GRAND FINAL (2004): SHARKS v BLUEBAGS

[Anonymous]

The Backpacker Memorial Shield
2004 FORUM SEVENS GRAND FINAL!
Cronulla Sharks vs Newtown Bluebags

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

Full Time: Wednesday 6th October, 2004. 9:00PM AEST (Sydney time)

Venue: The Front Row Stadium

Crowd: TBA
REFEREE: antonius

 

[Anonymous]

Cronulla's team for the big one...

El Garbo (co-captain)
El Coconuto (co-captain)
Tamazoid
Genius Freak
Salmon

Bench:
madunit
Mr Angry

 

[Anonymous]

El Garbo (Captain Dread) takes the first run of the grand final for the mighty Cronulla Sharks.

---

The End

At about this stage of the season, without fail, we hear a familiar catch-cry.

“The season is too long,” moan the players, carrying on like a pack of howler-monkeys gibbering in unison about their aching bodies.

It inevitably results in a slew of players pulling out from the end of season rep games while I work myself up into a ball of crackling rage. ‘These lads should have a crack at the workforce, to see how hard it is for the rest of us,’ I inevitably think to myself.

And despite all the moaning and gibbering, nothing ever happens. The season remains a sprawling beast of twenty six rounds, players continue to pull out of the rep games, and I keep getting all worked up.

Except this year.

This year, you won’t hear a peep from me. Why not? Because I, too, have tasted the aching pain of player burnout.

My muscles don’t ache. My bones aren’t brittle and my joints don’t make noises more suited to a bowl of breakfast cereal as I walk down the street. For that, I’m very thankful.

‘So if this poor codger isn’t in physical pain, what in heck’s name is he whining about?’ you might be asking.

My mind is weary.

It’s the Forum Sevens, I have no doubts. A wonderful game, I’m sure you’d agree, but beneath the cheerful exterior lays a vampiric seductress, capable of sucking away creative abilities, leaving your brain a barren, empty canvas. Some people attack the lurking monster with gusto, embracing it and fighting through it to reach some hidden creative utopia.

I’m not one of these players.

That this game has not only succeeded, but thrived, almost defies logic. Forum Sevens is a concept that walks a hideously fine tightrope above the idea of school homework – after all, the very premise revolves around essay writing, word limits and deadlines. A central institution marks it; players are rewarded for scoring well, and punished for missing deadlines. The only distinction – the topic.

And yet, despite this, the game has taken root and flourished. We can obviously thank the tribe of administrators, referees and players for tending this fragile seedling until it became a self-sufficient, all-encompassing vine but that would be to overlook another extremely important reason for the game’s success: basic human emotion.

I’d hate to sound clichéd but I fear it is true. The game works because of pride, because of friendship, because of a sense of responsibility. We take joy from the victories and are pained by the losses. I felt a shiver of excitement scamper down my spine as I read that Cronulla had somehow won our way through to the Grand Final.

That we started the season off as a rabble made the victory that much more thrilling. We could barely fill our starting line up and had troubles with players not bothering to show.

But somewhere along the way, this motley little bunch of scallywags turned into a team.

A real team.

Heck, we even built friendships around the game. A rare meeting at Toyota Park brought six of the team’s eight players together for the first time.

Somehow, a game built around the basic process of essay writing had brought these six complete strangers together, creating bonds that instantly bridged whatever differences we might have had. We even accepted a Tigers fan (well… half-Tiger, half-Shark) into the circle.

And all because we all found ourselves lumped together in a bizarre little game called the Forum Sevens.

About now, you’re probably wondering what relevance any of this sentimental hoo-hah has to do with player burnout.

If it wasn’t for these young lads, constantly raising the bar with their efforts, I daresay I wouldn’t have lasted this long. Yes – at times they managed to turn a few hairs grey on this poor Cronulla co-captain, but they also provided their fair share of extraordinary moments too.

So, win or lose in this grand final, I’m proud to have played alongside each and every one of you.

And now, to announce another casualty of player burnout.

I am retiring from representative Forum Sevens. There will be no Tri-Series action for me.

This howler-monkey can gibber no longer. Each game it becomes more difficult to scrape up ideas from the slowly crumbling canvas in my mind.

And so with that, I announce my retirement from the Cronulla Sharks and Forum Sevens.

I’ll be back next season… as a referee.

Good luck Sharks and Bluebags! Adios!

---
Word count: 750 including title.

 

[SirShire]

This is Salmon running out for the Sharks

*****

Meat, Mates & Football

Ask any Australian male what he considers the single most important day of the year, and I’ll guarantee you that he’ll say Grand Final day. And what a day it is. Nothing else can make me nervous, disheartened and jubilant all at the same time. I’m sure that most of us have a vague idea of what the day means for players, but amidst the snags, the sun and the Tooheys, just what did Grand Final day mean to 20 average Australians last October third? Just what did grand final day mean to us all?

