Final: 4 NATIONS 2010: Kumuls v Kiwis

Discussion in 'Forum Sevens Matches' started by Willow, Nov 14, 2010.

  1. Willow

    Willow Administrator

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    Forum 7s - 4 Nations - 2010
    PAPUA NEW GUINEA KUMULS V NEW ZEALAND KIWIS
    [​IMG] -v-[​IMG]
    Titanic (c) --------Jesbass (c)


    Game Thread:
    * Please note - This is a game thread only, therefore only game posts can be made here (Teams, Articles).
    * Any other posts may result in loss of points and is at the discretion of the referee
    * Only original articles, not used in previous games, will be marked by referees.​

    Naming Teams (F7s 4 Nations conditions):
    * 3v3 (+ 4 reserves for each team)
    * No 'TBA' or changing players named
    * Captains must stick with original teams named​

    FULL TIME: Saturday 20 November 2010 at 9pm (Syd time)

    REFEREES:
    gorilla
    Non Terminator

    NB: There will be TWO referees for this match. Scores and comments will be posted here by The Front Row. Scores will added together for a total.

    Venue: The Birds Nest, Beijing​

    **The Referees Blows Game On!**
    [​IMG]
    [​IMG]
    CLICK HERE FOR OFFICIAL WORD COUNTER
     
    Last edited: Nov 28, 2010
  2. Jesbass

    Jesbass First Grade

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    [​IMG]

    Fired up for the final, the Kiwis rush onto the field to face the Kumuls...

    -----------------------------------
    Team:
    Jesbass (c)
    rayroxon
    madunit

    Bench:
    LeagueNut
    RHCP
    -----------------------------------

    Ringa pakia
    Uma tiraha
    Turi whatia
    Hope whai ake
    Waewae takahia kia kino

    Ka mate, ka mate
    Ka ora' Ka ora'
    Ka mate, ka mate
    Ka ora Ka ora
    Tēnei te tangata pūhuruhuru
    Nāna i tiki mai whakawhiti te rā
    Upane... Upane
    Upane Kaupane
    Whiti te rā
    Hī!

    [​IMG]
     
  3. Jesbass

    Jesbass First Grade

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    [​IMG]

    Ready to take the fight to the Kumuls, Jesbass chips the defensive line and side steps the fullback...

    ***

    He Tangata

    Old Maori proverb: He aha te mea nui? He tangata, he tangata, he tangata.
    (What is the most important thing? It is people, it is people, it is people.)

    Liam was furious.

    It was almost full time in the title match, and his team had been poor. Excuses would be offered for every question their coach might ask - and a list of queries was no doubt forthcoming.

    The wind had been blowing a gale and the sudden downpour of rain served as dissipaters on the smoggy air.

    Liam stood to the right of the scrum's rear, donning his headgear for one last play. With time limited, and his club ailing from a two point deficit, the championship ultimately came down to this one climactic moment.

    But with the ball sent errantly close to the chalked boundary, Liam found himself stooping after an impromptu pounce to collect the bad pass. He attempted to break clear, yelling for support as the defense approached. The defender didn’t hold back, landing a solid tackle. The low hit easily threw Liam off balance, toppling him headfirst into the mud and forcing him to skid well over the sideline.

    Collapsing in a heap, Liam looked down at his mud stains, coughing as he attempted to regain his breath. A nearby teammate observed the hit and, with arms akimbo, scowled at the outcome with a deathly stare.

    They had shown the hallmarks of a side waiting to lose to the men in galvanised form opposite. At best, they had barely been mediocre.

    Aghast that his team's forwards had failed to gain vital metres in field, the diminutive youngster threw down insults like verbal spears onto the nearest prop.

    A timekeeper signalled an end to the match and, instead of shaking hands, Liam simply left the field, enraged with his teammates.

    +++

    A few days later, Liam sat at the end of a small pier, certain that the simple act of putting bait on a hook would help rid disconsolate thoughts from his mind.

    Watching the gentle movement of the dirty water, houses murkily reflecting off the marsh, alleviated his anger ever so slowly as evening neared.

    Temporarily distracted by the chirping of crickets on the nearby reeds, Liam didn't hear the arriving footsteps.

