Grand Final (2005) Pirates Vs Raiders

[roosterboy60]

[font=Times New Roman, Times, serif]Coos Bay Pirates v Canberra Raiders[/font]

[font=Times New Roman, Times, serif]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.[/font]

[font=Times New Roman, Times, serif]Both teams will be allowed two reserves.
Rules: http://f7s.leagueunlimited.com/rules.asp[/font]

[font=Times New Roman, Times, serif]Full Time: Wednesday 12th October at 9pm (Syd time)[/font]

[font=Times New Roman, Times, serif]Venue: The Front Row Stadium

Crowd: 48,000
REFEREE: Mystique[/font]

[font=Times New Roman, Times, serif]**Referee Blows Game On!**[/font]

 

[Manu Vatuvei]

Coos Bay Pirates

Captain- Thierry Henry aka Martin :hitit:aaaaar matey

First Mate- half aka Mark aaaaar matey

And 3 other swell doods ffs!

Godz Illa aka Mike :thumb aaaaar matey

weasel aka Nalin aaaaar matey

Prince Charles aka Sean aaaaar matey

And the bench! omg!

nibbs aka Kurt aka bi -curious (lol) aaaaar matey

c_eagle




THE PIRATES WOULD LIKE TO DEDICATE THIS MATCH TO STEVE PREFONTAINE (by god he would have won at Montreal) AND OUR HOMIE IN LOCK-DOWN, SCOTT RAYMOND THOMAS

whoa-yeah!

 

[half]

half | Pirates

John Morris

I’m sitting outside a cosy little café with a nice view of Parramatta River, waiting patiently for Eels’ five-eighth John Morris to arrive. The wind comes to a sudden halt and I notice a glare in the distance – white shoes, white teeth. This has to be him. I try to compose myself, albeit quite poorly, before he makes his way over to our arranged meeting place. “Hi, I’m John Morris. Who the f*ck are you?”

Shaking John’s hand, I realise his rugged grip sets a strong contrast from the soft contours of his palms, essentially forming a good balance between yin and yang. His appearance is nothing short of spectacular, biceps bulging out underneath a mint green slim fit t-shirt, his masculine jaw line suggesting a Bonds Chesty might be more appropriate.

John turns his head from side to side to check for paparazzi, slowly removing his aviators, the latest in urban chic. He shuffles his seat around the table and sits down. “I don’t like sitting directly across from someone,” he explains. “It cramps the chi.”

His attention to detail is second to none. Realising I’m intimidated by his presence, John suggests we get something to eat. I agree. “Two Devonshire teas,” he calls out to the waitress, before I even have a chance to look at the menu.

John picks up the aviators to check out his reflection in the lenses. Unsurprisingly, there’s not a single hair out of place. I can’t help but ask John about his hair. He’s evasive, dodging my questions like a Preston Campbell tackle, before gradually relenting. “If you need help, ask Tony Robbins. I don’t do that.”

I understand. Ian G may be willing to offer insight, but John’s faux-mullet is easily more stylish than Ian’s more traditional mullet. It sets him apart from other men. I ask John about the recent loss to the Cowboys. The mood turns sour as John replies, “That match makes we wish I could build a time-machine like John Titor. I’d love to go back and have another crack at it.”

Though bumbling out of the finals in forlorn fashion, 2005 easily ranks as John’s best season so far. It was one where he overcame adversity, with many – including Jeremy John Mohekey, a Porirua local – critical of his move to five-eighth. John’s formidable partnership with boom rookie Tim Smith proved to be the most vital element of Parramatta’s minor premiership success.

“My biggest annoyance is easily people suggesting I’m not a natural five-eighth,” laments John. “Lockyer moved to five-eighth from another position and what about Thurston? He plays halfback more often. Benji the dog doesn’t even have a kicking game. I have no time for people like Jeremy.”

One person John does have time for is Scott Raymond Thomas. “We played footy together back in my junior days up at Newcastle,” he remembers fondly. “It’s a shame for an innocent man to go to prison. Having been misjudged myself, I can relate to what Scott’s going through.”

I turn the conversation towards his continuing low profile and the media attention lavished upon Tim Smith. “I’m happy for Timmy. He’s a good kid and his head is planted wobbly on his shoulders. He comes up with some good hairstyles of his own.”

We continue talking about Parramatta’s season. John suggests his personal highlight was the banana kick to Ben Smith in the match against the Warriors. “I was dancing like a badger after that,” he says. “They said it was a fluke, but I could hit a mushroom from 20 metres away. My kicking game is more lethal than a snake.” Ooh, a snake?