I awaken at 3:00PM to the ringtone of my phone. I answer in my zombie state “Yeah?”

“Get here now!” exclaims Steve, the host of our Grand Final barbeque.

I drag myself out of bed and jump in the shower. The hot water on my face wakes me in a way that no mobile phone could ever do. I dry off and throw on some clothes. I’m ready.

I grab a slab of beer and start walking to Steve’s. As I wander down his street, I absorb the sights, smells and sounds of grand final day. A Steeden gliding through the sky, the aroma of steak cooking, and the unmistakable hiss of a beer being opened. I arrive at Steve’s and ring the doorbell.

“G’Day mate,” Steve exclaims as he opens the door. I hear the noises of a crowd cheering, and then I see it. How could I have missed it? The most important ingredient of the day. A 120cm television, showing the Premier League grand final. Canberra vs. Cougars. I take a beer and sit down to watch the game. As the minutes dwindle towards kickoff, the last of the boys flock to the TV. The Premier League match ends with Canberra thumping St. Mary’s. Perhaps a sign of things to come for Penrith?

The crowd at the game is energized. The atmosphere frenzied. It’s a veritable sea of Panthers and Roosters jerseys. Flags are flying. The crowd cheers as the Hoodoo Gurus pump out “That’s My Team” one final time before kick off. Anticipation is the general mood at the barbeque, as we have another beer. The players seem tense in their dressing rooms, as they prepare to run out onto the field.

After what seems like an eternity, the Panthers, followed by the Roosters, charge out of the tunnel and onto the field. They are surrounded by 80000 screaming fans, and are being watched by millions more on television.

We erupt as the game starts. The ball flies to Joel Clinton, who throws himself into the iron wall of Roosters. After 30 minutes of play, the deadlock is broken. We cheer as Luke Rooney scores the first try of the match after a beautiful break from Luke Priddis. Ryan Girdler skillfully slams the ball between the uprights, taking the lead to 6-0. Surely the floodgates will now open for the Panthers. Shortly after the halftime break however, Rooster Shannon Hegarty crosses for a try after a tremendous attacking raid led by Adrian Morley. Fitzgibbon converts to level the scores.

Then, in the 54th minute, we witness the unbelievable. My heart stops as Todd Byrne makes a break down the flank, on the way to scoring the try that will give the Roosters the lead. Scott Sattler pursues Byrne at lighting speed and drills him into touch, pulling off one of the all-time great tackles, and saving a certain try. Our spirits sink as Ryan Girdler hobbles from the field. But this is short lived, as Priddis crosses the line to score the Panthers' second try. Preston Campbell converts, giving the Panthers a six point lead. We erupt again. The Panthers are brimming with confidence, the Roosters are looking dismal. The final blow for the Roosters comes in the 73rd minute, when Priddis sends Rooney over for the second time, sealing victory for the underdogs. Minutes later, the siren sounds. The mood at both the game and at the barbeque is jovial as the Panthers celebrate their 18-6 victory in what will go down as one of the greatest grand finals ever. We cheer as Priddis kisses his Churchill Medal, and as the Premiers hold aloft the trophy.

This is grand final day. Enjoying the company of your mates over a barbeque. Seeing the emotions of the players and fans flow. Experiencing the highs and lows of premiership footy. This is what grand final day means to me.

*****

Word count: 750 words, including title.

good luck to both teams.

 

[Genius Freak]

Genius Freak joins the fray, leading with both elbows up.

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Eternal Sunshine Of The Sharkless Mind

Dear Friend,
Chris Chong has had the Cronulla Sharks erased from his memory. Please never mention their existence to him again.

Well I guess I should explain the note you’re holding. You were never supposed to see that. I was never supposed to see that. I was never supposed to know such a note existed. But now that you know, and I know, I’d better explain, and explain fast... before you think I’m a weirdo. Here’s the thing, you see a few weeks ago I decided that enough was enough. I decided that it was just too painful. I decided to have my favourite team in the entire world, often my single reason for getting up in the morning, erased from my memory for good.

It wasn’t that I didn’t love my team, and it wasn’t that I didn’t want to continue to support them, but in the end it just became all too excruciating. There was the whole Anderson thing, and then we lost lots of players I really liked, and we just kept losing and losing and losing. Oh, and then just when things looked like they might be getting better, Phil Gould picked Brett Kimmorley for the Origin squad and deliberately injured him so Brett Finch could win the Dally M. And then we lost some more. In the end it all got too hard, so I decided to have the entire team erased from my memory.

Now not many people know this, but there’s an operation you can have that can erase things from your memory that you would rather forget. It’s slowly growing in popularity, and lots of people use it to forget their ex-girlfriends, or bad experiences during wars or blind dates. As far as I know though, I’m the first person to ever use this new technology to forget an entire sporting team.

“Are you sure you want to go through with this?” asked the neurosurgeon. “It’s one thing to have a single person who you’ll probably never see again erased from your memory, but it’s another thing entirely to try and forget about an entire sporting franchise.”