    “Saw your game on the weekend,” spoke a familiar voice, the wisdom of age emanating from within its gravel-laden essence.

    Liam turned when he felt something touch his arm. It was the tip of a walking stick, held by his aged, despairing grandfather.

    “Hi Grandpa Earl,” he spoke quietly.

    The elder man lowered himself and sat next to his grandson, the jetty barely wide enough to fit them both abreast, wooden planks serving as an uncomfortable seat.

    “Didn’t like what I saw, boy. Didn’t like it at all.”

    Liam was silently waiting; listening.

    “You’re a talented kid, but you’ve got a frightful anger problem, especially on the field,” Earl continued. “You need to co-operate with your team and remember that our code is all about the people – those who have been before and those who are still coming through. Bad sportsmanship waywardly smears league’s reputation.”

    Liam’s head dropped, encumbered by guilt as he lamented his game attitude.

    “A win gets our game only so far ahead – don’t be fiendish and then try to equate that with success. Ours is the sport for the common man. Until you recognise that the people are the game, your attitude won’t be up to par, son.”

    Silence befell them and, amidst the noisy environment, Liam was able to forget the title he’d lost, aggression gradually fading from his mind.

    When he looked up, he saw his grandfather’s arms extended for a hug. Hesitantly accepting, the youngster felt a tear run down his cheek…

    +++

    Liam let out a cathartic roar.

    Typically, he would have lambasted anyone within earshot. His team had been leading until seconds earlier, when an opposition player had made a spurt, ellipse-shaped ball in hand, to break through two tackles and cross the line.

    This time, however, Liam served as his own rebutter, fielding the ball in one arm and standing tall, isolated from his usual angry thoughts.

    He was too keyed up with reminding himself - ordinary result notwithstanding - that the people wishing for victory were precisely that: people.

    +++

    To stress the importance of people to our game, there are more than 80 surnames of league players contained in this story. They represent numerous clubs and countries from various time periods. Can you find them?

    ***

    750 words between the stars

    Source:
    http://rugbyleagueproject.org/

    He Tangata

    Old Maori proverb: He aha te mea nui? He tangata, he tangata, he tangata.
    (What is the most important thing? It is people, it is people, it is people.)

    Liam was furious.

    It was almost full time in the title matCH, ANd his team had been POOR. Excuses would be offered for every question their coach might aSK - AND A LISt of queries was no doubt forthcoming.

    The wind had been blowing a GALE And the sudden downpour of rain served as dissiPATERS ON the sMOGGy air.

    Liam stood to the right of the scrum's REAR, DONning his headgear for one last play. With tiME LImited, and his cluB AIling from a two point deficit, the CHAMPIONship ultimately came down to this one cLIMActic moment.

    But with the ball SENT ERrantly close to the CHALKed boundary, Liam found himself sTOOPIng after an imprompTU POUnce to collect the bad pass. He attempted to break CLEAR, Yelling for support as the defense appROACHed. The defender didn’t hold bACK, LANDing a solid tackle. The loW HIT Easily threw Liam off balance, toppling him HEADfirst into the mud and forcing him to sKID WELL over the sideline.

    CollapSING in a heap, Liam looked down at his mud stAINS, COUGHing as he attempted to regain his breath. A nearby teamMATE Observed the hit and, with arms akimBO, SCowled at the outcome with a DEATHly stare.

    They had shown the HALLmarks of a side waiting to lose to the MEN IN GAlvanised form opposite. At best, they had barely been medioCRE.

    AGHast that his team's forwards had failed to gain vital metreS IN FIELD, the dimINUtive YOUNGster threw down insults like verbal sPEARS ONto the nearest pROP.

    A TImekeeper signalled an end to the match and, instead of shaKING hands, Liam simply left the FIELD, ENraged with his teammates.

    +++

    A few dayS LATER, Liam sat at the end of a small PIER, CErtain that the simple act of putting bAIT ON a hook would helP RID DISconsolate thoughts from his mind.

    Watching the gentle movement of the dirty WATER, HOUSEs murkily reflecting off the MARSH, ALLeviated hIS Anger ever so slowly as evening neared.