Our Devonshire teas arrive and John wastes no time, cutting open a scone and spreading on a thick layer of strawberry jam. John notes, “I actually played for the Scone Thoroughbreds when I was younger, you know? There’s some trivia for you.” I point out that JAM is his initials (his middle name is Andrew), to which John lets out a slight chuckle. Reaching for the cream at the same time, our hands briefly touch for a moment that seems to last an eternity. I blush and retract.

I snap the tension by asking John for some final words. “It’s like Steve Prefontaine once said, to give anything less than your best is to sacrifice the Gift.” Admiring John’s hair, I realise he hasn’t sacrificed the Gift at all. “And stop looking at me like that FFS.”

 

[Raider_69]

The Raiders run onto the field to a warm reception, SGB and Raiders Army have arrived in droves to cheer on the lads, led out by their captain, they form a tight huddle for some last minute words from the captain...

http://i19.photobucket.com/albums/b165/thickos/f7grandfinal.jpg

Raider_69 (c)
Thickos
Greeneyed
Skeepe
I Bleed Green

Schifty
Azza

arrrr matey lol

 

[Raider_69]

**Raider_69 comes from the feild after doing pretty much a sweet f**k all to an ovation from the Raiders Army and SGB alike... Azza comes on to replace him...**

OUT - Raider_69
IN - Azza

 

[I Bleed Green]

IBG takes the first hit-up of the game for the Raiders in this electrifying contest...

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Change isn’t an option: It's a necessity

If you deconstruct Charles Darwin's theory of evolution, you can actually see many parallels between that and the state of rugby league over the years. Oh, and I'm not referring to Tonie Carroll and his uncanny likeness to another form of ancient species millions of years ago.

In a nutshell, Darwin's theory of evolution stated that as time went on, only those who could adapt to change would survive. This is how we became the civilised race we are today after evolving from a bunch of smelly, dirty, incoherent Neanderthals who argued all day about who had the biggest bone. Then again, maybe not that much has changed after all...

But a lot certainly has changed in the game of rugby league, from the way the game is played, to the way the game is refereed.

So with all of these developments over the years, the style of play and more importantly - the style of coaching - has had to accommodate these changes.

In 1988, the Brisbane Broncos were entered into the ARL amidst quite a buzz. A young Wayne Bennett had been appointed as the flagship coach, and his daunting task was to build a winning team for a franchise that had a lot of expectations on its shoulders. Within just a few years, Bennett had crafted the team into a dynasty with names like Langer, Walters, Renouf and company. Just like the early human race thousands and thousands of years ago, the Broncos became stronger, they became smarter, and it was all thanks to Wayne Bennett who had established himself as the best coach in the game.

Wayne Bennett has been with the Broncos for an unprecedented 17 seasons. When you think of the Broncos, you think of Wayne Bennett. It's just how it is.

But that may not be such a good thing anymore.

Over the last few years, the Broncos haven't been the same. When you think premiership favorites, unlike previous years, you don't think of the Brisbane Broncos. Sure, the Broncos haven't missed the finals for over a decade. They are one of the most consistent teams every year. They are undoubtedly affected by the State of Origin period. But when you have a team as talented as the Broncos, and when you haven't won a finals game for a couple of years, you have to wonder if it's the coach - not the cattle - that is the problem.

Take Tim Sheens, for example. He achieved the ultimate goal with the Canberra Raiders in the late 80's and early 90's by winning three grand finals in a five year span. He, like Bennett, brought through a core group of young players that would become stars in their own right, and he completely revolutionised the way the Raiders played. But years later, things changed with him as well. His approach became weary on a group of players who had worked under his tutelage for as many as eight years. How many ways can you motivate the same players year after year? How much more can you teach a player if you've been telling him the same things for years? It was then that Sheens' approach became stale, and he left the Raiders.

But now Tim Sheens has gone through the cycle of evolution once again. He's got a new lease on life at the Wests Tigers, and he's moulded a bunch of young talented players with potential into a dominating and premiership winning team. All of this success came because of a change of scenery, but the philosophies he used had stayed the same. Change can do wonders to a coach's career, and likewise, it can do wonders to a player's career.

The Broncos recently fired three high-profile coaches in Kevin Walters, Gary Belcher and Glen Lazarus, and they have been made scapegoats for the lack of success in Brisbane.

There is an old adage - the more things change, the more things stay the same.

Wayne Bennett is still in charge, but he'll still have the same old approach, and he'll still experience the same old results. History shows that for a club to move forward, it must be willing to take a risk and embrace change at the very top of the organisation, no matter how long that individual has been with the club.

Wayne Bennett, just like all the other long-term coaches of the past, will soon become an extinct species.

That's just evolution.


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750 words including title

 

[thickos]

thickos knocks on in the opening exchanges...

++++++++++++++++++

Every Dog Has His Day

Grey clouds hover menacingly over the horizon. It is morning, yet the life has already drained from the day. The dull metallic carriages roll into the station; the doors creak open. Drones in immaculate grey suits file on board, content to spend another day of their unfulfilled lives in an unfulfilling job.