“I’m sure,” I said.

“OK then. Go home and gather up everything that reminds you of the Sharks, and then bring it back to me here so I can destroy it. Then we’ll proceed with your operation.”

So I went home and began to gather all my Sharks related memorabilia. I gathered up the jersey that Mat Rogers signed all those years ago outside Brookvale, back when I was young, and thought Mat Rogers was God himself. I remembered that I was surprised to realise that Mat Rogers was short. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I’d just assumed he was seven feet tall.

I gathered up the Sharks teddy bear that I bought for good luck the day Mat Rogers made his return from shoulder surgery, and remembered the emotion of that day when 22,000 screaming Sharks fans lifted the team to a thumping victory over Newcastle.

I gathered up the commemorative flags the club had given out on ET day, while thinking back to the first time it really hit me that ET would be leaving us. I recalled cursing the club for playing Time of Your Life by Green Day, and almost making me want to cry as I walked out of Toyota Park. I remembered that as the only day Tim Mander ever blatantly refereed in the Sharks favour.

I collected my video tape of Martin Lang scoring against the Bulldogs in the 2001 semi, and my tape of the Sharks 64-14 win over the Knights a year later. I thought back to the feeling I got the first time I was able to drive home from Newcastle happy. I decided to call the doctor and tell him I didn’t want the operation after all.

“But you can’t cancel now,” he said. “I’ve already mailed out the notes.”

“What notes?” I asked.

“The notes which tell your friends never to mention the team to you again.”

One of which you’re holding right now.

So do you think I did the right thing? Should I go on remembering all the past hurts dealt me by this team, just so I can remember the good times? So I can be a part of what could be a magical season 2005? Personally, I think the team deserves one more chance. Prove me right Sharks, prove me right.

--------------------------------------

Word Count: 750

Bibliograhpy: Kaufman, Charlie, and Michel Gondry, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Starring Jim Carrey and Kate Winslet. 2004.

 

[Anonymous]

Stand aside, we're coming through!
Sorry if we kept anyone waiting. The Mighty Bluebags bus broke down outside the Bat and Ball Hotel and we kind of got side tracked...
Thanks to the Sharks for getting play underway.
Good luck to both teams. :thumn
Let's roll!

Willow (c)

Gorilla (vc)

Moffo

MysteryGirl

Hass

Reserves:

Wal

Rex

 

[Moffo]

Slightly jagged Moffo up for the bags!

Why rugby league is so susceptible to controversy…


At a time when we are all thinking happy thoughts, I do believe it is time to review a few poignant statistics. In a year when the National Rugby League (NRL) was embroiled indirectly in a rape case, saw a player retire due to cocaine abuse and involved in the middle of much publicity due to crowd violence, the organization still managed to set records in terms of overall attendance and TV ratings.

Why?

Is any publicity good publicity? I say no.

Were families turned off by off-field indiscretions in 2004? Most definitely.

Would league be much better off without it? For sure.

Fact is, most involved in the NRL have become immune to stories such as those seen in 2004. However, if we could somehow weed out these indiscretions, one can only imagine the brightness that is on offer for 2005 and beyond.

As a consequence, one must ask the question, why does the NRL appear to permanently have a gun aimed at their collective feet? As much as it pains me to say, many a horror novel could be written about our sport. One could even dare to ask, has ANY other sport in the world been through as much shenanigans in the past ten years as the NRL has? Once again, I say no. It reads like a who’s who of stupidity…How could we ever forget the following classic moments?

- Poo in the shoe in Dubbo.
- Hoppa fingers in the bottom.
- Casino Urination.
- A two year war that ended up in the highest court in Australia.
- A riot at a game and other crowd violence that would make Millwall (violent 1st division English soccer team) games seem tame.
- Terry Lamb kicking a field goal when the Dogs were two behind (memoriesssss).

Reality is that the NRL is a magnet. A magnet for all that is uncouth and undesirable. To be frank and honest, as I look at the above, I cannot help but laugh. The game has quite simply provided an avenue for some of the stupidest and drunkest people in Australia to show what they’ve got. And to be fair, they sure provide the game with some interesting topics to discuss.

However, to address the question, I believe it has much to do with the working class history of the great game. Rugby League was a game always played by the lower classes, those who struggled to get by but lived for the footy game on the weekend. Many rugby league players come from the gutter. And whilst that is a testament to our game and how it is able to turn around so many seemingly ‘lost souls’, it also attracts those who never seem to quite learn. Everyone is entitled to err; a faultless soul is a rare thing in these modern times. However, multiple errs is where the rugby league player excels.

Who could forget Hoppa; he has literally done it all. Julian O’Neill has shown the world his exhibitionist qualities with the classic poo in the shoe and the slash whilst on the lash in the casino. Others such as Mundine and Andrew Walker are/were walking headlines.