    Temporarily distracted by the chirping of cRICKETS ON the nearby reeds, Liam didn't hear the arriving footsteps.

    “SAw your game on the weekend,” spoke a familiar voice, the wisdom of aGE Emanating from within its graVEL-LAden essence.

    Liam turned when he felt something touch his ARM. IT was the tip of a walking stick, held by his aGED, DESpairing grandfather.

    “Hi GrandPA EArl,” he spoke quietly.

    The elder man LOWEred himself and sat next to his grandson, the jetty barely wide enough to fit them both abrEAST, WOODen planks serving as an uncomfortable seat.

    “Didn’t like what I saw, BOY. Didn’t like it at all.”

    Liam was silently waitING; LIStening.

    “You’re a talented kid, but you’ve got a frightfuL ANGER problem, especialLY ON the field,” Earl continued. “You need to CO-OPERate with your team and remember that our code is all about the people – those who have been before and those wHO ARE still COMINg through. Bad sportsmanSHIP WAYwardly sMEARS league’s reputation.”

    Liam’s head dropPED, ENcumbered by guilt as he LAMented his game attitude.

    “A WIN Gets our game only so FAR AHead – don’t be FIENdish and then try to eqUATE that with success. Ours is the sport for the common MAN. Until you recognise that the people are the game, your attitude won’t be up to PAR, SON

    Silence befell them and, amidst the noisy envIROnment, Liam was able to forget the title he’d loST, AGGression gradually fading from his mind.

    When he looked up, he saw his grandfather’s arms extended for a HUG. HESitantly accepting, the youngster felT A TEar running down his cheek…

    +++

    Liam let out a catHARTic ROAR.

    TYpically, he would have LAMBasted anyone within earshot. His team had been leading unTIL SEconds EARLier, when an opposition player had made a sPURT, ELLipse-sHAPEd ball in hand, to break through two tackles and cROSS the line.

    This time, HOWEver, Liam served as his own reBUTTER, FIELDing the BALL IN one arm and standing TALL, ISolated from his usuaL ANGry thoughts.

    He was TOO KEYed up with reminding himsELF - ORDinary result notwithstanding - that the peopLE WIShing for victory were precisely that: people.

    +++

    To stress the importance of people to our game, there are more than 80 surnames of league players contained in this story. They represent numerous clubs and countries from various time periods. Can you find them?
     
    Last edited: Dec 10, 2010
  4. Titanic

    Titanic First Grade

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    [​IMG]

    From Daru to Kavieng and from Alotau to Wapenamanda,

    a nation holds its breath once more as its hardy lain
    of wantoks,
    smeared with pik gris, wearing their
    as tangets
    and with bolbols the size of
    kokonas
    , takes the field.


    [​IMG]

    The Team

    murphyscreek
    Willow
    Titanic

    The Bench

    bartman
    tits&tans
    bgdc


    Good luck one and all ... na goapim ol birua bilong ol Kumul u save

     
  5. Titanic

    Titanic First Grade

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    [​IMG] Titanic for PNG and the last hurrah for 2010 (750 OWC)
    ########

    [​IMG]


    Tears of a clown

    I certainly don’t need a shrink to reach into my memory to find the root of my predilection.

    It began one fine autumn afternoon as I, aged all of eight, bent over to re-tie my bootlace. Straining to make an effective knot, the combination of muscular tension and my mum’s famous beef and onion goulash conspired to conjure up what could only be described as a cracking fart.

    The sound was explosive and the smell so putrid that ‘Weenie’ Peterson who unfortunately for him was kneeling behind me, keeled over as if struck by a wayward meteorite. The resultant laughter from my team mates plus my outrageous ability to follow-up with several more resounding ‘blurters’ in time with touching my toes, branded me forever as resident funnyman.

    One season ran into the next, punctuated by moments of sheer childish inspiration. My mob rock 'n' rolled through summers of cricket and winters of rugby league. We won, lost, kicked and fought all with the backdrop of an elementary education. I don’t remember any sixth grade lessons but I can certainly recall standing waiting for a shower after training one evening when an older boy surprisingly enquired if I had a sleeping bag. When I answered in the affirmative he punched me right in the Jatz Crackers laughing ‘well wake the bloody thing up’.