He is amongst them. A face in the crowd, he feels so isolated, so worthless. Disgruntled with work, he clutches an incomplete Sudoku in a vain attempt to pass the time. The train slowly pulls away, heading for the city. He is about to waste another hour of his existence.

In a sea of grey, he offers a speck of colour. A lime green tie illuminates the carriage – he is a Raiders fan, and despite a season of woe, he proudly wears their colours. It is the only thing that makes him feel alive; the noise of the crowd, the elation of victory, even the despair of defeat. With his football team, he is part of something.

Scrunching up the Sudoku in frustration, he pulls out his laptop. Many drones work on their laptops, but he uses it to brighten his day. He inserts a disc from his DVD wallet into the drive – it is the epic 1989 Grand Final. He hits fast forward, and replays the greatest twenty minutes of his life once again.

The score is 14-all at full time, the Raiders staging one of league’s great escapes in the dying seconds, through a freakish try to the evergreen ‘Chicka’ Ferguson. Champagne is re-corked in Leichhardt, while for Canberrans the dream is still alive. It is Canberra that is coming home the stronger, destined to take the trophy out of Sydney for the first time. Behind for the first eighty minutes, Raiders stalwart Chris O’Sullivan puts Balmain behind with a long range field goal. Tiger hearts are broken.

He shifts excitedly in his seat, as he knows what is coming - the greatest of grand final tries. In desperation Balmain kick ahead deep in their own territory, but it turns out disastrously. The ball ends up with Steve Jackson, perennial reserve grader, and he sets out for the tryline. Garry Jack, Michael Neil and others try in vain to bring him down, but this is the king of bullocking runs. With one final lunge, the ball is planted in the blood red in-goal, and Jackson confirms his place in history.

It was Steve Jackson’s only try of the season and final try for the club, his career ending ingloriously at both Wests and the Gold Coast. Yet in a team full of superstars – Meninga, Belcher, Daley, Stuart and Clyde – fate decided it would be Steve Jackson whose feats would be the stuff of legend. This ‘lesser light’ will never be forgotten.

Adrenalin now powering through his veins, he excitedly fumbles the 1994 Grand Final DVD into the drive. This one was never in doubt, but equally as inspirational. While thousands of fans got to send the great Mal Meninga out a winner in the best possible style, the match was highlighted by one of the great cameo performances in the engine room. It did not come from Quentin Pongia, test star, nor did it come from Steve Walters, one of the great hookers of the modern era. The ‘unofficial’ man of the match that day was Paul Osborne, a late call-up for the suspended John Lomax.

Languishing in reserve grade for the majority of the season, Osborne was seen as the weak link in the Raiders pack. In a team full of representative players, he was the ‘nobody.’ Yet it was Osborne who delivered the pass for the opening try; it was Osborne who set up Ken Nagas for the Raiders to go further in front. Substituted after 26 minutes with the game virtually sealed, it was a maestro performance from the ‘nobody.’ On the biggest stage, with the highest stakes, another Raiders premiership was delivered by the man least likely.

The train arrives in the city, a beam of sunshine blazing through the parting clouds. He steps off the carriage inspired, excited. A nobody himself, his team has given him hope once more. One day he could be the star. One day he could achieve something great. With a renewed sense of optimism, he takes the crumpled Sudoku from his pocket once more. One day could be his day.

But it probably won’t be today.

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750 words between the lines, including title.

 

[skeepe]

skeepe pulls off an almighty hit in defence, negating Thickos' error

Withdrawn

A man sits cold and alone in the waiting room. The doctor is busy. At approximately this time every year, the number of his patients swells to an unbelievable high. More and more, it seems, need his services as each day passes. The orderly stands up, and his heart rate increases – could this be his time?

“Mr Smith, the doctor will see you now” she calls in an alarmingly positive tone. Damn. Not yet. Surely he must be next. As he waits, he steals a look around. The room is jam-packed with familiar faces. They, like himself, have an annual appointment. There’s Peter, showing all the classic symptoms. The shivering, the furtive glances, the unmistakable sadness in the eyes. Next to him is Ray. They don’t normally see eye to eye, but in a situation like this friendship is a valuable commodity.

“Ok, Mr Warren. He will see you now” yells the orderly. Finally. A brief sense of excitement washes over him as he realises that soon, he will have the remedy. But relief is still far away. He gets up and takes those few tentative steps towards liberation.

“Come in Ray, it’s good to see you again” the doctor says. “Has it really been a year already? My how time flies.”

“Far too quickly for my liking doc” says Ray, sadness dripping from every syllable. “It is much, much worse this year. I have never known it to be so bad. This year was like no other I have ever experienced. It was great, it was exciting, and most of all it was fun. And then just like that, it is all over.”

