn title of “the beautiful game”.
An effortless backwards flip of Danish player Harder’s right calf in mid-run that sent the ball straight to the feet of her charging teammate; the composure of Australia’s Van Egmond who stopped the ball mid-flight in front of the Danish goal and instead of attempting a shot, flicked it to better-placed Raso, who thundered it home; the supernatural intuition on display from both sides — operating as a single entity with each moving part knowing exactly where their teammates were at any moment and sending the ball to its destination with pin-point accuracy.
I’m sure this happens in every professional game, including the men’s games — but for a match novice like me, the spectacle was a revelation.
Finally, I realised that although the games were played with fierce determination — the pure joy on the faces of the women left in me a strange new feeling of exhilaration and respect for sport when it is played in a spirit of co-operation and humility.
At the moment I’m practising new breathing techniques to avoid fainting during Saturday’s game against France.
I’m trying to maintain my own balance of co-operation and humility and not descend into old partisan prejudices. However, I did live next to France for 36 years and believe me, they’re too smart for their own good. They want to own everything – Champagne, Camembert, Brie, the Mona Lisa, our submarines. Don’t put up with it, girls — fight back. Vive la résistance.
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