    By the time U16’s Presentation Night came around, my presence was mandatory on stage, whether or not I had performed well enough on-field to earn a trophy. Of course I wasn’t alone. I had my soul brothers Richard ‘Pubes’ Hare and Lee ‘Mediterranean Descendant’ Wong. Together our risqué trio had perfected a unique rendition of the Beach Boys classic Barbara Ann. We would stand on stage flapping our arms enthusiastically until our sweaty armpits produced the requisite tune in the dulcet, but unmistakable, tones of simulated flatulence.

    I evolved over time into the ‘gross-est with the most-est’ … bulletproof and the instigator of such scurrilous behavior as the irreverent interpretation of our club war cry “ratsh1t, ratsh1t, dirty old cokk – forty-nine arseholes tied in a knot”. If I wasn’t regurgitating mountains of potato cakes in centerfield after a night of cheap plonk or fart-lighting then I was regaling mere mortals with grossly exaggerated fantasies of ‘doing’ whichever local girl may have looked vaguely in my direction.

    Coming of age had brought alcohol into the equation in ever-increasing buckets of Dutch courage. Predictably lost now, along with a veritable cascade of brain cells, are many of the riotous stunts pulled on my drunken comatose team mates. Smidgeons of those recollections still tweak my psyche as I reminisce over how I navigated the transition from school to club, from adolescence to adult hood.

    Like a kaleidoscope of fractured images, my rugby league career took on a crash-tackling life of its own, fuelled by the drink, adreneline, too much free time and no boundaries. The contracts, the pre-season training, the games, the excesses, the high-life, all seemed to morph into one... and of course the parties. It was all there for the taking and I held centre stage.

    Off-field practices were also intense with head-butting competitions and cross-dressing often degenerating into more sinister activities. My mastery of on-tour behind-closed-doors games such as my infamous ‘ball bag solo’ and the puerile ‘soggy Sao’ gave me a legendary persona. This was somewhat dented when my ex-wife responded to one of my back-slapping mates claims that I never got to sample the ‘biscuit’ with “that’s no surprise to me”.

    More games, more parties, more shooters, more bravado, less care. Pride can take many forms and mine manifested itself in the amount of scar-tissue on display whenever some wag pulled my pants down. There for all to see were the ‘trophies’ of being the undefeated champion of the Dance of the Flaming Arseholes earned the hard way; clamping rolls of burning newspaper between my butt cheeks longer than any challenger.

    Others worried about tomorrow but not me. I was exactly where I wanted to be… stuck in a childhood from which I never wanted to escape. My friends grew older. Their numbers at parties thinned as they married and drifted off. But not I, the veritable Peter Pan of rugby league, because there was always a new cohort of gullible acolytes to feed my insatiable ego… that was until it all came crashing down, courtesy of some peanut butter, a rough-tongued Labrador, several traitorous team mates and a compromising photograph (click here).

    ########
     
    Last edited: Nov 20, 2010
  6. murphyscreek

    murphyscreek Coach

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    [​IMG]
    ________________________________________________________________

    Tom Raudonikis

    Phew…it’s hot outside. Tommy and I have just come back inside after taking a leisurely stroll about my modest bushland property. The late spring Queensland sun has already got a sting to it, a forewarning of a long hot summer ahead. Tom had not been at ease during our walk, making his displeasure obvious at being exposed to the array of potential dangers that may emerge suddenly from the Queensland scrub, such as snakes and large lizards.

    As I type this, Tom is looking over my shoulder, watching my fingers move across the keyboard. Or to be more accurate, he is sitting on my shoulder. Thank goodness he’s only small and is no burden. I just wish he would get off me and go somewhere else when he needs to open his bowels. I am running out of clean shirts.

    Tom Raudonikis is a baby magpie that I found forlorn and flightless on the ground three weeks ago whilst out and about on the ride-on mower, the victim of a wild and wet storm the night before. I am now his foster parent, no small undertaking given his demanding feeding schedule and undisciplined toileting habits.

