The beautiful game through different lens.

By Hoo Jeng Xin

“Lift your dreams way up high,

Lift your goals to the sky.”

The opening song, Arena Cahaya, from the now ten-year-old film Ola Bola never fails to give me goosebumps.

Maybe it's because the song reminds me of a dream that generations of Malaysians have quietly held onto: to one day see our national football team step onto football's biggest stage. It isn't just a soundtrack from a movie. It's a reminder that some dreams are worth believing in, even if it takes decades.

Living in Australia, I’ve had the chance to experience a totally different football culture. During the World Cup, cities come alive. People proudly wear the green and gold, bars fill with supporters and suddenly, even strangers have something to talk about. Every conversation somehow circles back to the match, the result, the next game, the heartbreak, or the hope. Win or lose, Australians back their team with a kind of pride that's impossible to miss.

Watching all of that, I couldn't help but wonder what it would feel like if Malaysia were there one day.

Then I realised: what I missed wasn't the football.

It was the mamak.

There’s something about watching football at a Malaysian mamak that you just can’t really describe unless you’ve lived it. It isn’t fancy, it isn’t perfect.The plastic chairs are cramped, the tables wobble just enough to spill your teh tarik, and the projector screen is never quite as clear as you'd like. But somehow, that's exactly what makes it perfect.

Orders of roti canai and maggi goreng keep appearing on the table. Teh tariks are constantly topped up. Someone inevitably starts arguing with the referee as if he can hear us through the screen, while another insists he would've scored that chance himself. Before long, the whole mamak is laughing, complaining, celebrating, and holding its breath together.

It's loud.

It's chaotic.

It's completely beautiful.

During the ninety minutes, nothing else matters. No race. No age. No gender. No religion. No background. Just Malaysians, all shouting at the same screen, hoping for the same goal. Strangers don't feel like strangers anymore. They feel like teammates.

A goal goes in and suddenly the uncle sitting three tables away is high-fiving you like you've known each other for years. A controversial referee decision turns an entire mamak into a room full of self-proclaimed football experts. Everyone has an opinion, and somehow everyone is convinced they could've done a better job than the coach.

That's the magic of it.

That's home.

That’s the Malaysia I miss the most.

Sport has always had its unique way of bringing us together. We’ve seen it beyond football too. Whenever Dato Lee Chong Wei stepped onto the badminton court or when Dato Azizulhasni Awang raced on the track, the whole country seemed to pause. Living rooms, cafés, and mamaks became mini stadiums as millions of Malaysians held their breath together, hoping to hear Negaraku echo through the arena.

Those moments remind us that supporting our athletes isn’t just about winning. It’s more than that. It’s about pride, unity, and most importantly — the kind of emotional investment that feels worthy of declaring a public holiday. A shared heartbeat. A shared nervousness. A shared joy when things go right, and a shared silence when they don’t.

Of course, Malaysian football hasn’t always had the smoothest journey. Recent scandals, setbacks, and frustrations have been hard to ignore. There are times when it feels discouraging, even tiring, to keep believing. But even then, I don't think those setbacks take away what football means to us. If anything, they remind us why hope matters. Because hope has always been part of Malaysian sport. Hope isn’t only for the good moments; it exists even more strongly in the difficult ones.

Malaysia has yet to qualify for the FIFA World Cup. On paper, that dream still feels distant. Yet every generation of players, coaches, and fans keeps it alive. Every match played, every supporter who turns up, every child kicking a football around the neighbourhood after school, they all add up in ways we don’t always see immediately. It’s the thought and belief that keep the dream breathing.

Watching Australians cheer for the Socceroos didn't make me wish I were Australian.

It made me wish that one day, we'd have our own moment too. A moment where Malaysians all over the world wake up at ridiculous hours, put on our national colours, gather in homes, cafés and mamaks, and shout for Malaysia. No longer spectators of other nations’ success, but supporters of our own on football’s biggest stage.

I hope our sports continue to grow, our athletes continue to inspire us, and our belief never fades, even when results don’t go our way. And one day, we’ll gather at mamaks again, not to watch other’s World Cup story unfold, but to witness Malaysia write its own.

Until that day comes, we'll keep believing.

Believing, again and again, that one day, it will be our turn.

Because that’s what being Malaysian is.

Not giving up, but showing up and holding on.

Showing up, when the odds are against us.

Holding on, even when the dream feels distant.