The doctor furrows his brow, apparently concerned by the seriousness of the situation. “I can see that you are in dire need of a cure. Please, take a seat. Now, I want you to recount your fondest memories of the past year. If you can tell me what they were, and why they were so great, we should be some way towards creating a management plan.”

Ray sidles over to the doctor’s chair, eyes already misting as he recalls happier times.
“I suppose, at the start, you could not go past the great starts of three teams that nobody ever thought about being contenders. The Raiders, Sea Eagles and Sharks surprised the heck out of everyone, nobody more than myself. By contrast you had the unbelievably bad starts of the Dragons and Knights, while the Storm had everyone calling them unbackable favourites.

“Later on in the year, I suppose the biggest thrill was Andrew Johns’ successful return to Origin. By that time, some roles had been completely reversed. The Raiders were in freefall, the Storm, Tigers and Cowboys were inconsistent and everyone was waiting for the Bulldogs and Roosters to ‘snap out of it’ and charge into the top 8.

“A few weeks later, and suddenly the Eels and Dragons were challenging the Broncos as competition favourites, while the Tigers started what would turn out to be a record-breaking run. The Sea Eagles and the Sharks joined the Raiders in freefall, and the Rabbitohs began to show some improvement.”

Ray pauses as it becomes obvious the effort of reminiscing is taking its toll. “Towards the end of the year, everybody started talking about the Tigers. They were playing exciting football, yet still didn’t enter anybodies calculations. The Dragons were favourites then as the Broncos started to slide. Souths, the Panthers and the Knights tried their hardest to avoid the wooden spoon while the Raiders tried their hardest to win it. The Roosters and Bulldogs, meanwhile, still failed to snap out of it.

“But nothing could surpass the drama of the finals series. The Tigers’ record win, the failures of the Broncos, Eels and Dragons and the fairytale grand final. I just don’t know how I’m going to cope without it doc.” Tears have begun streaming from Ray’s eyes as the reality of six months without the NRL hit home. The doctor, however, is smiling. He realises exactly what Ray needs.

“I’ve got the perfect prescription for you Ray. Every day, I want you to watch one game from the 2005 season. One and only one. Watch every game from every round, and continue until the end of February when the 2006 season begins. That should help you beat those withdrawal symptoms.”

With that, Ray rises from his seat. A sense of relief washes over him. He will be cured. “Same time next year, doc?”

750 words, including title

 

[Manu Vatuvei]

Thierry Henry- Pirates

Pressure

Recently, whilst filling out a job application form, I was asked to recount occasions where I had been forced to work under pressure. Casting my mind back over previous occupations, I decided that, while spending days cleaning out the guttering at a local primary school was disgusting and degrading, it didn’t exactly get my adrenaline flowing. More recently, months of data entry had very nearly rendered me permanently comatose; the only nerve-wracking situations involved my woeful attempts to catch the attention of an uncommonly beautiful co-data enterer. Detailing my response to this pressure would probably have ruined my chances of ever gaining respectable employment, dooming me to a life of data entering, gutter cleaning, or Leagueunlimited moderating.

Finally, it occurred to me that I had never truly known pressure. I’ve never experienced poverty, always having my parents to fall back on when I fritter away my meagre earnings on booze, hookers, and Francis Meli calendars. Exams don’t really count, and anyway, if I had to mark my ability to write under pressure out of 100, I’d give it about a 98. And, while I wish I were good enough to, I’ve never known genuine sporting pressure.

So- how would I react under serious pressure? I’ve faced some tense situations in social indoor cricket, and once, via the recommendations of an over eager coach, attended an Auckland under-19 cricket trial where I experienced the bowel-loosening terror of facing bona fide fast bowling. But this still wasn’t REAL pressure. Real pressure is facing up to that bowling, knowing that if you can’t find the gaps in the field, thousands of people are in the crowd ready to hurl abuse at you. Real pressure is knowing that for every person in the crowd, there are another thousand journalists and would-be online experts waiting to dissect your faults. Real pressure is found in the cauldron of finals football, and even the biggest names and brightest talents can be found out. Just ask Parramatta and St George.

Parramatta and St George have come to be regarded as the NRL’s greatest modern day chokers. I’m not old enough to recall either of them winning a premiership, but I do recall St George making four grand-finals and losing them all. I also recall a star-studded Eels side of the late 90s failing to even reach a grand-final, the high-flying 2001 Eels losing the decider when they were the hottest of favourites, and both the Eels and Dragons bowing out in the semi-finals of this year’s competition despite finishing first and second in the minor premiership.