    During the past three weeks, I’ve watched as Tommy has taken his first few tentative flights from shoulder to computer desk. And marvelled at his rapid progress as he can now negotiate in a single flight; two rooms, three doorways, and the stairs in search of his food source (me). He has made me so proud.

    I say “he”, but the reality is Tommy could be a “Tammy”. I have no way of knowing and to be honest have no desire to examine him (her? it?) more closely. We foster parents have to be careful about such things, lest allegations are made and the next thing you know you’ve got DOCS, or the RSPCA, poking about where they’re not wanted. Up here in Queensland we have much stricter laws about inappropriate behaviours with fauna than some other places, such as the ACT (for example).

    But for now I’ll keep calling him a “him”. And the name “Tom Raudonikis” seems to fit his character perfectly. And not just for the obvious reason. Just like the real one, my Tommy is cheeky and mischievous. But he is also a tough little bugger, and appears to have suffered no physical ill-effects from his premature eviction from his nest, some fifty or more metres high. I’m not sure about any psychological damage, we tend not to talk about it as yet. It certainly hasn’t affected his appetite, and failure to feed him on demand results in him instantly transmogrifying into a perfect imitation of one of the more rapacious avians from Alfred Hitchcock’s “The Birds”.

    And also like the real Tommy he enjoys a good joke. Yesterday, I was out in the garden when I heard the phone ring. I raced inside to find it was only Tom on the kitchen bench beside the phone loudly performing the perfect imitation of a Telstra phone ringing. To add insult to injury, upon seeing me he stopped the ringing noise and began to repeatedly wolf whistle, which admittedly I had been trying to teach him to do. But I had no idea he had mastered it until that moment.

    For now he has tired from his intense staring at my typing, and has made himself more comfortable by squatting down to schmooze upon my shoulder. He leans his beak towards my face and tugs gently upon a single strand of my beard as if to get my attention, then commences to warble away in that special throaty tone that only magpies can engender. The quintessential Australian. And he does it quietly, a conspiratorial monologue for my ears only. Like a larrikin at the bar, that has something he wants you to hear, but not the whole pub.

    I close my eyes and imagine he’s telling me a couple of ‘off the record’ stories from the 1973 Kangaroo Tour. Or what he thought about Roy and getting his face slapped to get into the mood. Or why he really became a Jet. Or perhaps he’s just reliving the horror of that night three weeks ago when his world was blown apart by that raging storm, warbling a melodic tune of gratitude, praising the wonders of food and shelter.

    The content doesn’t really matter in the long run. When Tommy talks it’s beautiful music, to be listened to…and cherished.



    _______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

    748 words (OWC)
     
    Last edited: Nov 20, 2010
  7. rayroxon

    rayroxon Juniors

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    Double post.
     
    Last edited: Nov 20, 2010
  8. rayroxon

    rayroxon Juniors

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    Rayroxon for NZ.

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    Victim

    It had just been a bit of light hearted fun – how could she know it would end up like this?

    Since the story broke, the media had been in a frenzy. It was on the news, in emails and even on social networking; it was literally impossible to avoid. Everywhere she looked there was coverage of the story, always from his angle and always with the same words: shamed, disgraced, revolting.

    What about her side? No one seemed to care and all she could do about it was bow her head and howl in frustration. No one seemed to notice that it was her shame too. She would be stuck with the looks, the whispers and the name calling just as much as he would. The only difference was she didn't have the opportunity to leave the country and start again. It wasn't fair and even to think of that Mad Monday made her sick to her stomach.

    It had started off so innocently. She was on her morning walk when one of the boys approached her. He was overly friendly and was very hands on, but all the boys had been like that with her since the start. Maybe she had led them on?

    She'd known him for a while and when he mentioned the prospect of a couple of drinks back at his place, her ears pricked up. She didn't have anything else planned that day and was looking forward to going back to the unit to celebrate. It had been a successful season and they were within their rights to party.

    When she turned up, they didn't really notice her. They were all there talking and drinking and clowning around. She was shy at first and being a bit of a wallflower, she made a bee-line for the corner, turned around a couple of times and settled in to watch. As she looked on, she couldn't help but notice a piercing gaze from one of the group. He was tall, lean and had a mop of curly red hair. He seemed to be muttering something under his breath and was slightly intoxicated. He motioned towards her and then gave a piercing whistle and she sauntered over to his call.

    He was friendly and, if anything, a little too over familiar as he got a bit too hands on and roughed her up.

    "Easy there, mate."

    "Don't worry, she loves it. Look at her"

    And she did love it. She loved the attention, the affection, being the centre of it all.

    They continued talking but she couldn't make too much sense of it at the time.

    *****

    "Where did she come from?"

    "Umm, she's Campo's I think..."

    "Where is he right now?"

    "At the bottlo getting a couple of slabs."

    "Call him and tell him to get me a breezer."

    "If you want a breezer, you'll call him yourself, Tilsy."

    "Ha, no worries. I'll call him now."

    "I can hear his phone ringing here. He's left it behind."

    "What a goose. Hey, you know what would be piss funny? Joel, stay there for a second, would ya mate? Get the peanut butter out. Sweet, stay there. Sit! Perfect. This will be a classic!"

    *****

    Something had changed. They'd all gathered around. The redhead was copping it from the rest of the guys and it didn't seem like it was good natured anymore. She started to feel scared. One of the boys handed him a jar and he pushed it away at first. They got insistent and so he relented and took it. She started to back away but one of the boys grabbed her from behind and she couldn't get away. She started to yelp which just fuelled their laughter. She looked up at the redhead and he had removed his pants. He beckoned her to move forward, and as he held her head, she closed her eyes. Her last memory of the night was the taste of peanut butter, the sound of camera shutters and the feeling of self remorse.

    *****

    That was a year ago. Nowadays, she spends her time pawing through rubbish and getting the occasional meatball from the local Italian restaurant.

    She had it all: a loving family, a healthy litter to care for, and she was a prize winner at the Easter show. How quickly it's all forgotten as soon as you suck a footballer’s...

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    732 words between the ~'s
     
    Last edited: Nov 20, 2010
  9. madunit

    madunit Super Moderator Staff Member

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    madunit for the Kiwi's

    Tony

    Saturday, May 15, 1993.

    I was just 13.

    My 14 year old mate Tony and I, were called up to play in the 16's footy team. Tony was a strong running centre and I was usually his speedier centre partner. On this day though, I was five-eighth.

    We were excited all week leading up to the game. Tony and I had never played in 16's before and we felt like we were about to play for Australia alongside Ricky Stuart and Mal Meninga. Tony was jumping around like a kid who had ADHD and had forgotten to take his medication.

    Finally, game day arrived. Tony and I had the same pre-game rituals. We'd go for a slow jog to warm up and settle the nerves, take a gasp on our inhalers before sitting down and listening to the coach's final instructions.

    Once the coach finished his talk, we all stood up, jogging on the spot, pacing, focused, nervous, excited and impatient.

    The referee knocked on our door and with his booming authoritative voice said:“Time boys, let’s go.”

    Tony and I looked at each other, gave a small smile that said “I got your back mate, no matter what happens,” put in our mouth guards and made our way out onto the ground.

    We were greeted on the field by the miserly mountain weather; bitterly cold, windy and persistent fine misty rain. As the wind picked up, the rain attacked our skin like tiny little pins.

    We kicked off and straight away the opposition ran straight at Tony. Tony stood his ground and tackled with great vigor as he always did. The next run was right at me. I braced myself to make the tackle until I felt a horrible pain across my nose as a forearm hit me square in the face. Tony came in to help complete the tackle as I hit the deck clutching my nose.

    I got to my feet a little worse for wear, but regained my bearings and was able to play on.

    After 25 minutes we had let in two tries and failed to score. The rain had started to fall more heavily and as the match wore on our hands began abandoning us as we struggled to control the ball.

    With halftime just seconds away, I received the ball on the fourth tackle, dummied left, saw a gap and ran through it, then passed back on the inside to Tony, who ran 60 metres to score under the posts. I converted the try and at halftime we trailed by 4 points.

    Tony was pretty pumped after scoring his try. As we walked to the sheds he sneezed, and I laughed because he had nothing to wipe his nose with.

    In the sheds at halftime the coach was optimistic. As he was mentioning a few key plays, Tony gave a cough. As he reached for his water bottle the coach looked at him and jokingly said: “Now’s not the time to choke, Tony.”

    We all had a laugh and headed back out for the second half.

    The game was a dour, clumsy affair in the second half, but with just 15 minutes to go, our fullback intercepted a stray pass and ran 90 metres, with Tony and I close behind in support. He dummied to Tony and stepped the fullback easily to score. I fell to the ground exhausted. After a minute, I picked myself up and looked to my right where I thought Tony was.

    He wasn’t there.

    Then I saw him, briefly at first, flat on his back. Initially I thought he had been hit. I ran over to him.

    The closer I got, the more I began to panic.

    The more I began to realise this was bad.

    The faster I began to run.

    He was gasping, wheezing for oxygen.

    I immediately knew he was having an asthma attack.

    I screamed out for help.

    The first aid officer was at the other end of the ground attending to another player, but looked up and came running.

    I immediately ran for the change rooms in a mad frantic hunt for Tony's inhaler. I was panicking. I lost all self control and rationale and was shaking uncontrollably as I rummaged through every bag I could find. I eventually found his inhaler and rushed back onto the ground, only to see two men carrying Tony on a stretcher towards an ambulance.

    He would have turned 32 this week.


    746 words, including title
     
  10. Willow

    Willow Administrator

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    Willow | Kumuls
    [​IMG]


    The Plague of Voyeurism

    "Do you begin to see, then, what kind of world we are creating?"

    In 1949, George Orwell wrote 1984 - a warning about future society where 'Thought Police' could spy on us. A man of his time, Orwell was understandably fearful. But even he, in his most paranoid moments, could not envisage the true source and extent of intervention into our private lives.

    Recent news of Joel Monaghan's liaison with a dog shocked quite a few people. The Canberra Raiders centre was caught in a compromising position with a family pet, looked like a Staffy. Monaghan was drunk, lying on a dining-room floor with his pants down and a dog's head in one hand. That's about as graphic as I'll get.

    Apparently, a joke gone wrong and part of some drunk 'Mad Monday' prank with team mates. Now I've done some pretty silly things in my time but this is one dare I couldn't imagine taking up. There is not enough beer in the world to get me that pissed.

    But this is not about what you or I would have done. Our boundaries are not universal, so I am not judging Monaghan - I'm sure he's doing enough of that without my help.

    I'm more curious about this world where private images can be leaked en-masse.

    "There was of course no way of knowing whether you were being watched at any given moment. How often, or on what system, the Thought Police plugged in on any individual..."

    The picture was posted on Twitter, it went viral and into the mainstream. Within days it was confirmed. Described as "a moment of madness", Monaghan was full of remorse and shattered. The 28-year-old's career in Australia is in ruins, as is his reputation. His public apology - where he was heard to mutter under his breath "this is torture" - was gut wrenching. It was heavy stuff. At that point, the punishment dished out had well outdone the crime committed.

    Compare this to an incident in 1999 when rugby union international Phil Kearns 'reportedly' got his wife to video him naked. According an article written in 2003 in the UK Telegraph, a dog entered the frame and made tracks for the Kearns family jewels. This alleged glorious moment was sent to Wallaby team mates by video hook-up, and Kearns and his wife were allegedly sober as well.

    ACT Brumbies and Wallaby forward Jim Williams recalled the details while being interviewed by former England international Paul Ackford.

    "We found out afterwards that Phil had rubbed jam or honey into his groin to get his dog to do that on cue." Williams said.

    Ackford concluded with, "There's nowhere to go after that."

    The seven-year-old article has recently been removed, by some coincidence. When published, it didn't gain any momentum. I suspect plenty of people preferred it that way. But in 2010 we find a rugby league player being dragged over hot coals for a similar joke.

    I might add that I have no idea if the Kearns allegations are true. They were made by someone else, not me. The real issue for mine is why a published piece on the Wallaby legend back in 2003 barely raised an eyebrow, but in 2010 the world turns upside down for some NRL first grader.

    What has happened over the last seven years to make people so quick to judge?

    Perhaps the answer is in the palms of our hands. We can now transmit images to the world in a matter of seconds. Once upon a time they were just mobile phones, but now every second person is a potential spy.

    At least we can still make a phone call.

    The Monaghan episode raises the question of privacy. This dog act was done in someone's home. It wasn't a public event and Joel probably never thought anyone outside of the room would see it, as dumb as that sounds.

    The fact is, people are natural voyeurs. When given a choice between watching an educational docco or some footage of a drunken celebrity dropping his/her dacks, most people claim to choose the educational program. But they would also sneak a peek at the saucy stuff when no one else is looking. The urge to perve is strong.

    1984 is even more disturbing than Orwell imagined. Some may never forgive Monaghan, but they're missing the bigger picture, so to speak.

    It is not the State that is spying on us, it is us. We are the Thought Police.

    | 750 words |

    Ref:
    http://www.telegraph.co.uk/sport/columnists/paulackford/2400013/Mr-Big-is-really-Munsters-nice-guy.html (since deleted by the RU Thought Police)
    More here: http://www.couriermail.com.au/sport/nrl/court-of-public-opinion-goes-viral/story-e6frepbf-1225953390661
    1984: http://www.alternativereel.com/includes/top-ten/display_review.php?id=00085
    Isaac Asimov's sci-fi classic, The Dead Past (1956)
     
  11. Titanic

    Titanic First Grade

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    [​IMG]

    I've always wanted to do this ... good luck to both teams, both referees and both fans reading.
     
  12. madunit

    madunit Super Moderator Staff Member

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    that's a rogue clock!

    Good luck everyone!

    Carn Kiwis!
     
  13. LeagueNut

    LeagueNut First Grade

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    :sarcasm:
     
  14. Jesbass

    Jesbass First Grade

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    Ha...what's with fulltime being shifted? :lol:

    3v3 - a great contest, and worthy of a final. Good luck, one and all! Over to you, ref(s)! :thumn
     
  15. Titanic

    Titanic First Grade

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    Somebody changed the original thread? Old habits die hard? My biggy?
     
  16. Willow

    Willow Administrator

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    That's a mistake. I'm getting too old for this multi-tasking stuff. Everywhere else it says Saturday.
     
  17. The Front Row

    The Front Row Administrator Staff Member

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    RESULTS
    (Sent separately by Private Message)




    Summary:

    gorilla
    NZ Kiwis 271
    PNG Kumuls 269
    POTM: Jesbass (Kiwis) [92]; Titanic (Kumuls) [92]

    Non Terminator
    NZ Kiwis 271
    PNG Kumuls 267
    POTM: Jesbass (Kiwis) [93]

    TOTAL:

    Kiwis 542 def Kumuls 536
    POTM: Jesbass (Kiwis)

    CONGRATULATIONS KIWIS!
    2010 Forum Sevens Four Nations Champions.

    TFR congratulates and thanks both referees, captains and all players for their participation.
     
  18. Titanic

    Titanic First Grade

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    I blew full-time a full day early so there should be a re-match ... lol ... wouldn't have made the slightest difference.

    Congrats Kiwi Fruits, you had our number all competition, especially the Juicy one, onya bro.

    The two ref system was a success imho and thanks to both of you for just being youse.

    To my wantoks ... thanks for your contributions ... everybody had a go, everybody will be much better off for their efforts ... except me who is going out the back to fall on my pen :) enjoy the off-season and see you all round like a rissole :)
     
    Last edited: Nov 21, 2010
  19. madunit

    madunit Super Moderator Staff Member

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    Congrats Kiwi's on a great perfromance in this comp. We pulled out the big guns every match, which is exactly what we needed to do against this all star Kumula side.

    To the Kumula, thanks again for another nailbiting competition. We've squared the ledger now. Our next battle will again be epic!

    Thanks to both refs for your quick marking, not just for this match but for the entire comp.
     
  20. murphyscreek

    murphyscreek Coach

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    My heartiest congratulations to the Kiwis. Too bloody good on the day.

    Thanks to the Kumuls for the opportunity to play in the reps and now mi bai go kisim tru spak.
     

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