Flair and friendship illuminate the MCG

The crowd was wide-eyed in anticipation and on nearly its best behaviour. It was a crowd that mostly was content for the flair to appear only on the pitch. It was a crowd of comrades-in-arms, befitting two of Melbourne's distinguishing characteristics - its Greek heritage and boundless love of sport. One young man came wearing an Australian jersey, but draped in a Greek flag, and he seemed to sum up the mood.

There was a pulsating display from the Socceroos, again reflecting the revolutionary genius of coach Guus Hiddink, who in an improbably short time has managed to tease out of them flair as bright as any of the magnesium that burst from the stands last night, and at the same stiffen the defence, ideals often thought to be irreconcilable. Australia did not just win; it dominated.

Under Hiddink, it has emerged from its carapace (shell is too plain a word now). Extraordinarily, this was just Hiddink's seventh game at the helm of Australia.

There was a goal to remember from Josip Skoko, a finely worked creation from a corner, finished with a flourish that left no-one unmoved except the goalkeeper.

There was a Mexican wave to amuse the small minds.

There was a flare or two, of course; these all emerged from the Greek section, as it happened, but hey, this was not a night for pointing fingers. There was a hint of temper to please those who like the robust element, and lest anyone think this was merely an exhibition.

And at the end of the night, there was the Lemonade Cup, or some such accoutrement. Ah, ahem. It was at the appearance of this much uncoveted vessel that the limitations of the night became apparent. Actually, it sat pitchside all night, on a tablecloth, on a table, if anyone cared to notice. Its most distinguishing feature was that it was not the World Cup, nor for that matter the European Championship, as any of the Greeks could have told you.

In the moment that it was brought to centre stage, a check of the vital signs would have told you what all sub-consciously felt anyway. As big occasions go, this one lacked the true knife's edge. It was enjoyable, exciting, even inspiring, but did prompt even one of the convulsions in the pit of the stomach that seize all when all is up for grabs.

This was a friendly, after all. Probably, that explained the brotherly feeling so evident in the crowd. Certainly, it explained why Australia attacked to the end, as it surely will not if it leads Japan or Croatia by 1-0 with minutes to play next month.

So it was also that the Greek supporters joined in the applause for the Australians on their lap of honour at the end. This night, everyone could be a winner. But next time the Australians play, they will either be left to grin or please themselves, but not both.

To say that the night lacked the frisson of the biggest occasion is not to say that it lacked all meaning or purpose. Hiddink and the Socceroos are one more match better for the experience, and we the Australian public are one more match wiser to their charms. All are another day closer to the World Cup vigil; it cannot come soon enough now.

"We're going to Germany and the Greeks are not," chanted a cohort of young Australian supporters outside the ground before the game. The Greeks took no offence then - it was not that sort of night - and could make no protest later. Indeed, there would have been only one appropriate response, this adapted from neither English or Greek, but from the language of international diplomacy: "Touche!"