IT MAY have been a beautiful winter’s Sunday afternoon, the opposition may have been world-class and some 30,000 fans were in the stands but something was missing, though perhaps not actually missed, from Brisbane Roar’s clash with Celtic – rabid, snarling, unabated, gut-busting passion.

While we all looked the part, resplendent in our bright orange or classic hoops, brandishing our scarves and waving in that delightful, if incredibly clichéd Mexican manner, there seemed to be an underlying acceptance that tempered the behaviours of the sea of fans - the simple fact that the game did not matter.

Don't be fooled by the fact that there was a trophy at stake because it may as well have been made of chocolate and covered in foil for all its true value.  And just because Brisbane's squad featured three ex-Rangers players the match wasn't even three-elevenths of an Old Firm derby.

It was merely a handy pre-season hit-out for both clubs.  A football giant against a relative minnow as they both prepared for their forthcoming seasons.  The match was ultimately a meaningless friendly and yet I don't think that this detracted from the day at all.  It perhaps even enhanced it.

Now I have been all for competition ever since I attempted to build the world's highest block tower whilst at kindergarten.  Yet the undeniable truth is that competition can breed ill-will and misguided resentment, a lesson I learned as dozens of blocks tumbled from lofty heights and crashed to the floor like so many broken dreams courtesy of a swiftly and jealously swung foot.

Childhood trauma aside, Sunday was a refreshing experience because the whole day was free of this competitive dark side.  It was a strange sight to walk against the flow of human traffic after the match and see so many happy and contented faces when the home side had just been dispatched 3-0.  Yet it is a sight that perhaps isn't seen often enough.

While I am by no means condoning defeatism (by the way that reminds me, a belated happy Bastille Day to you all), what I am suggesting is that perhaps the relentless pursuit of silverware can sometimes blind us to the joys of watching a game of football.  To bastardise a popular phrase, is it possible to be unable to see the football for the teams.

Ask yourself, would Koki Mizuno's diving header been as appreciated if it had been from the head of Archie Thompson?  Would Scott McDonald have received the same applause if he was playing for Sydney FC?  Would Lee Naylor's cross to Chris Killen been as impressive if the resulting header had knocked us out of the finals series yet again?

Perhaps you fervently believe that your good sportsmanship and character is above reproach and contend that none of those scenarios would faze you.  Then ask yourself what your immediate reaction was to Fabian Barbiero's scorcher for Adelaide in last season's preliminary final?  I admit that it is only now, months after the fact, that I have finally reached the fifth stage of grief regarding that fateful evening - acceptance.

It makes me wonder how many sublime passes, deft touches and crafty runs I may have missed over the past four seasons simply because the player wasn't wearing orange.  Is it even possible for me to passionately support my club and yet be able to enjoy A-League football through these newly acquired friendly-coloured glasses?

As much as I like to think it is possible I know it is unlikely.  I suppose that is why friendly games exist in the first place.  To take away the niggle and the gamesmanship and return football to being 90 minutes of meaningless but incredibly enjoyable fun both for the players and the fans - exactly as it was against Celtic on Sunday afternoon.