I’m not here to add another braying voice to the chorus of sheep decrying the lack of Trojan qualities in the starchless Parramatta and St George outfits. No one is immune to pressure, but pressure doesn’t create faults, it merely reveals them. The best players respond to pressure. This has never been more evident than when Benji Marshall conjured up one of the great grand-final tries with a spectacular back flick pass to Pat Richards. It was a classic case of talent coming to the fore at the vital moment, a momentary microcosm of the way that we would all like to react. Interestingly, Raiders Forum 7s captain Raider_69 said that the pass was “your run of the mill flick ball”, adding that “just about every halfback or 5/8th, hell most general players above the age of 17 can do it”. Unfortunately, some people wouldn’t know an inspired response to severe pressure if it flick passed them right between the eyes.

A cursory glance over grand-final history shows that Parramatta and St George were both doomed to fail anyway. They lacked the requisite class in the halves (unlike the Pirates, who have Forum 7s’ only quality half)-St George had a makeshift halfback in Ben Hornby, while Parramatta were relying on the unproven Tim Smith, and the devastatingly handsome but ultimately inadequate John Morris.

However, responding well to pressure is sometimes about more than quality halves or fancy passes. Take my aforementioned application- bluffing about my remarkable aptitude under pressure got me the job. Like a Raiders fan raving about Todd Carney, I pretended to possess experience and talent that I didn’t have, but, like the Wests Tigers, I overcame my inexperience. In truth, the power of positive thinking, combined with the ability to waffle inanely about nothing, is the ultimate response to pressure. If you don’t have the talent or the knowledge, then just pretend. That’s what I do.

748 words

 

[Prince Charles]

Prince Charles for the Pirates

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The Hero

All is lost as your team is down on the scoreboard and on the back foot with little of the match remaining. You look at your team and see your old and weary players looking old and weary and your young and inexperienced players looking young and inexperienced.

Not only is your team lagging behind on the scoreboard but they are also coming off two losses and now a win is needed more than ever. Your eyes again cast across the field looking for a glimmer of hope for victory, but your troops look shot as some gasp for air and others begin to drop their heads. The defensive line looks frail and full of gaps whilst the attack is flat and lifeless. You think to yourself that your side will need a miracle to win this one.

However this is the field where heroes are made. This is the place where men have come before and have lead their teams to victory against all sorts of odds. You set your gaze once more to your players and that is when you see him - The Hero. He is the only one who is not short of breath. He does not even look tired and with his head held high he shouts to the rest of the troops telling them it’s not over and it is time to put up or shut up.

But words will only ever carry so far before actions are needed to bellow the sentiment further. The Hero calls for the ball whilst his team mates gasp for air. He takes the ball up and crashes into the line with great strength and carries two and three defenders an extra five metres before being forced to the ground. He kicks and screams in the tackle and lifts himself up for a quick play the ball.

With that one hit up, the younger players see a leader and an example of what is needed and the older players begin to find an extra leg. Two more tackles have played out in the set and The Hero is already standing up in the line again and calling for the ball. Once more he gets it and once more he recklessly throws his body into the opposition, bumping off two tacklers before again being brought down in a great run.

What was earlier a bellow is now an almighty roar and just as The Hero’s team mates have taken notice, so too have the opposition as their younger players now begin to question if they can hold this mob out and their older players begin to feel tired and weary.

Your team puts a big kick downfield and it is no surprise to see The Hero leading the chase. He makes the tackle with a hard and low hit around the hips chopping the opposition fullback to the ground. The Hero rises up pointing at potential dangers in the opposition’s attack as his team mates tighten up a defensive line that just minutes ago could have been penetrated like the proverbial hot knife through butter.

The clock shows just a minute remaining and your team must score to win. The opposition meekly plays out their set and look to find touch with a kick but your team has now lifted and can smell a win. Your winger drops back and fields the kick before it can go into touch and as he brings it back hard and fast and is brought down on the halfway line. The momentum of this game has now swung heavily towards your side and the whole team is already back in position to start the final wave of attack.

Your hands are sweating profusely and nerves have constricted your breathing. But The Hero couldn’t appear any more focused as he again takes the ball up with force. He fights in the tackle and manages to get an arm free from the four defenders who desperately fight to stop his charge. The 19 year old winger in your side sees the ball being offered and with new found confidence he takes the offload, steps the opposition fullback and outpaces the remaining chases to score next to the posts as the siren sounds.

Historians and statisticians have never determined a way to record the input a player like The Hero has on a game. Yet each team needs that one man who can inspire others when the chips are down and all seems lost.


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750 word between the lines

 

[azza]

The Common Bond

I always know when I’ve encountered a rugby league moment that I’ll never forget. When the Raiders scored the final try in the 1989 Grand Final, sealing their first premiership, a thunderous roar emanated from every corner of the stadium. A roar of such magnitude that it would hardly have been surprising if it were heard on the other side of the world.

