Steve Tervet writes about being an England fan as Matildas mania sweeps the nation

Blurring into the haze of the floodlights, you are vaguely aware of their presence but they are unable to make themselves heard above the deafening roar of the home fans.

And so it will be on Wednesday evening as England walk out to face the Matildas in the historic FIFA Women's World Cup semi-final at Stadium Australia. If I open my front door at 7.55pm, there's every chance the strains of 'Advance Australia Fair' will reach my ears from television sets in tens of thousands of households around town, or even your dulcet tones.

In our lounge room, we'll be singing 'God Save The King'. You won't hear us, but we'll be there.

If I had a dollar for every time I've been asked 'do you have split loyalties?' I could probably hand in my notice at The Border Mail and book a round-the-world cruise... but it's a fair question.

After all, I make a living writing about Australian sport, talking to Australians and I have so much respect for the way we've been given the typically Aussie 'fair go' since arriving from the other side of the globe and becoming part of your community.

Australia is home now - and I have you to thank for that.

Ask my daughter who she'll be supporting in the semi-final and without blinking, she'll fire straight back: the Matildas.

We have read every one of Sam Kerr's 'Kicking Goals' books at bedtime, we have agonised over the most talked-about calf muscle in sporting history, we held our breath with you as the Chelsea superstar made the long walk to take her penalty against France on Saturday night.

Ah, penalties.

That stomach-churning dread you experienced, watching along with four million others at the weekend as the Matildas teetered on the brink of elimination, is like a familiar old foe when you've endured shootout torture so many times with England.

1990. 1996. 1998. 2004. 2006. 2012. 2018. 2021.

Penalties. It's always penalties.

And there is simply no sporting drama which matches the collective silence across a nation as your player places the ball on the spot and steps back, preparing to shoot. Score or miss. Win or lose. Keep the dream alive or see it crushed in an instant.

I can promise you this: whatever happens on Wednesday night, the images will stay with you. You will remember where you were, who you were watching with, exactly how it felt.

I know because I've been through it so many times. Growing up in a country obsessed with football, the emotional rollercoaster of these big tournaments is like a rite of passage. You are part of something so much bigger than the club you choose to support, in whatever code: this is who you are, who we all are.

And that's why this semi-final feels so different from anything else I've ever experienced.

I may not have split loyalties but I have witnessed the inexorable surge of football fever in Australia over the last few weeks, I have been asked about the World Cup by people in coffee shops, at the bus stop, even at the footy.

I love England, yes, but I love the game and I know what a force for good it can be on nights like this, how it pulls a nation it and holds it captivated, crossing every societal barrier you can imagine. What else does that? Nothing.

So while, on the one hand, it feels like I can't win this semi-final, knowing at least one member of my family will be devastated when that final whistle blows, or the final penalty is saved (shudder), I reflect on the fact I am guaranteed a team to cheer on in the World Cup final.

If the Lionesses make it through, what an achievement it will be after winning the European Championships last year.

But football has long since been a way of life in the old country; the Matildas are changing the sporting landscape here in Australia like never before. We are witnessing history in the making and undoubtedly a seismic shift in the perception of what girls and women can do with a round ball at their feet.

So actually, I'm coming around to the idea that I can't lose on this occasion.

Enjoy the game. Who am I kidding? You know as well as I do it's going to be a white-knuckle ride.

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