And whilst rugby league will continue to churn out the Sonny Bill’s and Benji’s, the code will also continue to produce an amazing amount of drama. Some good, some bad. For mine, it is a true reflection of the larrikin nature of the game. I completely understand the damage that these incidents cause the great game. To make light of some of the above indiscretions is quite simply, wrong. However, league seems to be trapped in an inescapable circle of woe. The so called larrikin nature of the game is a double edged sword (apologies for the cliché). It is both the thing that draws so many of us and makes us cringe at the same time.

Intense media scrutiny of the modern day game is also to blame for much of the controversy. Who knows what Dally Messenger got up to in 1911? Perhaps old Dally used to take a liking to running down George Street in the nuddy in his spare hours. We’ll never know.

Why?

The world was a different place in those times. Pure and simple.

So next time you see a controversy in our great game, don’t get too down about it. It’s nothing new. Regrettable, but nothing that we haven’t seen before.

746 words

 

[gorilla]

Also in his last match :twisted: , (another referee-wannabe).

Gorilla offers his respect to the Aboriginal people, and tells this story as a mark of honour for the hundreds of Aboriginal players who have given so much to rugby league. Gorilla’s last match is dedicated to all those koori players who have provided so much entertainment and enjoyment for us, and in particular, one player I've always remembered.

*******************************************************
The King of Redfern

Every season there’s a couple of rising stars who burn bright in their first few games or season, who the media compare with the stars of the past. A young player might be called ‘the next Meninga or Johns’. In years to come they’ll talk about ‘the next Fittler or Lockyer’. Sometimes these players achieve that mantle, sometimes they burn and crash. The game is littered with players who never fulfilled the media’s expectations when they were bright and shiny and full of promise.

In 1975 Australia was a fast moving and changing place – young women were topless on page three of the afternoon papers, ‘R’ rated softcore porn movies dominated the cinemas, the Whitlam government was in bad trouble and soon to be dismissed, and the mighty South Sydney Rabbitohs hit an all time low.

The Rabbitohs won the ‘wooden spoon’ for the first time in 30 years, winning just 6 out of 22 games. Their mighty pack with four or five internationals was humbled week after week. One of South’s all-time greats: Clive Churchill – the ‘Little Master’ (after whom the Grand Final Best and Fairest award is named) was their coach, sacked and replaced by player-coach Bob McCarthy. Souths started the season full of promise, but somewhere, somehow, during the season the wheels fell off. Game after game was lost and injuries mounted.

The club was in turmoil. The club promoted two Aboriginal players – a 22 year old 5/8 called Andrew Donnelly (who had scored 500 points in two seasons) and a older player, Ambrose Morgan. Despite Donnelly’s obvious skills, it was Morgan, the big koori (Aboriginal) second-rower/prop whose star burned bright on debut.

Ambrose Morgan was about 6’ 1” and 16 stone - a big man even in today’s game. He was not a young man when he burst onto the scene with the Rabbitohs. Souths had graded him in third grade six years earlier but he’d only played a few games, concentrating on the famous ‘Redfern All Blacks’ and trying to better his peoples’ lives around Redfern.

Morgan was captain and coach for the ‘All Blacks’, the players would wait and see if Ambrose was at training or even playing before committing themselves, such was the players’ respect for him. Morgan was known throughout the community, white and black, and was called the ‘King of Redfern’.

Ambrose had only played a few third and reserve grade games over the years, but he was called up against the mighty Eastern Suburbs in an Amco Cup semi-final at Tamworth. Morgan came on with Souths trailing 2-9, and although Souths eventually lost the match, Morgan cut up the opposition scoring a try and setting up another for his good mate Donnelly. Fast and big, with a step and uncanny ball skills, the afro-haired smiling giant Morgan suddenly stood astride the league world like a colossus.

Morgan was trumpeted as ‘the new Beetson’, high praise indeed after the match against Artie Beetson himself. Big Artie was then at his peak with Easts (stunning grand final winners over Saint George 36-0) and to give the dynamic prop this tag was a big call.

Ambrose had the world at his feet, a chance to both make it in the big time and help his people as well, but no-one could have guessed what was to happen next.

The Sunday papers, August 17, 1975 had the front page story. “LEAGUE STAR SLAIN: Redfern’s ‘king’ shot in nightclub”. Morgan supplemented his meagre league earnings with work as a painter, labourer and a nightclub bouncer. Morgan had told some men they couldn’t enter a club he was working at, caught them coming through a back door, there’d been a fight.

An hour and a quarter afterwards, while Morgan drank at the Kiwi Club in Sydney’s Quay St., a man in a cowboy-style poncho pulled out a sawn-off .22 rifle, shouted “Morgan!”, and shot Ambrose in the chest. As Morgan lay dying, the man backed away and escaped.

Ambrose Morgan, ‘King of Redfern’, a man held in awe by local Aborigines and respect by whites, was never to achieve all his league glory and honours. Morgan played just 18 matches, 3 in 1st grade, scoring 1 try. He didn’t underachieve and burn and crash, his time was brutally cut short.

As the local community and the South’s team struggled to come to grips with the tragedy, Donnelly played the next day scoring two tries, dedicating his game to the ‘King of Redfern’.

*******************************************
750 words between the *

References:
Gadigal Information Services Website
South Sydney Rabbitohs Official Website
The Sun Herald 17 August 1975 (NSW State Library collection)
The Sun and Daily Mirror, 10 July – 20 August 1975 (NSW State Library collection)

"Memories can last forever"

 

[MysteryGirl]

MysteryGirl proudly takes the field for the bags.....
_________________________________________________
The thrill of victory...The agony of defeat

Throughout the season we speculate how this final match will come together. Commentators fill our heads with statistics and predictions. We watch expectantly week after week as our teams put forth their best play on the field. We feel the disappointment in each loss, the anxiety with each player injury, the joy with every play that is perfectly executed.

As the season draws to a close, each victory is sweeter and each loss is harsher. We know that at the end of each game, we are one step closer to today.

Today is the Grand Final.

In just 80 short minutes, this game will be history. All the efforts for the season will be measured solely on the result of this match. All the worst moments of the year will vanish with this single win. All the joyous victories will fade with this single loss.

Everyone knows what is at stake. We watched the progression as week after week, leaders emerged among the competing teams. Who really is the very best? Who is above the scrutiny, the rumors, the hard knocks, the set backs, and the disappointments? Which team will be the hero and yet the heartbreaker?

The tension is in the air.

There is not a conversation to be had in the week prior to the Grand Final that excludes this match. Everyone is ready. They have a winner in their mind and are waiting to see their team fulfill all they have dreamed of.

It’s nearing game time. At the grounds, people are bustling. All are in high spirits. Hearts beat a bit more rapidly. People have an extra bounce in their step. This is it. The excitement of this moment is a magnification of all the wins of the season – combined into one.

The closer it is to game time, the louder the clamor of the crowd. The chatter and friendly ribbing of opposing fans is suddenly silenced by the first notes of Advance Australia Fair.

Why does it sound better on this day than any other? Why does the pride of our country tie so closely in with the love of sport? Today there is no place else I’d ever want to live, nor any place else I’d ever want to be. The Grand Final IS Rugby League.

The match is two 40-minute halves of pure energy. As the players breathlessly traverse the field, we in turn are out of breath as we run with them. Every pass, every kick, and every try – we are experiencing it as if we were on the field playing. For 80 minutes, we scarcely breathe as we watch and wait for the next score. We cringe, as the opposition is successful. We cheer as we answer back. We experience fear, relief, anticipation, anger, and joy in endless waves.

Then, as suddenly as it seemed to have begun, it’s all over.

The adrenaline that has been pumping at record levels for the last 80 minutes overcomes the crowd and the players. Those who support the winning team are screaming, running, and jumping. There are tears of joy and smiles accompanied by “high-fives” to fellow supporters. Players congratulate each other on being “number 1” as they hold their pointer fingers in the air as an indication of their status. They are experiencing the highest natural high. This is the culmination of an entire year. Never again will the moment be just like it is right now. Knowing this, people are fully basking in the wonder of it all.

However, within this same venue are people experiencing a gut wrenching low.

Just an hour and a half earlier they were convinced of their imminent victory. They were cheering at full volume when their team had their first try and were on the same emotional rollercoaster as the winning team. For them this low is not easily consoled. There is no “maybe next week” to look forward to. They had in their very grasp, the title of Grand Final Champions. Instead they were just the final hurdle, which the opposition needed to cross.

There are hollow echoes of “Good game!” being exchanged between fans and players alike. However, the gulf between them emotionally is nearly too wide to span. Yet the one thing that they have in common is that next season is just around the corner and the anticipation for opening game soon will be mounting.

As quickly as it began, this day became history.

_____________________________________________
749 words between the lines

 

[Hass]

* Hass * Newtown Bluebags *

********************************************************************

THE SLUMP

Picture this typical scene that springs up across the country at this time of year...

The captain of a park footy club is throwing an end of season BBQ at his place, and all the team (plus their acquaintances) have turned out in numbers. The Skipper takes it upon himself to read out some season stats before lunch: matches won, matches lost, matches drawn, tries scored, tries conceded- it's all fairly routine, until.....

"Special Mention must go to [insert your name here], our frontline goal-kicker, who has dazzled the crowds with returns of: 2 from 4 (not too bad), 1 from 3, 0 from 4, 1 from 4, none from five, none from six and none from seven".

You laugh it off, but deep down it is a blow to your pride (or in this particular crowd, more notably, your ego). While your ego may be hurt, everyone else's has been bolstered ten-fold.....

