GRAND FINAL (2006) BLUEBAGS v EELS

[Pistol]

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V

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[FONT=Times New Roman, Times, serif]Newtown Bluebags v Parramatta Eels[/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]Game Commences 8th October
Full Time: Wednesday 18th October at 9pm (Syd time)[/FONT]

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

Crowd: TBA[/FONT]
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[FONT=Times New Roman, Times, serif]REFEREE: Antonius[/FONT]

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

Good luck to all, and as the great boxing referee Mills Lane always says, "Let's get it on"...

 

[Willow]

The Bluebags make their way onto the cauldron of The Front Row turf.

The 2006 F7s Grand Finalists

Willow (c)
...Morticia...
HMS Cheesemaker
Rexxy
Bring back John Fifita

Interchange:
MysteryGirl
Just Another 'Dogs Supporter (Timmah)

Good luck to and all and may the best team win. :thumn

 

[...Morticia...]

Morticia gets pushed foward by rexxy. clears her throat...

E Ihoā Atua,
O ngā iwi mātou rā
Āta whaka rongona;

theres a kafuffle in the background and Timmah steps foward and slaps her...

"Waltzing Matilda, waltzing matilda..."

The crowd joins in with Australia's national anthem...

Going for Grand Final Glory


All Aboard the Bandwagon Extravaganza

Roll up, roll up, come one, come all. See the amazing bearded lady, the world’s smallest man and the fantastical flying machine. Hear ye…hear ye…

As the bandwagon rolls out of Melbourne, I have to admit, I’m on it. I’m packing my bag and I’m leaving town. I fancy myself on the flying trapeze and if that fails miserably or the ropes aren’t reinforced enough to make me fly with grace through the air without snapping, I have a back up talent. I can juggle and I used to be legendary with an aerosol can and lighter back in my day. I’m thinking of combining the two.

Yes girls and boys, I’ve carefully folded my red, white and blues and packed them away for the summer. They did complain a bit. “But you took me to Mecca with you, wore me under your chaador” one said. That deserved being put at the bottom of the drawer, praying on the guilt factor doesn’t work these days. I go back to it, lightly touch it. It stares back at me and I feel the sting of my eyes and the lump at the back of the throat. “What would your father think?” it screams at me, “and look at your hair!” Eyes go to the mirror. The purple and gold streaks, evidence of blasphemy. “I’ll be back, I promise,” I whisper, looking around quickly to make sure I haven’t been caught talking to my jersey. The cat eyes me suspiciously, she’s heard it, and rubs around the photo of my dad, a smirk on her face. I pile the other jerseys on top of it and shut the drawer. “Not today, not this week.”

The kids at work comment on my hair, don’t put two and four together. It’s been fuschia, blue and orange in the past; they just think I’m getting manic. Even my, ‘Go Storm in the NRL Grand Final’ written in purple on the whiteboard goes unnoticed. “That lightening bolts crooked. Are we in for crap weather?” Wait until I put the purple and gold balloons all round the dining room on Friday. Security arrives, our eyes meet, a stolen wink. He knows. As I slink in beside him, our bodies touching, comfortable, “nice hair,” he whispers as the needle in my hand bores through the flesh. Blood trickles from the site; red as red can be, reminding me, taunting me. I feel sick. The phone rings. My colleague says “who?” several times, hands me the phone, perplexed. “Hello, Morticia speaking…” “Go the f**king storm, woohooo.” It takes a while but I realise it’s an ex-client. “I had to ring. I thought of you…it’s not your team” pressured, excitable, “but if it wasn’t for you…well, I wouldn’t have cared about rugby league.” She’s breathless now, happy, I’m stoked. My client outing to the football last year, the real football, not this aerial ping pong everyone seems to watch down here, worthwhile. I put the phone down, smiling. My colleague raises his eyebrows. “You wouldn’t get it,” I walk away, smug.

The walk home. “Go the storm!” I laugh, the guy I bought my car off, standing, waving like a mad man. “Shame about those dogs,” I say. “Not,” I think. “At least we made the finals,” he grins. A one finger salute suffices. We have coffee, talk league, there’s promises to adorn his car yard with purple and gold streamers. My work there is done. I leave, wondering why I’m not happy. A car goes past, toooooooting. A storm scarf shoved out the window, I wave, smile and people stare. They don’t get it, can’t get it, don’t want to get it, their worlds too insular. I open my door. The cat narrows her eyes at me, goes to that photo, sitting, her tail coiled protectively around it. I pick her up. Her collar, the rooster proudly adorned on it, gets caught in my hair. She’s thrown outside, purple and gold remnants mixed with red, white and blue. Her tail goes up; I’ve been given a brown eye. “F**k you too,” I mutter. The drawer calls, that jersey. It caresses me, familiar, knowingly. I straighten the photo, Dad, smiling, always. The bandwagon rolls by. “Maybe next year,” I call. “Not ever,” I know.