Yet my strongest memories of that day don’t relate to the wonderful entertainment provided. Looking around the ground after the siren had sounded, I saw grown men and women, both on and off the field, with tears in their eyes. They embraced one another celebrating a glorious victory, or consoled one another after an agonising loss. But suddenly, the result didn’t matter. For the briefest of moments, rugby league had helped every one of us in that stadium to forget. To forget that we lived in a world filled with hatred, violence, greed, prejudice and anger. To forget the problems of daily life: bills to pay, crowded trains, a miserable job, exams, a failing marriage … none of it mattered. I closed my eyes, and realised that we were simply human beings, all equal, all at peace with each other and with the world, rejoicing in the miracle of our own existence.

As I open my eyes, I feel a cold sweat on my forehead. More than 15 years have passed, but re-living the memory, the emotional intensity I experienced on that day has not faded in the slightest. I thought I would never again encounter an instant where the power of rugby league was more evident than the 1989 Grand Final. I was wrong.

I’m in India. I have traveled to this place many times in a vain attempt to quench my thirst for it. It is an incredible and beautiful country. Strangely, it is also a horrible place that I despise. It is here we see humanity at its rawest. Walking down a crowded suburban street, I look to my left and see slums filled with the poorest of the poor. I see a woman lying on the rubbish littered pavement. Her feet and ankles are covered in faeces from the open sewers nearby. She holds her naked infant child weakly to her body. He lies limp. They are both covered in insects. Her face is etched with sorrow. One glance at the vacant look in her eyes is enough to know she is a broken spirit. Meanwhile, hundreds of people walk by in the morning heat, oblivious to the fading life lying a few metres away from them.

I walk into a suburban park at the end of the street. It is a field of red dust and small rocks, a far cry from what I am used to at home. Many children live here in the most unconvincing, shoddily constructed straw huts you are likely to see. But they have nowhere else to go. Their little faces bear grim expressions as they look at me. I stop and turn to face them. What I do next I can’t explain. I guess I couldn’t bear to see those of such youth and innocence so forlorn. I open my shoulder bag and pull out my rugby league ball. It travels with me everywhere to remind me of home. I beckon to the children and with the lingual skills of my good friend, Suresh, I begin to explain to them as best I can the game I have known and loved all my life: rugby league. 6 tackles. Tries. Kicks in play. And so forth. In a land where the game of bat and ball rules, I was stunned how quickly they caught on.

We had to improvise: there weren’t any goal posts, and these youngsters were so malnourished that a game of tackle would have killed them. They threw passes that often missed their target by seven or eight metres. They would try and kick the ball and usually engage in a mere air swing. They stumbled and fell more often than they stood and ran. Regardless, it wasn’t long before joyous laughter filled the air and their faces were covered in broad smiles. Their eyes began to brighten with something that just a few hours earlier had eluded them: hope. And in that moment, every one of those youngsters forgot all the starvation, sickness, and death around them. They were just happy to be alive.

That’s the power of rugby league.

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750 words including title

 

[greeneyed]

GE playing for the Raiders.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++

It is in the blood

I grew up in my grandfather’s house, along with my family and my four aunts. The eastern suburbs of Brisbane, in the 'sixties. It was rugby league heartland. It was one of those old weatherboard houses on "stilts"; I slept in a room that was converted from the old front verandah.

It was a very full house. I remember watching the old black and white television – the Mickey Mouse Club and the Flintstones were favourites. All of my aunts were young, beautiful and unmarried, and they covered their dressing table mirrors with Beatles stickers. It was a wonderful childhood, with so many people paying attention to the first of the new generation. Apart from parents, aunts love the new children in the family almost more than anyone.

But none more than my grandfather. I remember sitting on his lap on his rocking chair while he told me stories, and football was a favourite topic. Our household was an Eastern Suburbs Tigers household.

My grandfather played for Coorparoo, the club that was eventually transformed into the Easts Tigers. He used to tell me repeatedly how they would “have to win the fight on the field” against the opposition before they could win the game. Then they would have to "win the fight all over again after the game behind the dressing sheds". If the team played away, they would not only have to fight the other team after the match… they would have to "fight their way through the opposition supporters" to the truck that would take them home.

When I was a child, the Easts Tigers were my grandfather’s life. It was my uncle’s life as well. He played for Easts and then he became a coach for Easts in the junior grades. It now seems like a blur. I can’t remember the timelines and all the details… I keep getting told about how I was taken to my first ever football game, at the age of six months. It was at Davies Park in South Brisbane – Easts versus Souths in a lower grade match - and my mother keeps telling me how I got thrown from player to player on my uncle’s team after the match.

In another blur of childhood, my aunts, one by one, seemed to marry footballers. I loved them and my heart broke as they moved out, but my uncles were Tigers, some more prominent than others, but they were part of the Tigers family no matter what.

My earliest memories are of my grandfather going down to the Stones Corner pub every Saturday morning, selling chook raffle tickets for the Easts Juniors. He was a football manager in those days, and the Easts junior team he managed in 1964 presented him with a rocking chair. It was there as long as I can remember, in the corner of my “room”. My uncle got exactly the same chair in the same year, as coach of the team.

My family moved out of my grandfather’s house when I was nearly seven years old. A few years later, I remember a day at Lang Park, when my uncle was the coach of the Easts reserve grade team. They won the Grand Final that day, and our whole family was in tears. There was nothing better. Football was our lives and winning the Grand Final was the ultimate. It didn’t matter that it was reserves. We lived and breathed Easts.

Today, in 2005, the Tigers are still living and breathing. Some of the clubs of my childhood are not - the Valley Diehards, Brothers - and no longer compete in what is now the Queensland Cup. But I moved away from Brisbane long ago. I moved to Canberra in the year that the Raiders were established. I have a passion for a team that didn’t exist when my grandfather fought his way home after an away game decades years earlier. He passed on the year before I left Brisbane.

I still remember what he told me as a kid, sitting in that rocking chair: "Football. It is in the blood."

The rocking chair was left to me in my grandfather’s will. It sits in the corner of my study, a proud memento of my childhood. The tarnished silver plaque can still be read: “To Reg. From Easts Under 18. 1964.” A journey from the Tigers to the Raiders, that chair will always represent the development of my love for rugby league.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++

750 words including title.

 

[Godz Illa]

Godz Illa ~ Pirates


Art: Official Intelligence

“There are languages other than words, numbers, symbols or nature. There are languages of the body. And prizefighting is one of them. There is no attempting to comprehend a prizefighter unless we are willing to recognise that he speaks with a command of the body which is as detached, subtle and comprehensive in its intelligence as any exercise of mind by such social engineers as Herman Kahn or Henry Kissinger”

The above quote was written by Norman Mailer, in one of his lyrical treatises on the great Muhammad Ali. The quote’s significance to the game of rugby league is clear: both sports call on similar requirements of the human body. Like boxing, rugby league is a dialogue between bodies; a rapid debate between two sets of intelligence. They take place rapidly because they are conducted with the body rather than the mind. If this seems extreme, let us look for a connection. Picasso could never do arithmetic when he was young because the number seven looked to him like a nose upside down. So to learn maths would slow him up. He was a painter – his intelligence resided somewhere in the co-ordination of the body and the mind. He was not going to cut off his body from his mind by learning numbers. Most of us do - the true artists don’t. That is why whenever I watch Benji Marshall play, I think of Norman Mailer’s quote. Benji is the Picasso of rugby league.

There is another famous story about Picasso. He showed remarkable artistic talent as a child, so much so that when his father saw his work he handed him his own palette and brushes and vowed never to paint again. You can imagine Benji in the backyard with his father or uncle, sidestepping and bedazzling his way around them with arrogant ease, ridiculing them to such an extent that they give him the football and return to the house for good. Rather than dwell in self-consciousness after such a feat, Benji would be stimulated to further explore his artistry.

Hence his long career in touch football. Far from a conventional breeding ground for budding rugby league superstars, for Benji it was the perfect avenue for his talent to blossom, and his refined artistic style to emerge. He was still living at home, still doing his schoolwork like a regular teenager. This can be considered Benji’s version of Picasso’s ‘Blue Period’, when Picasso first settled in Paris in 1904. The subjects of his paintings at the time were depicted with a slightly sentimental sadness in cold blue. The subdued mood of his art during this period reflected the poverty of the artist’s life, when he was sharing a studio with a poet friend, taking it in turns to sleep in the single bed and even burning drawings for warmth.

Then Benji snared a juicy scholarship with the Wests Tigers, and was soon playing first grade rugby league in the greatest competition on Earth. Even at this early stage of his big-time career he was wowing crowds, and was earmarked as a potential superstar. The money was already rolling in. This was his ‘Rose Period’. Picasso’s blue tones were replaced by pink ones, depicting his subjects in a more positive way. The lighter mood struck a sympathetic note with the public too: the Rose Period pictures sold well, and soon Picasso’s days of poverty were over.

Picasso’s masterpiece was his 1907 Les Demoiselles d’Avignon. He had been exploring another way forward in art, analysing form and distorting conventional perspective. This painting of five savage, fragmented figures in a brothel heralded the end of the notion that painting had to be a literal transcription of reality.