Firstly the team scorer, Billy, approaches you just as you had been making a move towards the esky containing some much needed tinnies (on that subject it looks like Billy has had a few cold ones himself). Billy, having never picked up a piece of pigskin in his life starts telling you that, "It's important to get behind the ball and line it up in the middle of the posts".

You resist the temptation to blurt out that you’ve already been doing this, but 'surprise surprise', it's not doing much for you. Unfortunately you're cornered. Billy has been talking with you (sorry, make that at you) for over twenty minutes now on an assortment of things to help you improve your game. From his Great-Granddad’s backyard battles, to the mathematical training system he has developed, you've heard it all. You don't have the heart to tell him that this conversation is really peeving you right off and decide you must plot an escape. You manage to interrupt Billy for a second and say "Excuse me, but I've got to go to the toilet".

The fact that this excuse is seriously flawed due to your inability to actually gain access to the esky containing the supposed liquid you need to excrete does not phase you. To look authentic, you do actually head for the dunny can. Upon your arrival you notice three women are already queuing outside the door waiting to relieve themselves. Faced with the prospect of having to talk to Billy again if you leave, you make the decision to wait in line.

This is a mistake.

The last woman in the queue is your Aunt Gilda (she's only at the BBQ because she donated $100 to the team for clothing funds). "The problem you have young man, is that you're not applying yourself. You've got to work harder if you want the rewards. Sometimes I think that people these days go into things without wanting to do the work". You think to yourself, "Hey get real, it's only park footy", then you immediately restrain yourself from saying it out loud. To say so would be blasphemous, you realise that it is no different to Test Football - this is the highest level of footy you've been able to reach and bugger it - you want to win!

Sure, park footy might have you frantically searching for a vortex that, if you’re lucky will swallow you up, but deep down you love it and must face your five team-mates waiting outside the toilet and listen to all the “expert” advice they can possibly bombard you with.

Right from "kicking left-footed, it'll make you concentrate harder", to, "it might be an idea to abstain from sex the night before. I’ve heard it works wonders". The cream of them all however being, "I think to get back on track you need to kick some goals and score some points” – ground-breaking stuff!

It is looking forlorn. Then, out of nowhere, you here a voice which truly does provide the answer to all your problems. Is it your original boyhood coach? No. Is it Master Coach Jack Gibson? No. Is it the voice of God? Well, not far away actually.

It is in fact the voice of Richie Benaud - chirping away on the television for the first time this year. Suddenly you realise that summer has arrived, cricket is here and you don’t need to worry about your goal-kicking for another six months!

Now if only you could get your hands on one of those tinnies!


- 749 words including title

********************************************************************

Cheers and good luck.

 

[Mr Rock!!!]

STREAKER!!!!

 

[Anonymous]

Tamazoid posted his article in the Last Minute Posts forum on the Locker Room - this site kept timing out for him - but for convenience sake I'll post it here on his behalf.

Tamazoid for Cronulla!!!

Growing up with footy

‘Mr and Mrs Charlton, it’s a boy! What will his name be?’

‘James, but we’ll call him Jack’

‘This father will make sure he grows up to be an avid Balmain fan too!’

‘Son, now you’re a big 6 year old, how about we go see your Tigers at Leichhardt Oval on Sunday afternoon?’

‘Yay! I can see my Tigers!’

Rugby league is part of Australian culture as our main winter sport. For the most part, you usually follow a team (and in my case I do) because mum or dad barracked for them too and indoctrinated you at an early age. Thus, in a way, you don’t choose your footy team, but rather, your footy team chooses you. From the early ages of childhood, when you went because it was ‘grown up’ to be allowed to the footy ground and you wanted to see your team’s mascot, be that Mark the Magpie, MC Hammerhead or someone in a big Bear suit, time progresses as you grow up. The game changes, the faces, the people, even the culture changes.

In the case of this little boy featured at the beginning of the story in the 1970s, he too, grows up. At school he gets bragging rights for a win on the weekend, after a loss, its his mates who take their turn. Once you watch rugby league, you just keep coming back because it is addictive; the world’s best drug I say. So after this little boy sees his first match at Leichardt Oval, he’ll return many times during his life cheer for his beloved Tigers.

This boy travels to North Sydney Oval, Endeavour Field, Pratten Park, Cumberland Oval, Brookvale, the Cricket Ground and all around Sydney to see his beloved Tigers. Every Sunday afternoon, Jack and his father hop on the bus and go to see the footy, whether it’s across town or in the next suburb.

By the time he is in his late teens and is on the verge of complete independence however, most of his favourite players from his early childhood days of cheering for his Tigers at Leichardt have retired. There’s a new breed of Tigers players out there on the field. The game has changed, too. Newtown is no longer in the competition. We have the first non Sydney teams, Illawarra and Canberra come into the competition. Expansion means this little boy, or rather, young adult, now travels a couple of extra hours to see his Tigers. But, nevertheless, from Penrith to Wollongong, every weekend it’s on the bus, or into the car to follow the Tigers around.

Then come more teams. Brisbane, Gold Coast and Newcastle all join the same year. So now the distances are greater, and there are interstate teams. Now, the average man can’t afford going to every game with the prohibitive cost of travelling the great distances interstate . This is the beginning of the television era.

More teams continue to pop up as the competition expands. Where once it was far enough travelling to Penrith, now there are games in Perth, Adelaide, Auckland, Townsville and Melbourne.

Super League was aberration. We’ve had the Hopoate-date-gate scandal, the Bulldogs salary cap rort and the 2003 Dally M cancellation, but there won’t be a greater scandal in footy history than Super League, unless someone reincarnates the hideous idea. Super League ultimately proved that the game was of the people, by the people for the people and nothing could take it away from them. This was an experience Jack would pass down to his sons and grandsons, but would (hopefully) never be experienced by supporters again.

Apart from this, the experiences of Jack will be more or less replicated in every one of his descendants. The cycle of life continues and the experience of ever changing rugby league continues.

For Jack, from little boy to grandfather, rugby league was his life. After all, it dominates Australian sporting culture. Like all fans, he experienced changes in the game’s dynamics. From semi-professionalism to true professionalism. From a Sydney competition to a national competition. Fitter, faster, stronger players. Sharper tactics constantly being developed by the coaches.

In the end however, the basic fundamentals of our experience of the game remains the same. The face of rugby league is ever changing.

Change isn’t necessarily for the better, but in the end you still can’t get enough rugby league.

‘Now grandson, let me tell you about the game when I was your age...’

Word Count: 750 Words


That's confirmed, just checked in there so it's all good. antonius

 

[El Coconuto]

With a heavy heart and the game hanging in the balance, El Coco raises up, kisses the crest on his jersey, and heads out for one, final, hurrah!

One 'Momo' In Time

I have a dream.

Many, many years from now -- I'm talking way down the road, like when Cronulla has finally won a premiership and Anthony Minichiello is the Vodafone pinup boy -- a young kid will recognise my face, tug me by my side and say "hey, aren't you that sports writing guy?"

Sure, it's a C-Grade dream that really lacks of fame and fortune, but you can't blame me for carrying such simple hopes. Sports journalists rarely attain fair credit. It takes a good start and a sizeable fan base to have a portrait accompany your articles in the papers.

But for that one moment in time, I'll know I made it.

There should be an easier way to define these moments that completely render people speechless, purely because they only happen every so often in life. We'll call them 'Momos' from now on (my new sluggish way of saying 'special moments').

I'm telling you this because last weekend I witnessed a 'Momo' - the completion of a young child's dream. Like mine, a simple dream.

Grand finals are complicated endeavours.

On the one hand, they're a thing of routine. Do what you've been doing all year, and you're likely to go okay. On the other hand they're games of the moment, the kind of things that are won by bizarre phases of luck and determination.

And yet through all this complicated mish-mash, one constant remains untouched: grand finals bring out the best in people.

I had just completed my regular training session early Saturday morning when I entered the change room the gymnasium provided. As I sat to contemplate my weekend ahead, I heard a meek, mild melody from behind an opposing divider.

"If you need to find a way back, feel you're on the wrong track. Give it time, Learn to Fly."

Confused, I sat in silence a little longer.

"Tomorrow is a new day; you will find your own way. You'll be stronger with each day that you cry, and then you'll learn to fly."

Identifying the Shannon Noll lyrics, I broke my silence...

"Is everything okay back there?" I politely asked.

For the space of two good minutes, deep thought-provoking silence graced the change room. The once near-mute droplets of leaking water from the showers now mirrored hail stones crashing to the Earth. The clattering of boot studs echoing from outside the cold, dark change room quickly reminisced firework explosions of New Years Eve proportions.

Eventually, a reply came...

"I sing it before every game" said the voice.

"Why is that?" I asked.

Again, deafening silence returned to the room.

"Because it reminds me of my Dad" echoed the long-delayed reply.

I knew exactly what that response met.

"Sorry" I chokingly replied through the divider before collecting my bag to leave the young voice that I had seemingly disturbed.

"My grand final is today, and coach said I'm going to play. If I'm lucky, I'll touch the ball. If I'm lucky, I'll score the final try. If I'm lucky, I'll learn to fly" said the voice.

Completely swept away, I slowly approached the once separating divider.

As I turned the corner, there on the bench sat a young nine-year old boy. As he turned to stare back at me, I noticed this boy was not like others. This young lad was born with a deformity; his arms failing to extend beyond his elbows.

I stood there, stunned, but cautious not to alert the boy to my surprise.

He soon picked himself up, and exited the change room.

I returned to the field adjacent the gymnasium that day, and saw the young boy standing on the sidelines, cheering on his team-mates with every breath he had. You wouldn't have known his team were losing 32-0.

With time running out, coach turned to him and said "Son, get out there!" Three plays later, he received the ball in his shortened arms.