There’s a fire ban, no flame throwing today.

I've officially lost the plot.


732 wrds

 

[Willow]

*Willow runs on for the Bluebags in the 2006 F7s Grand Final*

Kill the bastards!

The late and great 'Killer' Ken Kearney was part of a rugged pack of forwards who knew how to hang onto the ball and pummel the defensive line. It was during a time of unlimited tackles when all games had a traditional 'softening up' period - no quarter asked, and none given - and far less compromising than what we have in the modern game.

A World War Two veteran, Ken Kearney served in the RAAF before representing his country in rugby union. In 1948 he joined rugby league whilst in England, playing with Leeds before linking up with St George where he stayed until 1962. A ruthless professional and champion hooker, 'Killer' instigated revolutionary coaching methods and was captain to six grand final victories. He played for New South Wales and Australia and has a representative record which speaks for itself.

Kearney played when scrums were properly contested. A cagey hooker, he was supported by a strong pair of props who in turn were backed by a well-drilled second row to drive them forward, and a lock forward to keep it straight. They only needed timing and brute strength to make every scrum a winner. Sounds easy, but the opposition would have their say and the front row was no place for the faint-hearted.

With much of the skill and off-ball shenanigans being hidden from the public view, the writing was on the wall for the real scrum. The advent of ‘good TV’ and a rise in scrum penalties, particularly in the 1980s, saw the end of half backs feeding the ball squarely into the tunnel. The rule interpretations altered to allow the ball to be tossed into the second row, effectively making the scrum hooker’s role redundant.

The introduction of limited tackles and subsequent interpretations has also done much to take the game away from the players.

Old stagers referred to a time when forwards would grind out territory by forcing their opponents back - regardless of who controlled possession. It was up to the players to enforce their authority on the territory and the ball. This method of battle was still a coaching tactic up until just a few years ago. Nowadays, when a ball-carrier is swamped and driven back by defenders, the referee has an annoying habit of calling 'held'. This begs the question, would the referee call 'held' if the ball-carrier, with the support of his team mates, was being driven forward?

While many will point to these as improvements, I’m not so sure. For over 50 years, the game prospered quite well without the need for ‘clayton’ scrums, limited tackles and the made-to-order mind-set that gave rise to the modern TV game.

Recollections are but golden memories.

'Killer' was arguably the best hooker in his day and he knew how to win scrums, but he also knew when to lose them. If his forwards were unable to crack the opponent's line, Kearney would pack down and deliberately kick the ball into the opposition's side of the scrum. In the next ruck, the lumbering rake would take up position in the defensive line and say, in full earshot of the opposition, "right, let's kill the bastards!"

This signalled his team mates to go hell-for-leather with spears and coat hangers, delivering their opponents to the turf with ruthless tenacity. It was an onslaught which would leave in its wake an assembly of broken teeth, fractured ribs and dazed heads. Inevitably the ball would be jolted loose and the opposition wouldn't want to touch it again.

Perhaps this is what our forefathers called limited tackle... the real version as enforced by the players on the football battlefield, not by some pansy rules. To the old guard, the four-tackle and subsequent six-tackle rule must have looked like an absurd notion where a team willingly handed the ball back to their opposition!

I hasten to add that I understand the whys and wherefores of modern rugby league. Nevertheless, I wonder if we have gone too far in appeasing the beast, just to enable us supporters to enjoy the comforts which come with being a higher class of cattle. With progress there always seems to be a price to be paid. The rules, their interpretations, and TV-friendly policies have lorded over an erosion of what was the very essence of the game.

*725 words*

 

[Vaealikis Girl]

The Eels run onto the field, fired up by the roar of the sellout crowd

2. Bubbles
7. eloquentEEL
8. The Colonel
10. bartman
11. Goleel

Reserves:
21. MarkInTheStands
1. filthy_spammers

 

[The Colonel]

The Colonel takes the field for the Eels......

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Looking forward, looking back…..

Season 2006 is now over. The Broncos have been crowned premiers and the dust is starting to settle on what was another cracking year in the NRL. Seems like the right time to start thinking about next year…

"Hang on a minute", I hear you say, "the season has only just finished". And while that is no doubt totally correct, next year isn’t really that far away. At the time of writing this, there are around 150 days before the season kicks off again in 2007. Most clubs will resume training in under a month’s time and tickets in country towns for the upcoming trial matches are already being sold in earnest.