Benji Marshall’s masterpiece was the 2005 finals series. His influence over each game in the series was as significant as it was marvellously inventive. The features were effortlessly slicing up the Cowboys in week one, saving two tries and scoring another in week two, splitting open the Dragons with consummate ease in the classic preliminary final, and upstaging the grand final event with an outrageous flick pass as the Tigers won the big prize. The performance of Benji and his Tigers heralded the end of the notion that to win the NRL competition you need a team of giant representative players.

Picasso’s legacy was the art movement known as Cubism. Let’s hope that Benji’s legacy be returning rugby league to a game centred on skill, artistic abandon and vivacious intelligence.


750 words

 

[weasel]

How weasel got his groove back



Like waking from a dream.

That is the best way to describe it. The feeling that has crept over me in the last few weeks. It’s a good feeling, bringing with it a sense of freedom regained.

The previous six months of my life had been spent locked in a spell; not unlike the fair maiden of the Brothers Grimm child’s fable ‘Sleeping Beauty’. And all it took to break this enchantment was a dagger through the heart.

No, not an actual dagger. I’m speaking figuratively. The weapon that dealt me my death blow was frankly something quite harmless, unless swallowed perhaps; the referee’s whistle. Eighty minutes were about to expire in the match between the Wests Tigers and my own red and white heroes, the team carrying my hopes and dreams with them, St George Illawarra. And so came that sound, the bringer of joy, and just as much sorrow. Two short whistles, followed by a longer third, lingering for a moment, signalling the end of my club’s year. Emotion rarely overcomes me, but the grimace that broke over my face in this moment almost revealed a tear or two. Almost.

The pain did not fade quickly. What I came to experience was the five stages of grief put forward by Dr Elizabeth Kubler-Ross in her book, ‘On Death and Dying’.

My denials were brief and meek and gave way quickly into anger; my wrath focusing on the referee, the bye, the mcintyre system, and finally the classless supporters of other sides who tried to mock my unfortunate team. Anger passed into bargaining, as I rationalised reasons for why my club should be given a second chance and devised new finals systems that would prevent this year’s outrages from ever happening again. I considered taking these ideas to the world via internet forums, newspaper editorials, or through a Forum Sevens article. Depression followed, and so I spent grand final week deeply mired in self-pity and draped in black, the colour of mourning.

Was this reaction normal, or the result of faulty coping mechanisms? It was only a sport after all. But in truth, I had invested a lot of myself into this NRL season. Not financially, oh no I’m far too stingy for that. I’m talking emotionally. Since round one, Rugby League had ruled my mind, if not dominating my thoughts then hovering in the background, waiting for its chance to take the fore again. I worked my friendships around the game, shunning social evenings on weekends in favour of football. My fantasties, once of naked women, featured the likes of Gasnier and Hornby (not in a homoerotic way, mind); my inner monologues became complex deconstructions on aspects of the game. My life had been consumed.

Like a smoker, the more I had the more I wanted and the more anxious I became to get it. We were one game away from the grand final, but I knew this wasn’t far enough for me. Throughout the year as we edged closer and closer to the top my expectations had ballooned to the point that I felt no joy in merely being in the final four. Instead I promised myself that making the grand final would deliver the rush I so desperately craved, and then, only then, would I feel happy about the 2005 season. I never got that chance.

But was it a blessing in disguise? During that first torturous week it didn't seem to be. But as the grand final finished, Kubler-Ross' final stage kicked in: Acceptance.

With an ease I could barely believe, I let go. While only ten days earlier I honestly believed I’d be haunted by what happened for the rest of my life, it no longer seemed to matter. My mind began again to fill with other distractions. A celebrated bookworm, I found myself buying a novel for the first time in a while. I took in a movie, and I already plan to see several more. And yes, I even went out on Saturday night. Would I have taken these same steps had the Dragons infact won the premiership instead of flopping as they did? Probably, but as Buddha taught, existence is suffering, and I defer to him for the final word.


"It is better to conquer yourself than to win a thousand battles. Then the victory is yours. It cannot be taken from you, not by angels or by demons, heaven or hell."


_________________________________________
747 words, including title.

 

[antonius]

Ref Blows Fulltime.

 

[Willow]

Congratulations to both the Raiders and the Pirates on a tremendous season.

Best of luck and may the best team win.

:thumb

 

[Raider_69]

well done all
5 v 5, a tremendous quality about all 10 articles. Good luck both teams
ove to you Mystique, i do not envy your job in this game one bit!

 

[thickos]

Well done both sides, an unbelievable game, some really high quality essays (works of art? ) once more.

It was the Grand Final no one expected, and both teams have created one of the classic F7's encounters imo.

Good luck both sides, over to you ref!

 

[I Bleed Green]

Yep, what they said. Good luck to both teams.

 

[Manu Vatuvei]

wow guys, swell game. While I dissed Raiduh and Todd Carney in my post, I am actually totally feeling tha love right now.