Unafraid, he looked up and headed down field where the opposition had deliberately cleared the way for a run.

As the boy approached the try line, I glanced to the sidelines where the crowd chanted "Go Russell, Go!" Across the field, I noticed the opposition crowd similarly willing him on. As he crashed over the line, his team-mates embraced him in full swoop.

His dream had been realised and for that one 'Momo' in time, I was taken to a better place.

Rugby League truly is the greatest game on Earth.

Words: 750


And with that, my Forum Sevens career comes to an end...Ladies and gentlemen, it has been a pleasure

Much love,
El Coconuto.

 

[Anonymous]

Yee haaaa! It's been a great year everyone. Good luck one and all!

Willow runs on for the Mighty Bluebags.
**********************************************************

Match fixing in the 1960s

This is a true story.

I know it’s true because it was told to me in 1997 by a bloke I knew… we’ll call him Bruce McKenzie. His best stories were about his glory days when he played a handful of first grade matches in the 1960s. Bruce loved telling yarns and he was in fine form that afternoon.

The year was 1962 and Bruce’s mob was looking unbeatable. They were playing at home against a bunch of easy beats… a weary looking lot who were on hiding to nothing after driving all morning to get there.

Back then, before the days of online gambling, fans could bet on the game by buying tickets from one of the bookies wandering through the crowd. A popular wager was to pick the first try scorers. The prize depended on the outlay but usually, there were a few quid in the pool and enough to buy more than a couple cartons of beer. But as is usual, it’s easier to pick your nose than to pick a winner and the bookies almost always win.

It was before the kick off that the captains from both sides hatched a plan to beat the odds and the bookies, while at the same time scoring a few beers for everyone. They decided to go for a double and pick the first try scorer from both sides, calling in other senior players to let them in on the plan. They agreed that the first try scorer was to be the burly forward, let’s call him Jack McGrath, while the second try scorer would be the visitor’s winger… say, Terry O’Donnell.

It was agreed that after the first try scorers were done with, it was ‘game on’. They shook hands and pitched in before sending out a gopher. It was collusion at its worst but understandable… and for all intents and purposes, it looked a ‘sure thing’.

Initially, things went to plan. Jack was bludging out wide and got the wink from the inside backs. The dummy half saw it was on, sending the ball out. Jack growled convincingly as he brushed aside some below par defence, scoring 15 yards in from touch.

Big Jack didn’t score too many tries but he knew he’d done his bit that day, leaping in triumph before vigorously shaking the hands of those around him. Bruce recalls hearing his mates muttering, “Steady on Jack…you’d think you’d won the whole bloody brewery.”

It was then Terry O’Donnell’s turn. Stepping into the opposition’s backline, he was delivered a ‘miraculous’ intercept as the ball landed firmly on his chest. ‘Tezza’ set off on an easy 50-yard run to the line. With no one in front and everything going to plan, the beer was as good as in the bank.

Meanwhile, a young fullback up in the line decided to take off after Tezza. Playing his first game in the big league, the youngster wasn’t part of the collusion. Keen as mustard, he ran for all it was worth, closing in on Tezza who by now, was only 10 yards from the line and striding confidently towards the post-match piss up.

You can imagine Tezza’s surprise when he suddenly heard the pounding of fast approaching footsteps… and for a moment, you can share his shock as he was broadsided by one the best covering tackles of the year. Totally unprepared, Tezza was smashed into touch, getting knocked out in the process before being carted off by St.Johns Ambulance.

Thrilled with his effort, the young fullback jumped to his feet in triumph but was gob smacked as a number of his team mates dropped to their haunches; one bloke cursed him while another seemed ready to shed a tear. Needless to say, the beer had evaporated and in a time of small wage packets and even smaller match payments, it was a hard pill to swallow.

But they soon got over it, patting the youngster on the back. After all, the other mob was reduced to 12 men and the match became a cakewalk. Afterwards, the fullback was told the full story, obliging him to shout a beer for those who pitched in.

If you hadn’t already guessed, the young fullback was indeed Bruce McKenzie; a top bloke who sadly passed away about three years after telling me the tale. As for how fair dinkum all this is, let’s just say that old Bruce was still laughing about it 35 years later.

***********************************************************
*750 words*

 

[antonius]

Ref Blows Fulltime.

 

[Anonymous]

The waiting game begins....

good luck everyone!

 

[Alan Shore]

May the best team win.

Newtown have given us the fight of our lives.

 

[Anonymous]

Thank you timekeeper and thank you Sharks. Good luck... hope everyone pulled up OK. I'll be tub for the duration.

 

[Big Mick]

Well done to the Sharks and to Newtown.

Should be a cracker.

 

[Mr Rock!!!]

Who'd be a ref??? I can't split them. I think any of these articles would win MOM in any of the rounds played this year #-o

Well done

All players have stood up when it counted most :evil: :twisted: :evil:


May the best team win :music2: