If I liken the Pacific War to a football match, I can say to you

In the darkest years of the twentieth century, as the world was torn by flames and sorrow, the Australian leader John Curtin spoke words of hope and resolve: “If I liken the Pacific War to a football match, I can say to you that the first half is over, we have kicked off after the interval, and we are going to carry the ball into enemy territory for a smashing victory.” In this simple yet stirring image, Curtin transformed the immense struggle of nations into the familiar contest of the field, so that every citizen might see their role in the struggle, and every heart might burn with the fire of determination.

The Pacific War was no ordinary conflict. It was a battle for survival, where the vast ocean itself became an arena of destiny. Japan had swept through Asia and the Pacific islands with terrifying speed, threatening to isolate and crush Australia. But Curtin, speaking to a weary people, invoked the language of sport—a contest they knew well. By calling the struggle a football match, he brought it close to home: a contest with two halves, where endurance, teamwork, and courage decide the fate of victory. The first half had been grim, but now, he said, the team was returning to the field with new strength and unyielding resolve.

This vision was not idle poetry. In 1942, the tide of the war had begun to turn. The Battle of Midway had checked Japanese expansion, and the Allied forces were regaining their footing. Curtin’s metaphor spoke of momentum, of a renewed push after surviving the storm. Just as athletes regroup at halftime, finding new energy for the second half, so too the Allied nations, battered but unbroken, were preparing to “carry the ball into enemy territory.” It was a call to action, to unity, to perseverance until the final whistle of victory sounded.

Consider how such language stirs the human spirit. A soldier fighting in the jungles of New Guinea or a worker laboring in the factories of Melbourne could understand themselves as part of this great match. Each bullet produced, each trench dug, each sacrifice made, became like a pass or a tackle, a move in the grand strategy of the team. And just as no team can win without each player’s effort, so Curtin reminded the people that their collective labor was the true engine of triumph. His words bound a nation together in shared purpose, turning despair into determination.

The lesson for us today is profound: when faced with struggles that seem overwhelming, we must see them not as endless darkness but as contests that can be endured, turned, and finally won. Curtin’s metaphor teaches that even the greatest struggles are made of moments—halves, intervals, renewed beginnings. The key is not to surrender in the first half, but to endure long enough to find the turning point. For in all battles, whether of nations or of the soul, victory belongs not to the swiftest, but to the most steadfast.

We too fight battles in our time—not with guns and warships, but with challenges of spirit, with trials of health, with burdens of injustice, with storms of doubt. And in these struggles, we may often feel that the first half has been lost. Yet Curtin’s words remind us that the match is not over, that there is strength to be found in renewal, that after every interval comes the chance to push forward once more.

Therefore, let the teaching be this: face your battles as a team, not alone. Encourage one another, as players on the field lift their comrades. Take rest when the interval comes, but do not despair, for the struggle continues, and victory may yet be seized. And above all, carry the ball of your purpose forward—step by step, act by act, never surrendering until your own “smashing victory” is won. For in this way, as Curtin’s people did in the shadow of war, you will turn hardship into triumph, and despair into hope.