For me, I look ahead to the arrival of a new coach and a number of new players. I wonder just how our new coach will settle into the joint and whether his start to next season will be much better than the bloke in charge at the start of this season. I wait to pass judgement on our club's board and pray that they gave the job to the right bloke.

I wonder whether we will see another of our juniors leap ahead of the pack and claim Rookie of the Year honours. I also hope that our current Dally M Rookie keeps his head above water and in the spotlight for all the right reasons. For that matter, I hope all our players are in the papers for the right reasons.

I consider the arrival of an old face, back to stand beside his brother like he did in 2001. I hope his return will somehow re-ignite the attacking spark in the long haired lout that wears the number 11 jersey.

I cross my fingers and hope that the new face in the number 6 jersey can shrug off the bitterness and disappointment of past seasons, to combine well with another youngster looking to live up to the high expectations thrust upon him by supporters desperate for success.

I hope that the return of a young and now much maligned player from England generates the same intensity on the field that it has off it.

I’d like to see our young guys continue their lower grade success right across the board next season and continue to put pressure on our first grade squad. I’d like to see that continued success rewarded and a team that enjoys playing together, old and new, like they have done for years.

I applaud the fact that if you work hard and persist, you can come from not being able to run a full lap of an oval, into the first grade squad in just under two seasons. I hope all our players can learn the true value of buckling down and working to achieve a goal.

I look at other clubs and wonder what surprises they will supply. Which team will provide the fairytale finish that has greeted the previous two seasons and stand tall on Grand Final Day in 2007? I wonder which team will be proclaimed the premier side in April only to fall away as the season draws on. I consider which team will surpass the expectations thrust upon them and which team will fail to meet their pre-season potential.

I wonder how the other clubs will embrace the coaching changes they have faced and what impact that will have on the competition.

I hope that we can spend a year watching the game itself and not talking about rugby league for all the wrong reasons.

I contemplate the arrival of new champions, the regeneration of the current champions and the passing of the old champions by season end.

I’d like to see a game where we don’t remember who the referee was, because there wasn’t a single moment that could be considered controversial. I’d be happy to hear a referee commended for the good job that he did.

I marvel at the skills of players getting better every year, and wait with the anticipation of jumping from my seat, to cheer another of the great moments that rugby league supplies. I wait with anticipation for the first game of a youngster seemingly destined for bigger and brighter things in the NRL. I hope that dreams are realised and the untapped potential is fulfilled.

Most of all, I just want next season to start.


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731 words between the lines.

 

[Rexxy]

Rex for the Baggs

Injury Report



Another season over and it's time to take stock. It's only by examining the past that we can learn for the future. As a fan, I feel we have given everything that was asked of us. We turned up in the rain, we trained by drinking beer, we thought up those "oh so very clever but a little cryptic" slogans during the week. As far as teams go, us team of supporters were primed and ready to take it all the way.

But it was not to be.

I felt this year we had the team that was up to the task and was naturally disappointed that we fell short again. So many years of disappointment, so many "saisons en enfer". There are some excuses, but really who wants to hear excuses when the town is awash with the drunken revelry of opposition teams who went further than we did.

In fairness to our team of fans, I do have to mention one word. Injuries. They're not an excuse, but as you will see, any report on the year would not be complete without mentioning the bad run we had.

Ian - Fan for fifteen years. Got squirted in the eye with hot tomato sauce when he squeezed his pie too hard. Out for six weeks. At least he had a red eye to match his white one.

Frank – A paper cut from the Big League. Out for two weeks. He was unlucky he found the only sharp thing that magazine has done since Geoff Prenter retired.

Michael - caught in malfunctioning turnstile. Nasty groin injury that saw him laid up for six weeks, and not laid for another seven.

Arthur - fan of twenty years, Hit in the face by one of those guns firing promotional t-shirts. 3 weeks away from the sideline. Legal action pending. After all that the shirt didn’t fit.

Geoff - tried to catch a ball kicked out on the full. Tripped over an old Newcastle supporter who attacked him with her knitting needles. One month.

Garry - took to sliding down the hill at Oki on a piece of cardboard and hit the perimeter fencing. Two months off and an advertising contract as Australia's first living billboard.

Kaz - blinded by the sun while looking at the Holden blimp. Three weeks off.

Harry - fired a flare just as the police arrived and was escorted off the ground while still holding said flare. The caption in the local paper read “Statue of Denied Liberty”. Three weeks and court costs.

There were other injuries that weren't so serious but still put a dent in our fan roster.

Knowsley went to the men's and got his scarf caught in the door. Everyone thought he was doing a Michael Hutchince and started singing “the Swing”.

Barry got Golden Staph from drinking at a communal bubbler.

Roxanne, one of the few women that came along this year, was too adventurous at the Food bar and ordered the new "Bin Laden Burger". She ignored the warning that it was about to go off, and it did. Out with Salmonella for six weeks.

Jonesy picked a fight with a security guard. Billy got cirrhosis of the liver. Carl fell off his perch under the Oki sign. Garth got caught without a train ticket. Beck’s stayed too long in Wollongong and got beaten up by Sharpies. And The Moose got a nose bleed by sitting too high in the stand.

But by far the worse injury was Joe. It was the final blow that we never recovered from. His hotdog had a band-aid in it. And he choked.

Which was fitting, because that is exactly what the football team we all support did.

We’ll all be ready to go again come Charity Shield.

 

[Bubbles]

Bubbles steadies the nerves and runs on for the Eels in the big one!

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Meeting the Boys

Without intending to appear narcissistic, I have always considered myself to be a confident, strong-minded and strong-willed, independent woman who has finally settled comfortably into her own skin in her mid-thirties. Of course some may say I’m impossible, stubborn and pig-headed, but they’d only be the people who love me!

So, given this character snapshot, can someone please explain what it is about footballers that metamorphoses me into the gangly, tongue-tied teenager I once was? I’m serious, time dissolves and I’m instantly brace-faced “Jaws” again; skinny and coltish with boobs beyond my years, scrabbling on the ground in search of an errant contact lens, or one of those small elastic bands from my braces that has ricocheted off during a particularly violent laughing fit, during which friends have hit the ground to avoid being struck by one of these stinging projectiles!

I’d like to share with you a few anecdotes to illustrate my point. The first player I spoke to was Rod Wishart from the Saints, back in 1999. The week before he had scored a great Try to snatch victory from the Raiders in the dying seconds of the game. So, what do I say when I find myself walking next to Rod after they have just been beaten by the Rabbitohs – “Lege try last week Rod!” (Please, try to picture not the articulate, confident 30 year old woman speaking, but rather the gawky girl with a mouthful of metal). Then, I gave him the thumbs up – cringe… groan!

I mean, who says “Lege”? Not at any time prior and since that moment have I ever used “Lege”! I’m such a stickler that I still baulk at the hybrid language used by members of Generation Y (I had to ask my daughter to translate LOL, ROFL and LMFAO!) Unfortunately, my ex-husband was with me and I had to live with his regaling of the story to all and sundry and subsequent teasing and mimicking.

I compounded this with a follow-up incident a short time later when my ex and I travelled to Wollongong to watch the Roosters take on Saints at WIN Stadium. Much to my delight and simultaneous chagrin, I discovered we were staying in the same hotel as my boys when I stepped into the lobby lift to find myself face to face with Luke Ricketson, Adrian Lam and Brian Fletcher. I spent the entire trip to the sixth floor staring up at the numbers, all the time wracking my brain for something to say – something insightful, witty. Instead, when the doors opened and I stepped into the generic hotel hallway, I turned back and said, “Good luck tonight boys.” Only problem being that my voice cracked and changed pitch during this short speech, so rather than becoming that awkward girl, I instead sounded like a pubescent boy whose testicles had just that moment dropped! To further humiliate myself, I tripped trying to pivot on the spot, my exit accompanied by the muffled laughter of the players.

But this pales into insignificance compared to what I have become on the few occasions I have met my idol, my footy God…Freddy. I’ll skip ahead to a later encounter with Brad, but just to fill in the gaps and paint a picture, I had met him on a couple of occasions, during which I had not reverted to the young girl, nor the pubescent, ball-dropping boy, but rather had regressed back to the Neanderthal era when vocal chords were designed for grunting noises only. “Schmeegh”, was possibly the most intelligible thing I managed to produce!

At the beginning of 2002 I was lucky enough to score a couple of tickets to the launch of the Roosters’ season at the Opera House. The smartest decision I made was to bar any attempt at communication with my heroes, opting instead to stand to the side and bask in their proximity. After a while of shuffling and staring like some weird, stalker chick, my ex nudged me and whispered, “Hey, I think Freddy’s been checking out your *breasts*.” To which I replied, thrusting my ample bosom out further, “Honey, its Freddy. He can check out whatever he damn well pleases!”

Sadly, my friends, this is my most auspicious and elegant moment with any player, let alone the Messiah, and all it required was a distance of at least twenty metres allowing no room or possibility of direct contact with said deity. LOL!
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Word Count: 747

 

[Cheesie-the-Pirate]

HMS Cheesemaker for the Mighty Bluebags.

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Why can’t we all just get along?

There are many great Australian sporting rivalries. The biggest of them all is actually between the codes. The name-calling is fierce, the relationships are frosty and not-so-friendly advice is openly exchanged. The trouble is, this kind of fierce rivalry is hardly helpful.

The thing is, the other codes are sibling rivals, not distant enemies. The competition is heart-felt only because we value the greater commodity that we share; the sporting public. Without them, sport is but a set of rules written in a long-forgotten book. The public are what makes sports thrive.

The trouble is, that sporting community simply isn’t guaranteed. There are many other things that will challenge for the attention of the community. It’s their jobs, homes, cars and televisions. Sport must fight to maintain the community’s interest across every level, from kids running around the park to the international stage.

The benefits of rivalry are felt by each sport directly; one sport gets a big-money television deal and the next gets a bumper crowd. This makes open rivalry between the sports attractive.

Unfortunately, the negatives of rivalry are much harder to perceive because they are felt indirectly, spread across all sport. Specialist subscription television channels and head-to-head scheduling dilute the ratings. Exclusive facilities increase the costs of running a team. Bickering diminishes the stature of sport in general.

The tragedy is that these individual victories in inter-sport competition may well be pyrrhic because they provide a greater share of a dwindling pie. At the very least it ensures that the full potential of the sporting community is not achieved.

There are ways we can work together for the benefit of all sports. Facilities can be shared. Television time can be better organised. Government can be lobbied more effectively. It’s not time to bury the hatchet on everything. For one thing we don’t want to sail too close to anti-trust violations. More importantly the various codes should be unique spectacles. Homogenised sport is inevitably boring and cannot entertain us like a diverse range of sports can.

It’s all about picking your battles. Sometimes it’s worth challenging other sporting codes and achieving something at their expense. Other times a tendency to think of them as opponents rather than comrades will hurt sport.

For instance, subscription television and other forms of new media are an area that perfectly demonstrates the value of cooperation. The reality of the Australian sporting market is that it is regionally divided between the northern rugby states and the southern Australian football states.

New media provides the perfect vehicle for the growth of sport in this country, exposing southerners to the rugby codes and northerners to Australian footy. Encouraging sports fans to move to subscription television is an ideal solution because only pay television can offer fully national coverage for sports.

Similarly there was a recent case where the Australian Rugby Union proposed playing some games in their upcoming competition at Brookvale Oval. The Manly Sea Eagles responded angrily and refused to allow Rugby Union to hire the field.

The ethos of competition-to-the-death is clear in this attitude. Manly boss Grant Mayer cited wear on the ground to justify rejecting the Rugby’s interest. I doubt that the impact of a few additional games would be completely unmanageable. Mayer went on to state that the idea was “very, very strange” because Brookvale was a League ground. That is an anachronistic impulse decision made chiefly out of petty rivalry.

In turning to the rival-conscious tendencies the Manly administration overlooks the many benefits of cooperation. There are the venue hire charges and of course the exposure for sport in Brookvale and the greater Northern Beaches area. New tenants can only translate into increased viability for the ground. They provide greater opportunities for the facility from new sponsors and a bigger maintenance budget to more television time. It would no doubt make a better case for a government-funded redevelopment.

The vitriol that is exchanged between the rival codes continues to amaze me. The sports share so much yet let the things that divide them consume their energies. Now, before I start wearing tie-dyed clothes and singing folk songs by the communal fire I’ll leave you with a parting thought. The guy who cheers for Essendon or maybe barracks for the Warringah Rats isn’t the enemy. He’s two things. Firstly, he’s a potential rugby league fan but more importantly he’s a fellow member of the sports community. You’ve got to respect that.

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*748 words including title.

Sources:
Manly Daily [URL: http://www.manlydaily.com.au/article/2006/09/09/554_sports.html]

 

[eloquentEEL]

eloquentEEL for the Eels
___________________

Him

Life has moved on since His playing days. He was a schoolboy sensation when He burst onto the scene. “Youngest Player Ever to Represent…” screamed the headlines. These days, fewer and fewer people remember why He stopped playing. Did He see out His career in England? Did He retire early due to injury or to pursue another sport? Did He retire at all? Or was He thrown out in disgrace for substance abuse? Did He slowly wear out His body until no team would gamble on Him? Or did He go out at the top of His game? Who can remember? Who cares? The reason for His exit from our beloved league is now insignificant. He sits in the dim artificial light, inhaling the aroma of the pub He's frequented for the past season or five. Watching the replay on the big screen, He throws in the odd curse at the referee, just like the old days.

You can take the boy out of the league, but you can’t take the league out of the boy.

A stranger enters the bar and seems to recognise Him. A million thoughts race through His head as the stranger starts to approach.

Step one: ‘Great, the last thing I need is another trouble-maker spotting me. Is this guy going to take a shot?’

Step two: ‘Or is this just a decoy?’

Step three: ‘Let’s just hold tight and see what happens. In any case, at the other table just over my right shoulder, my B defender is in position and has my back covered.’

Step four and the stranger produces a coaster and a marker: ‘Phew, it’s just another dummy attempting to get me interested. Nice try, but I don't know about assisting with the autograph conversion.’

You can take the boy out of the league, but you can’t take the league out of the boy.

Four of His old team mates are up at the bar now. He still holds a grudge against one of the blokes in the middle (following a particularly unsavoury incident a long, long time ago). The lanky, clumsy looking fella on the end seems to be in need of a breather, having knocked down a few too many. He rummages through His pocket and pulls out a small wad of scrunched up five dollar notes.

He visualises His plan as He begins His move towards the line:
‘That’s it. It’s time for me to step up this round. I’ll take my money ball right up the middle there. I’ll hold it out in front with two hands, look left and look right, just before I put it all on this play… I’ll cut out the centre… and hopefully, my wingman on the left there will finally take a pass.’

You can take the boy out of the league, but you can’t take the league out of the boy.

He no longer coaches or manages any players. He’s rarely asked to do guest commentary any more. Yet, in some way or other, footy still manages to pervade every aspect of His life. His circle of friends are all ex-players or people he has met through league. His business dealings are all directly related to league; or they're opportunities on the side which are joint ventures with… yep, you guessed it. Although His direct involvement in the game has waned more and more every year, He knows that it will omnipotently rule Him for the rest of His life. He knows that even as He approaches old age and senility sets in, He’ll be found loitering around His old home ground, trying to side-step His own shadow.

You can take the boy out of the league, but you can’t take the league out of the boy.

He never set out for it to have happened like this. In hindsight, He understands that He couldn’t have avoided it even if He tried. Rugby league isn’t just a game. It’s not just a sport, just a hobby or just a job. For the professional player, it is a way of life. Those that played alongside Him are not just His team mates, just His fellow club members or just His colleagues. They are His everything and those bonds are eternal (even with that prick in the centres).

You can take the boy out of the league, but you can’t take the league out of the boy. Why? Because league is for life!!!

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742 words

 

[Bring back John Fifita]

John Fifita runs out onto the paddock for his Grand Final Debut. He is nervous, but equally excited at the prospect of battling the minor premiers for the 2006 title....

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Where is the hate?

It was over our fourth beer at the local when one of my drinking partners (an Englishman) turned his eyes from the 1st Tri-nations match, and asked me the following question:

“Which rugby league player do you hate the most?”

I thought about the question for a disappointingly long time. Here was a question that is so commonly asked of league fans (indeed any sporting fan) it’s probably only superseded by “Which team do you support?” Yet, an answer did not come to me as instinctively as it should. I kept thinking, and thinking. After some banter about what players are generally hated in the game, I settled uncomfortably on Corey Hughes. I have never heard him interviewed, nor seen him play that dirty. He just has a head that looks like it deserves to get punched.

The length of my thought process and unconvincing answer led me to ponder an even bigger question “Where have all the villains gone?”

Sure, I know that there are a number of players going around in the modern game that generally earn the ire of many league fans. But none truly float my boat when it comes to making the blood boil. Going back to my younger years I could rip out a hate list as easy as reciting the alphabet. When responding to my pommie friend I struggled to get to ‘A’.

In the past we had a competition rich in players who could polarise the public with their antics on and/or off the field. Players who so freely spoke their mind without fear of reprisal. Many fell into the “love them or hate them” category. Remember King Wally Lewis? Idolised north of the Tweed, but made a New South Welshman more bitter than a room full of divorced housewives at a lemon-sucking competition.

It’s obvious that with the evolution of our game, and in particular the level of corporate support pumping monetary blood through its veins, some of the old-school antics are now taboo. A company provides sponsorship to associate itself with an elite team or sport whose success, reputation, exposure and professionalism provide an ideal vehicle to promote is brand. With this comes a high level of responsibility by players to conduct themselves in a manner which honours such values. A player is now limited in what they can say or do.

I work for a blue-chip company and understand that when I’m out promoting our business I must be professional in every aspect of my conduct. But no way on god’s green earth could I do this twenty-four-seven. I’d become a drone, and lose what makes me an individual. Outside of work I can do, and usually do, anything I want (legally of course!). I do not envy the pressure of a modern-day league player. Apart from speculation on his form on the field, he lives under public scrutiny whenever he is outside his front door. He can’t even pick his nose walking to the shops without someone ringing talkback radio to discuss his nasal farming. Heaven forbid if he is at the pub with his mates having a few cold ones and looks ever so slightly inebriated. Stories such as Billy Smith being chased by cops whilst driving a golf cart with a schooner in one hand are legendary. Nowadays we have Trent Barrett fined for doing push-ups in his Reg Grundies, in a near empty bar at 2am. Supposedly this brings the game into disrepute.

With such pressure on footballers to conform to the rules of modern day league etiquette, is it any wonder that individualism is slowly dying in our game? The ability to be yourself and speak your mind is a fundamental human right, it differs us from everyone else. We now have a breed of rugby league players who are careful about everything they say or do. Is it any wonder that there are fewer and fewer personalities in the game with all the pressure they are under?

Rugby League has never been in better shape. The quality of football is outstanding, ratings are through the roof, crowds are huge, and we are expanding into Melbourne, why wouldn’t you get excited? But sadly, the trade-off is that the game has lost its level of humanity. It’s commonly accepted that the National Rugby League is now a business. Businesses have behavioural standards that must be abided by. And with this, we have lost the essence of a true villain.

______

748 Words.

Good luck to all players in the Grand Final!!

Cheers, BBJF.

 

[Goleel]

Gol strides out for the Eels to the first grand final in his life, nervously trying to remember the words to the national anthem.

---

Suburban Idol

One man shaped my footballing destiny more than any other. You could say this is no great achievement, since my footballing destiny was to win a half dozen career games in junior and high school teams, yet I feel I owe him at the very least these 750 words. This is the story of my football mentor, my high school economics teacher and occasional football coach, Jonesy.

Jonesy was a man cut from the old school, despite being a reasonably young man. He loved the hard hitting and rugged battles of rugby league, and tried to instil this attitude into our high school team full of lightweight nerds whose previous football experience included lots of lunchtime touch football and watching Eels games from the old north hill. He was a part time referee, and his approach to the game was summed up when he called the teams together before one game he was to officiate, and informed us that ‘If it’s not swinging, I’m not calling it’. Several players left the field at the end of that game with very swollen jaws from some very stiff armed tackles, and it was hard to miss his beaming smile as we sat battered and bruised at the end of the game comparing war wounds.

He was a man who demanded our lightweight pack push in every scrum, and allowed passing and attacking practice ‘if there was time after tackling drills’. He wasn’t one to tolerate excuses. One story he told us many times over the years was from his days as a first grade touch judge, as Lee Oudenryn questioned him for calling back a long break down the sideline for putting a foot into touch. Oudenryn informed him he was ‘having a shocker’. Without even blinking Jonesy fires back ‘No mate, YOU’RE having the shocker’. I don’t think Oudenryn’s career ever recovered from this humiliating blow.

Alas, rugby league passed Jonesy by in more ways than just encouraging 16 year olds to hit each other high as long as it ‘wasn’t swinging’. His beloved North Sydney Bears were removed from the competition, and his long time role of running the first grade sidelines was suddenly stripped from him to allow young referee’s top grade experience. He had no team to support, and now he was stuck as a premier league touch judge, with no chance to get his face on television again to report a late high shot on Ricky Stuart on a Friday Night Football game. In fact, his last television appearance was horribly tragic.

It was a cruel trick played by those larrikins of the Footy Show, a ‘that’s gold’ moment back in the days when the Chief was still being lined up by Mark Carroll for another shoulder charge. Jonesy was just doing his job, as usual doing it well and with style, which would ultimately lead to his demise. As he sprinted down the sideline of Parramatta Stadium, chasing another Eels break, a mischievous cameraman lifted his camera, and with it, the cord, just as Jonesy flashed past, eyes glued only to the play on the field in front of him. He fell with a mighty crash, launching head first into the ground, the footage of his unfortunate fall shown for weeks afterwards by Fatty and friends, in slow motion, in fast forward, backwards and from different angles. It humiliated the proud Jonesy, who from that moment on rarely officiated the big games. I believe he may still be scarred to this day, and his ‘tough, unflappable school teacher’ reputation was forever tarnished.

It was a sad day when junior officiating commitments saw Jonesy retire as football coach for our side. It demoralised our team to the point where we couldn’t win any of our remaining six games, despite going in on a three game winning streak, a school record. Our last game under his guidance was a fitting end to his association with us, a 40-0 hiding at the hands of a Granville side bigger than us in every way, size, talent, facial hair and number of children supporting their front rower daddy.

Jonesy was a man who shaped many a young life, from his tough footballing philosophies to his insistence on stapling misbehaving year seven children to walls by their collars. Without him, I know my passion for football would not be nearly as strong, and I certainly wouldn’t have my beloved clicking jaw. God bless you Jonesy, you are a football hero.

---

750 official and rechecked several times words.

 

[bartman]

Bartman, wearing the lucky Grand Final panties given to him by his girlfriend walks, uncomfortably, into position for the Eels...

- - - - -

A Team Mate’s Letters to the Prodigal Son?

As I walk along,
I wonder what went wrong,
With our love, a love that was so strong.​

March 15 2004 (1): I don’t know what was happening on Saturday night… Usually when we go out there you’re full of life, showing off like only you can, standing out in the crowd. But on Saturday night it seemed like your heart wasn’t in it anymore. Like you didn’t really want to be there, you know? You’re meant to be better than that, and I hope you sort out whatever’s bothering you quick smart.

And as I still walk on,
I think of the things we've done
Together, a-while our hearts were young.​

May 30 2004 (2): OK, I didn’t really understand how you felt that night in March, what you might have been going through, or what that night might mean about our future together. To be honest when the boss man read you the riot act in the sheds, I kind of thought it was deserved? But now I hear you want to leave the city behind, and go back and play where it all started!

How can you leave this, after all we’ve been through together? Who was there alongside you when you made first grade? Who was there through that brilliant season which ended with you playing for Australia? Who was there through your injuries, willing you on at training to get back to your best? And who was there watching you accept all those awards last year (3)?

So you’re just going to turn your back on this and walk away. I wish you’d just stop and explain all this to us; none of it makes any sense.

I'm a-walkin' in the rain,
Tears are fallin' and I feel the pain,
Wishin' you were here by me,
To end this misery.​

19 August 2004 (4): So I find out you’re running away to play in England now? Is that what you really want, winter weather like this the whole year round? Look at what’s happened to the gang since you’ve been gone, we’ve turned into a bunch of easy-beats. There’s a gaping hole where you once stood that nobody else is filling, and there’s no money to replace you.

But there’s a bigger hole mate, one right where it hurts. We all know the boss man can be a bit of prick sometimes, and it’s no secret he had that falling out with your big buddy last year. But that’s all back room stuff - we were a gang weren’t we? We could’ve worked it out, got on with playing and winning despite the boss man. We used to have something special, mates playing side by side on the field. With you missing this year it’s just felt like a job, and nothing more.

And I wonder--
I wah-wah-wah-wah-wonder,
Why,
Why, why, why, why, why (he) ran away.​

November 29 2005 (5): Well you seem to have done alright for yourself over there, winning almost every award there is in your first season in England! Seems like you got your love for the game back, which is a good thing. I see your blokes got bundled out of the semis early? So did we. This year was an OK year but ended up with that same feeling just like 2001, knowing it could’ve been so much more….

Hey, I know you and the boss man didn’t get on, but there’s rumours flying around the club that he won’t be around in 2007! Don’t suppose you’d be interested in coming back and reminding us all of what we’ve been missing? It’d be a good chance to show everyone who the real problem was here. Imagine that… no boss man, you returning to your mates, and maybe we could get that grand final win together after all? Food for thought anyway.

Yes, and I wonder,
A-where (he) will stay-ay,
My little runaway,
Run, run, run, run, runaway.​

July 5 2006 (6): Manly! Why Manly? What happened? The boss man got the boot here, it was all set up perfectly for you to come back. I thought you were really keen on making things right… all this talk in the press, your manager and that contract he took over there? Was this your big buddy’s plan all along? Well he can’t protect you where it counts, out on the playing field. We’ll be waiting to settle some scores next season… Judas!

- - - - -

750 words between the lines

Sources:

“Runaway” lyrics by Del Shannon 1961 (http://www.delshannon.com/)

1 http://www.parraeels.com.au/news/news714.asp
2 http://www.smh.com.au/articles/2004/05/29/1085641765322.html
3 http://www.parraeels.com.au/supporters/honourroll.asp
4 http://archive.thisischeshire.co.uk/2004/8/19/145057.html
5 http://www.iskim.co.uk/clients/saints/newsroom.asp?id=68
6 http://www.nrl.com/News/ClubNews/ClubNewsArticle/tabid/78/NewsId/1949/Default.aspx

 

[antonius]

Ref Blows Fulltime.

 

[Cheesie-the-Pirate]

Thanks ref!

Good luck one and all.

:thumb

 

[Willow]

Thank you time keeper.
5 v 5 and great work all round. Looks like a cracker of a match.

 

[eloquentEEL]

looks like another nail-biter from here. good luck all.

 

[1eyedeel]

Go Eels!

 

[antonius]

Just an update peoples. I have marked the articles, when I get home this afternoon I'll match them up with the authors and should have a result up for you some time early this evening.

 

[The Colonel]

Just an update peoples. I have marked the articles, when I get home this afternoon I'll match them up with the authors and should have a result up for you some time early this evening.

Way to get my hopes up............. :lol: