2010 GRAND FINAL: Panthers v Bluebags

[The Piper]

Forum 7s
GRAND FINAL 2010
PENRITH PANTHERS v NEWTOWN BLUEBAGS

-v-

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

Naming Teams:
* 5v5 (+ 2 reserves)
* No 'TBA' or changing players named
* Captains must stick with original teams named

ALL THE RULES & REGULATIONS: http://f7s.leagueunlimited.com/rules.php

FULL TIME: Wednesday 29th September 2010 at 9pm (Syd time)
REFEREE: Non Terminator
Venue: Front Row Stadium

CLICK HERE FOR OFFICIAL WORD COUNTER

Good luck both sides...

 

[Big Mick]

Panthers team for the Grand Final:

1. Leaguenut
2. Madunit
3. Big Mick
4. Azkatro
5. The Piper

6. Edabomb
7. Broncoman

 

[LeagueNut]

LeagueNut posts his article far too early, still confused by the sudden onset of Daylight Savings in NZ...

729 words (including title) in the official counter

LeagueNut - Panthers

Conversion

The packed crowd didn’t see too much to get the heart racing in the first half. There was a bit of softening up in the beginning, a few tries were grinded out, and a field goal inside the last 20 seconds opened up a seven point lead. The second half was an absolute corker – the lead changed half a dozen times and both sides were completely spent leading into the last few minutes. A try in the corner reduced the deficit to one – so it all came down to a sideline conversion, after the hooter, to win the match.

The kicker placed the ball, looked up at the posts, and began his pre-kicking ritual …

Helen didn’t want to watch – but she couldn’t look away. Her husband was sitting beside her, as still as a statue, gripping his beer like a life-preserver. She’d been with him long enough to know what a good result meant – he’d be loud, drunk and obnoxious on the train, then they’d stumble home and she’d perform her matrimonial duties whether she felt like it or not. A bad result would leave her with that familiar numb feeling in the pit of her stomach. Sometimes he’d snap within a few hours, but often it wasn’t until a day or two later … or if she was really lucky, he wouldn’t snap at all. Her friends and workmates knew, but no-one was brave enough to raise it. She silently prayed for the kick to miss – but just in case, she also started thinking about how she could explain one more black eye.

Matty felt like he was about to cry but didn’t understand why. He loved coming to games with his Dad, he loved the noise and atmosphere, and he especially loved a winning result. He wanted the kick to miss … but he’d also feel a bit sorry for the losers … he was learning and trying to remember a LOT of new and interesting words … and out of the corner of his eye he saw a balloon in the opposite stand. The mixture of a pressure-cooker atmosphere and a couple of soft drinks had churned him all up inside – a missed kick would be “the most awesome result”, but would also produce a sudden river of half-digested chips and warm coca-cola. Jacob’s dad may have picked the wrong game to wear jandals.

Lucy had become oblivious to the excitement around her. She was looking fondly over at Todd, still managing to see her shining prince behind the loud animated face he was directing towards the field. It may not have been an official “date” but she wasn’t stupid – she had noticed that each try celebration had seen them pulling each other closer and closer. If this kick was good, Lucy was going to take her chance and steal a kiss. She felt like her stomach was on an impossibly fast spin cycle, mixed with enough helium to lift the entire stand off the ground. She tried to calm herself with a deep breath but that just made her shiver. After a quick lick of her lips and an even quicker glance to the sky, she took another breath and turned to watch the conversion.

Jonno had no idea just how much he had riding on the result. He was yelling himself hoarse in a futile attempt to distract the kicker, becoming more vulgar with each passing second. He’d also poised himself on the balls of his feet – so once the kick had missed, he could easily swivel around and give some more lip to the opposition fans sitting in the same bay. It was something of a ritual for him – he didn’t mean to be offensive, and he was able to take it just as well as he could give it – but this time he’d gone a bit too far. Greg had been stewing for most of the second half, and while he didn’t have full control of his marbles, he did have a firm grip on an empty glass bottle in his bag. He wasn’t going to hesitate … a missed kick would see him strike … but if Jonno spun around at the same time, things could end up getting ugly. Jonno kept shouting, and Greg kept gripping.

The kicker paused … looked down at the ball, then up at the posts … and began to move in …

 

[madunit]

madunit, Panthers - posting due to jet lag suffered from travelling from the real world to Melbourne.

Please, Give Generously.

If you look closely you will see the skin pigmentation, caused by AFL.


This is Jack.

He is just 9 years old.

Ever since the day he was born he has had to live in a world of disease, hunger and oppression. Every day, hundreds of children are born into this world Jack lives in and for over a century, their plight has barely changed.

Jack doesn’t live in Ethiopia or some other third world country.

No.

He lives in Melbourne.

Jack, like millions of others in Melbourne, suffers badly from a rare disease, which is a combination of AIDS, Fahr’s Syndrome and Laxova-Opitz syndrome, also known as AFL.

The symptoms are severe. Neurological malfunction and mental geniusation most of which is hereditary, causing the disease to get stronger and more detrimental in each generation, seeing them get separated further and further from reality as the years go by.

This neurological regression is worsened by a passion for watching gay men chase each other around a paddock for hours every week, under the belief it is a sport. They become so enchanted by this ‘sport’ that they live and breathe by it. To the extent that they feel it is the only game played in the entire world. The game inspires them and unfortunately, arouses them as well. Their breeding with fellow sufferers allows the virus to grow strong and spread further.

The disease initially began in Ireland over a century ago. An infected Irishman is believed to have brought it to Australia. The virus remained stagnant for the 7 years he lived in Sydney, however it wasn’t until he began a journey southward that it stirred from its slumber. The cold southerly wind coupled with the chemicals in the Murray River created the ideal conditions for this virus to grow. Initially it was an airborne disease, but attached itself to newer diseases, like AIDS, over time to become a stronger and seemingly incurable illness.

Once the outbreak was revealed, the Northern states agreed to section off the land south of the Murray River in an attempt to contain the affected people to that one isolated region. The new area was named after Queen Victoria, daughter of King George III who suffered terribly from an alleged hereditary mental instability. He was deemed insane for the last decade of his life.

The Northerners believed the disease would kill the inhabitants of Victoria over time. Instead, it saw them breed at higher rates than the rest of the country. 70 years later, the state had become over populated and its residents began to flee the state.

Unfortunately, AFL followed them and today all states of Australia are affected by this debilitating illness.

In 1998, the National Remedy Legion, or NRL, set up a field hospital in the most severely affected area of Victoria, Melbourne. They provided remedies, therapies and social change to try and combat the effects of the disease. However, within a decade of its inception, some of the organisers of the Legion had become infected and had brought the NRL to its knees. They were found to be stealing medical supplies and embezzling money.

This act of insanity took its toll on the small, yet growing number of people who had begun successfully fighting the AFL disease.

Now, the dreaded AFL is set to claim back those who almost escaped it. The children are already seemingly doomed. From birth til death they are expected to fall victim to AFL, and almost all of them do.

But there is hope.

For every dollar you donate, we can help resurrect the NRL in Melbourne, providing them with adequate medical supplies to help these poor children from a lifetime of suffering and agony. They will also receive education and training so that one day, they too can join the NRL, to help spread the cure to the crippling AFL.

You will also sponsor a child, just like Jack, which will help rehabilitate him and rid him of this terrible illness. Every month you will receive emails from them containing stories about their recovery, along with report cards and witnessing their progression up the ranks in the NRL.

But this cannot happen without your support and your compassion.

So please, open your hearts and your wallets and donate, so that kids like Jack can live in an AFL free world and live a life that has never been possible before.

Please, give generously.

742 words, including title and image caption

 

[Willow]

The premier match of the F7s season. Long live the F7s!

It's an honour to be here.

The big blue Baggers bus takes flight, we tranverse the expanse before making landfall on the hallowed turf of The Front Row Stadium.

A hundred old players spill onto the deck. Just seven head towards the sheds, and five strap on their boots.

All players, past and present, are proudly wearing their Bluebags jersey.

NEWTOWN BLUEBAGS
2010 GRAND FINAL SIDE



Willow (c)
gorilla (vc)
Drew-sta
muzby
Red Bear (by proxy)

Interchange:
Rexxy
Ridders


*shakes hands with the Panthers*

Good luck one and all.

 

[muzby]

muzby savours his grand final experience.. looks at the huge crowd.. and commences the first hit up for the bags...

750 words from title to end..

This article is proudly brought to you by Heinz.



Sponsorship. Just how far should it be integrated into our great game?

The role sponsorship plays in everyday life creates quite a lot of confusion as it is. I saw an ad on TV the other day for World Vision, advising I could sponsor a child in Africa. This seemed like a good idea, so I gave them a call and became a child sponsor. When I tried to send the child through some clothing with my name emblazoned across the back and the front, it was returned and they politely advised me that it was not “that” type of sponsorship.

But, back to the great game of rugby league. I heard on the radio that the favourite team for the NRL this year is the St George Bank Dragons. Whilst I am sure the good folk in Wollongong would be annoyed that they left out the name “Illawarra”, I questioned what exactly a “Bank Dragon” was. Maybe some kind of angry bank manager who didn’t approve many loans? But either way, figured that they would not make a very good mascot.

It seems that we are now seeing more sponsorship within the NRL than we ever have before. We have different jersey sponsors for the front and the back. We have sleeve sponsors. Front of shorts sponsors. Back of shorts sponsors. Boot sponsors. Some teams even have different sponsors for their alternate jerseys. We see corner post sponsorship, a couple of years ago we saw the black dot on the goalposts sponsored by Xbox - which is kind of ironic given that for years there has not been a rugby league game developed for that console.

But it’s not just the individual parts of the ground that are sponsored - the entire stadium would not be complete without a few million dollars thrown towards it for a name change. When historians look back at the NRL, I’m sure it will confuse them to see that the Brisbane Broncos, appear to have played at the same home ground as the South Sydney Rabbitohs. Don’t believe me? Well, from 1993 through to 2003 the Broncos home ground was ANZ Stadium.

And the South Sydney Rabbitohs have been playing out of ANZ Stadium for the past three seasons. Confused? Most league fans would know that there have been two different venues bearing the name ANZ Stadium - one in Queensland and one in New South Wales. But of course, anyone who simply reviews the stats in the future may get a little confused.

So, I hear you ask where will it all end?

Thanks for asking, let me help you with the answer to that question. I believe the time has come for players to start banking on their personality and achieving personal sponsorship. And I don’t mean having the sponsor’s logo tattooed on your body.

Nothing says true dedication to a sponsor like a name change.

Just imagine the money that Jarryd Hayne could make if the Hayne Train simply walked into the Registrar of Births, Deaths and Marriages and walked back out with the simple, one word name of “CityRail”. And of course, its not just great publicity for the sponsors, the commentators could effectively halve their workload by potentially only having to rely on one name instead of two.

But, with the lure of the dollar continuing to encourage clubs, officials and players within the NRL to offer up their names (and some would say their souls) to sponsors, this scenario could be a reality. After all, in the AFL we did see Gary Hocking legally change his name to “Whiskas” for one game. Although was this simply an indication that AFL is a game for pussies?

Some sponsorships will appear to write themselves. There is Pura Milk, the five-eighth for the Dragons, famous for his headgear and fancy goal kicking routine.

But, it's not all humour and smiles. Sponsorship, like it has in everyday life, would no doubt increase its sway on the players and their new found name changes. Indeed, it would not take long before a sponsor convinced a whole team to change?

I would like to leave you with this scenario. Imagine picking up the paper one Wednesday morning to see the following side named for a weekend clash:

Sydney Roosters

1. Two
2. All Beef
3. Patties
4. Special
5. Sauce
6. Lettuce
7. Cheese
8. Pickles
9. Onions
10. On A
11. Sesame
12. Seed
13. Bun

 

[Drew-Sta]

Drew-Sta straps on the boots, tapes his ears back and don's the Bluebags jersey for the last game of this year. Popping his mouth guard in, he runs out onto the field of dreams...

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My dad will be there...

When I was born, my dad was there. He often recalled to me that I was destined to be a Saints fan, because I came out of the womb screaming in pain. It just happened to be the infamous day Eric Grothe smashed through Saints in the preliminary final in 1984, charging down the line and scoring a try to shatter the hearts of Dragons fans at the SCG. I’m sure that of the tears he shed at birth, one or two was for the game he’d listened to on the radio as he drove mum to the hospital.

She never quite let him live that one down.

When I first started to walk, my dad was there. Polaroid camera in hand, he took a few snaps and proudly kept them on the fridge for years after. He often recalled that it was those first few days of walking that I developed my in and away for footy as he could never quite pick which direction I’d stumble in.

When I first went to school, my dad was there. I remember him walking me to the gate and kneeling down next to me.

“Son, just remember one thing – When you play catch and kiss, don’t tackle the girls too hard.”

When I went to see my first Saints game, my dad was there. He took me up to the top of the hill and sat me on his shoulders. I’ve never felt more loved as he cheered with me, hugged me, passed the ball to me and with his great bearded face smiled at me when we won.

“Remember this, son, remember this!”

I can still feel the bear hug he gave me after the game before he walked me down to the car holding my hand.

When I played my first game of footy, my dad was there. He took me aside before the game and looked at me with serious eyes.

“Mate, I want you to enjoy this. Go out there and play like we play in the back yard. Don’t worry about what anyone says, just do that and you’ll be right.”

I nodded back and ran out in the blue and white of Hurstville United. I remember that no matter where I was on the field, I could always look to the sideline and I’d catch my dad’s eyes and he’d give me a smile of confidence.

When I played in my U/18s grand final, my dad was there. We’d had a hard season, and I was running on empty with no time to go when my opposite centre knocked on. I grabbed the ball, put a jig on and went straight through. I stepped the full back and went on to score under the posts, putting the game beyond doubt and sending the hundred or so people watching us into rapture.

I looked to the sideline, and there was my dad smiling and I could see the glint of a tear running down his face. It was the only time I’d ever seen my dad cry and I’m so grateful it was from joy.

When Saints played the Tigers in 2005, my dad was there. He and I bought front row seats and the agony of the night will live with me forever. As I vented on the way home, my dad turned to me and said ‘Don’t worry son, they’ll get there one day. And when we do, we’ll be there together.’ That made the whole night feel ok.

When I got married, my dad was there. He stood in the front row beside mum, and he was the only one who didn’t turn when the bride was announced. Instead, he winked, smiled and mouthed ‘I'm proud of you son.’

When my dad died, I was there. As we watched Saints demolish the Eels on TV in Round 26, he turned to me and said ‘We’re gonna do it, son. We’re gonna get there.’ His face was creased with pain and his body riddled with cancer, but his eyes were alight and the spark of excitement filled them. I thank God he never saw the week afters result.

When Saints run out on Sunday evening, I will be there. Draped across my shoulders will be dads jersey, and I know he will be standing next to me in spirit. He would never miss a day like this with me. I know that dad will be there.

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Word count - 748 between the lines.

 

[Azkatro]

Azkatro posting for the Panthers.

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Snap Decision (Part II)

My younger brother, Dave, used to be a bit of a wild child.

We make a good pair. He has the sporting talent and I'm the brains. He was always a natural at footy, and good enough to have signed with a big club while still in school.

But he was no stranger to drinking and smoking. He was actually a real good kid with a big heart and he'd talk to anyone and everyone. But he was impressionable and naïve, and Mum and I used to worry about him getting into strife.

I often think back to the night of the 2003 grand final between Penrith and the Roosters, which we had tickets to.

He was being a real cheeky bugger. I was keen to watch the action, but every five minutes he'd disappear and I'd have to go looking for him.

After the game finished and we were heading home, he wanted to head off with some rather unsavoury looking chaps. I told him it wasn't gonna happen, and after having chased him all night, I gave him a serve and told him to pull his head in.

He didn't take too kindly to that. His "mates" had a van waiting and he ran off to go with them in protest.

I chased. He jumped in and started to slide the door shut.

I remember that moment like it happened yesterday. It seemed frozen in time. I had to make a snap decision. I had to stop him somehow.

I thrust my arm in as the door closed and managed to grab Dave's shirt. The pain of the door slamming on my arm surged through my whole body. Then the van started to pull away. Despite all this, there was no way in hell I was letting go. I started to run alongside it, but I lost my footing and fell down as it turned towards me. I remember the feeling of excruciating agony as the rear wheel of the van rolled over my lower body, crushing it terribly.

All I remember after that is the sirens, ambulance, doctors, then hospital.

I woke up the morning after and saw Mum and Dave looking at me. They looked like they'd seen a ghost. But the painkillers must have been going alright, because I grilled Dave straight away.

"Did you go out with that mob of dickheads last night?"

He chuckled and looked like he was about to burst into tears for some reason. But he shook his head. "I had to get your scrawny arse to the hospital, didn't I?"

Something about Dave changed from then onwards. He visited me every day at the hospital, helping me through my recovery. I try not to dwell on it too much, but I must have been in there for nearly six months. It was hard work but I couldn't have done it without his support.

That was a long time ago now. Today, Dave played his first game in the NRL. It's been a dream day. Mum and I were in the crowd and watched on as he scored a brilliant hat-trick. He was spotted all day by older, experienced and hard forwards but he never let it shake him. I really enjoyed the third try because he gave a salute to Mum and I.

Everybody around us couldn't stop raving about him. "That's my brother," I was telling them. "I taught him everything he knew!"

Later on we caught up with Dave and his teammates in the victorious dressing room. It was a huge buzz to meet the calibre of players in there.

As I was getting to know a couple of them, I actually overheard Dave talking about me to someone else. "I feel bulletproof knowing he's there. I know firsthand how much he's willing to sacrifice for me. It's almost like I'm running on his legs."

Hearing him say that put a smile on my face that stretched from ear to ear.

Shortly afterwards, a few of the boys invited Dave out for celebratory drinks. I figured he'd accept, but his response surprised me.

"Nah thanks boys, I'm gonna head home and have a quiet one with my brother."

Dave's captain was quick to respond. "I completely understand," he said. "You're bloody lucky to have a brother like him."

"Thanks mate," Dave replied.

He smiled at me as he pushed me out on my wheelchair.

"Never a truer word spoken."

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747 words. Liftoff!

 

[Big Mick]

Big Mick Runs out onto the field for the Penrith Panthers to the tune of Come with Me from P-Diddy - Game time!

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​

Football Eulogy for Fred:​

My name is Michael - I am the nephew of Fred Arapa. Firstly, thank you to those who are here today to celebrate the life of Fred, who today will be laid to rest at the age of 70. I recently came across a quote from The Bible which said “Good men must die, but death cannot kill their names” and from the attendance today it is suffice to say that while we lay rest a good man, Fred will be remembered as a man who dedicated so much of his life to his family and community.

Born in Malta in 1940 he immigrated to Australia following World War II after Malta suffered devastation from the German Air Force. Australia extended 10,000 Maltese citizens the chance at a new life and for Fred, he was a thankful beneficiary of that generosity.

Fred had never taken his citizenship for granted and was proud to call himself an Australian. While Soccer would always be his first love, his second love would soon become Rugby League, and so would the Sydney Roosters.

I remember growing up hearing stories of great Rooster players such as Arthur Beetson, Kevin Hastings and Bill Mullins as well as great coaches such as Jack Gibson. Fred was an extremely loyal Roosters supporter and for the last 22 years, a season ticket holder.

He loved his Roosters and they loved him back with Brad Fittler sending a personalized letter when he reached his 20 years of membership with the club. This was something he had framed with pride in his lounge room

Fred was instrumental in my upbringing – helping raise me while mum and dad were working. We used to stay up and watch old games and attended matches every weekend. He made me the man I am today and I’m thankful for all the time he invested in me, when at times I couldn’t have been more difficult.

Fred was there when I played my first game in the Under 7’s for Cronulla-Caringbah and while my father was there screaming “Tackle with your shoulder Mick!” my uncle was there after the game to tell me “well done Mick, I’m very proud”. That’s not to say Dad wasn’t proud, he just had a different way of showing it.

Uncle Fred turned up to every game, and whether I had a good or bad game, he was always proud of my effort. He provided oranges for our team on a weekly basis as well as providing ongoing support to my friends on the team by driving us to away games. He was the best uncle a young man could ask for.

Without Fred, I don’t think I could have made it through my horrific injury I sustained in the Under 14’s after falling victim to a spear tackle. While my football days were over after that event, he was still there at my side supporting me. I felt truly blessed.

While Fred was disappointed that I ended up supporting the Penrith Panthers and not his beloved Roosters, he understood my decision. Fred ensured every time the Roosters beat Penrith, I knew about it. However, nothing compared to how smug he was when the Roosters signed Brad Fittler, Matt Sing and Phil Gould from Penrith. Then again I also had the last laugh in 2003 when we attended the Grand Final together on a rainy October night, where Penrith triumphed. Suffice to say he was more humble in defeat than I was gracious in victory.

I will always remember the good times with you, Uncle Fred. I will never forget your love, your support and your ability to always make me feel better after a bad game. Without your guidance I wouldn’t be the man I am today. I wouldn’t have the fun loving spirit that you instilled in me. I wouldn’t have the kind of giving spirit I have today without your lead.

Fred, I will always miss your nurturing love, your thunderous laugh and your support of the greatest game of all. You have been a wonderful role model in my life, but most of all you’ve been a great friend. And when the Roosters run out on the field on Sunday, I hope they win one for you. For the first time in a long time….yes Fred, I’ll be supporting the Roosters to honour you and your life. I love you Fred. God bless, rest easy and Go the Roosters.

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747 Words

 

[gorilla]

*gorilla sucks in a few gig ones and looks around the sheds*

*shakes every players and Bags visitors hands, and walks out into the sunshine*

*********

Slap, slap, slap.

It’s a cool night despite an early Spring arrival. We stand barefoot, already awkward, in loose training gear – singlets and shorts. A group of five on the try line, all forwards, conscious of the 100 metres stretching out in front of us.

“Carn, yah bastards, get on with it !” “Show us yer tits !” Voices call out across the dimly-lit air from the groups scattered at different points along the field, amongst the balls and tackle pads.

The field narrows down, almost telescopically, to the goal posts – far away and seemingly moving further each second. Tops come off. Shouts echo around and cat-calls erupt as shorts are slowly peeled down. Everyone else is still wearing jocks and dick-stickers and I’m initially embarrassed as I’ve been caught ‘ready-to-run’, commando style.

The opposite of tumescent (or swollen) is detumescent, and I realise this doesn’t come close to capturing the full sense of cold-air shrinkage and I stand there with my wedding tackle, like a little button, tucked into my open-prop forward’s grasp in a wasted act of modesty.

The last of the jocks and swimmers are shed and we all now stand, jiggle-footed and self-conscious. The blind-side prop throws caution to the wind; dancing and farting like a giant baboon and throwing brown-eyes at the nearest crowd. I feel strangely stimulated and I realise my grasp has subconsciously slipped into self-pleasuring auto mode, so I also throw my arms up high and live in the moment of exposure – not yet realising was to come.

The nudie run is an institution in football codes. Whilst I would love to see the netball equivalent, I’ve never heard of it. Nudie runs are the outcome of a season spent try-less. Each player who doesn't score a try during a season is required to strip off and run a distance naked as a penalty for their inability to score. It’s a bit like the ‘dacks down’ penalty when playing pool and you lose the game without sinking a ball.

There’s a sense of impending embarrassment and camaraderie that arises in the final weeks as try-less players realise their future and work hard to score. Sometimes they get lucky, or players set them up instead of scoring themselves, but mostly by the time you realise it’s coming, it’s too late.

Generally it’s the forwards who end up on nudie runs – if a back is not scoring, then they shouldn’t be playing on the team. Even set up kings can throw a dummy and scoot through for a try – it’s the grunt players, the yardage men who cop the stick at the season’s end.

We look around, noticing little glances at each other, then we hear the gnarled voice of our coach: “No wonder youse couldn’t score, youse can’t run either ! f**kin’ get goin’ !”

I stumble at the start as I jog off the line. One of the others runs flat out and we watch his white bum blobbing along in the shadows with a hint of something hairy between his legs. I realise this is best done and dusted quickly and speed up, thankfully realising I’m carrying my shorts and top so I can get dressed at the finish.

Twenty to thirty metres in to it, I start to forget about how I look and I become aware of guffaws and hooting on the sidelines – a woman’s lone, thin and high-pitched excited squealing comes from a car parked around the ground.

My thighs have started to push my genitals from side to side and I try to run duck-waddled to stop the rocking push, side to side as a low pain starts. I feel myself weirdly getting thicker and heavier and steel myself to shrink.

Sixty metres gone and we’re near the finish, when suddenly the crowd explodes in camera flashes – we’re caught wide-eyed, flush-faced and grimacing, straining to get this over with but not to damage ourselves.

We can’t help ourselves, many years of training kick in and, as a group, we start to sprint. Arms pumping, legs driving, I see the line ahead as I finish the last ten metres.

In the final moments the genital-pendulum has returned big time and a sprinting at speed I am being bumped and bruised. In the clear night, with the laughter of the crowd blocked out in final concentration, all I can hear is my laboured breathing and,
a steady ‘slap … slap ... slap’ as the wedding tackle bounces heavily from thigh to thigh to thigh.

*********
750 words

 

[The Piper]

The Piper for The Panthers in The Grand Final

Voices of Grandeur

The fullback was met by many adoring young fans who all wanted him to jot his name down for them on a piece of paper. He wasn’t really that old himself nowadays, and remembered asking his heroes for their autographs not that long ago. He was the hero this time round. The fullback couldn’t deny the children the same warm emotion he had known. The fifteen to twenty minutes standing out in the stadium grounds took his mind off the game that was yet to come, if only momentarily. It was a massive match to be a part of. It was the National Rugby League Grand Final. Signing autographs also gave him a short break from the little voices that seemed to be drilling him with both admiration as well as discouragement all morning. As the fullback had made his way through the sea of fans, he had got himself another snippet of silence that he had not had for quiet sometime. Unfortunately for him, it was all the time the little voices needed to strike up another conversation.

What if you make an almighty mistake that costs you the game? Remember these children’s happy faces now. When you do make that mistake, they will not be so happy for a long time.

But what if you make a try saving tackle that seals you the victory? The children will look at your poster on the wall and adore you for a long time to come.

Stepping into the change room, the fullback was heartily greeted by excited teammates. They were congratulating him on a stellar rookie season with the club. The coach walked around, quietly addressing each individual player now before a big team talk was held. It was he that tried to bring the fullback back to ground level after the accolades of his mates. He tried to do this without putting too much pressure on the young Number 1. With the pat on the back and a going over of what the coach would say prior to basically every match, he ended with, “You know what to do. And have fun,” and a smile. The fullback figured sitting and listening to his iPod would drown out the voices. It didn’t.

A costly penalty would just kill your coach and teammates if you do something stupid right in front of the sticks. They believe in you. You can’t let them down. But you easily could.

You’ve done everything your coach and teammates have asked of you this year, and more. That’s why you’re here. They believe in you. You won’t let them down.

Pulling on the jersey, the fullback found himself staring at the bright, clean number 1 on the back of the uniform. His parents had given him the nickname ‘Number One’. It was back when the fullback was playing fullback in Under 16s. It seemed like a millennium ago to him now. The fullback thought about the player who would have been wearing this jersey back in those days. He thought about all the other greats of the game who had pulled on the club’s jumpers throughout the years. There was plenty of history around this place.

A knock on at the wrong time will see you disgrace the great name of this jersey. Would you like that?

Supporting the halfback at just the right time could see you go down as one of the greats to pull on the jersey. Would you like that?

The team lined up, awaiting entry to the field. The fullback stood somewhere in the middle. The angel on one shoulder was bickering so constantly with the devil on his other shoulder; the voices in his head were just noise. Maybe it was the roar of the seventy thousand person crowd that was causing his head to hurt. Whatever it was, he had to shut it out, for the fullback began to jog out with the squad to the middle of the ground.

The national anthem rang out. The crowd was electric. The voices were loud.

As his team stood to receive the ball from the kick off, the good and bad voices got one last say in.

Don’t drop this.

Don’t give up.

The young fullback answered the voices just as the referee’s whistle blew and the torpedoing ball came sailing down in his direction.

“The Grand Final is underway...”

733 words says the official counter.

 

[Willow]

Willow | Bluebags


I Have a Dream

In The Greatest Game of All we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow. But I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the Australian dream.​

Firstly, apologies to Martin Luther King Jnr, his family, friends and supporters. But these heavily embellished words form the basis of my system of belief. It has carried me through all the sports I have followed, including the Forum Sevens.​

It is a belief born out of a sense of fair go. That is, a fair go where the players play for themselves, their club and the fans. A fair go where players are not playing for the referee or the administration.​

I have a dream that one day this game will rise up and live out the true meaning of its forefathers: "We hold the playing field to be self-evident, that all teams are created equal."​

Rugby league is often a battle between good and evil. Prejudice is no stranger. There's nothing pretty about supporters passing judgment on each other based on the colour of their jersey. It's something that many of us are guilty of.​

In my opinion, we can do better.​

I have a dream that one day under the red roofs of Sydney, the sons of reserve graders and the sons of champions will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.​

I was brought up in Sydney, the home of the old first grade - at the time it was the best rugby league competition in the world. The Sydney comp was so good that it gave its soul to a national competition, losing the equal format of home and away games on opposing fortnights and three grades of football distributed evenly to each fixture. Indeed, those were the days.​

I have a dream that one day even the state of Queensland, a state sweltering with the heat of Origin dominance, sweltering with the heat of mistrust towards their southern neighbours, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and recognition of the old Sydney comp.​

Ask Queenslanders and they'll tell you the New South Welshmen of League are not to be trusted. The same NSWRL that reliquished control over the first grade so other states and territories could get their slice. New clubs from Queensland, Canberra, Auckland and Melbourne were all given their keys to the kingdom. Some betrayed that trust. The New South Welshmen need to embrace forgiveness.​

I have a dream that my sons and daughters will one day play in a competition where they will not be judged by the colour of their jersey but by the content of their character. ​

I have a dream today!​

But through it all, through all the pain of Super League, the anguish of deceit, media beat-ups, salary cap rorts and betting scandals, I still believe we have the opportunity to recapture the spirit that lingers within The Greatest Game of All.​

I have a dream that one day, down in Melbourne, with its vicious AFL media, with its supporters having their lips dripping with the words of "interposition" and "nullification" -- one day right there in Melbourne little Storm boys and girls will be able to join hands as sisters and brothers with their northern brethren.​

I have a dream today!​

Andrew Ettinghausen once said, "I don't care which team you support, as long as you support a team."

Now if a Sharks player can say this, a team that I have no love for, then I too can build a bridge. Then in Queensland I saw the power of brotherhood and sisterhood at the Indigenous vs NRL All Stars clash. It showed to me that anything is possible.​

I have a dream that one day every trophy shall be exalted, and every football ground shall be made equal, the rough pitches will be made plain, and the crooked bookies will be made straight; "and the glory of rugby league shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together."​

With the 2010 grand final being an all Sydney affair, it seems we have come a full circle. Two old rivals, the Dragons and the Roosters shall rekindle the battles of St George and Eastern Suburbs. The comradeship shall be evident, just as it was in 1975 when victorious Easts captain Arthur Beetson consoled his mate St George captain Graeme Langlands on the sideline.​

This is what we watch football for. This is at the heart of the dream.​

| 750 words |​

 

[Willow]

Red Bear for the Bluebags (posting by proxy)


The Sheds

Welcome one, welcome all. Sometimes in our broadcasting of sport we are able to bring you some special viewing. Today, after much haggling and negotiation we are able to bring you a warts and all look at the life of a Forum 7s side, the Newtown Bluebags, on game day. We present to you ‘The Sheds.’

Pre-match
Henson Park. A venerable old ground, magnificent in its simplicity. From the bench seats to the old grandstand. From the people watching the games from their cars to the canteen ladies who look like they’ve been there thirty years. A ghost town at times, but a trip up the tunnel of the King George V Memorial Grandstand on game day tells a different story. Shall we visit?

Entering the home dressing room and it’s a stark contrast to some of the more modern places. A bit of dust, a bit of grime, some unidentifiable stains, a haze of smoke (don’t worry OH&S people, a window has been opened) and a slight whiff of urine. And yet everyone is going through the usual pre-match routines.

Captain, coach, manager and ideas man, Willow seems to be trying to impart some semblance of control over the place. There’s no fingernails left on those hands. As he taps on the whiteboard, seemingly wishing to combine the mixture of scrawled notes, black and white photographs of old St. George players and links to the past into an article, he surveys the dressing room. “Who goes on the team sheet this week,” is the question that seems to be ticking over in his mind.

Panning around the shed others seem to be taking a mild interest in the ideas mill, like a room of school children. School children at about 2:30pm on a Friday afternoon anyway.

Veterans seem to hang together. Rexxy has his seat positioned at a bit of a different angle to the rest. He just seems to be looking at things in a slightly different manner.

Nearby gorilla is taping every writing appendage he has, keeping everything together in his desperate bid to retire on a high note.

A few players are plugged into the music systems. Mr. Angry, clutching black coffee in one hand and a ciggie in the other, has his personalised iPod containing only the releases of Milli Vanilli. I wouldn’t say he looks like he’s enjoying it, but he at least seems smug about it.

muzby seems to be holding up proceedings. After a direct flight from Melbourne he takes a little while longer to get ready. Having to remove those layers of thermals, the waterproof raincoat and the chip on the shoulder takes a little time.

Red Bear seems busy applying vast quantities of sunscreen. He wouldn’t have any idea what the weather was doing outside, but being a redhead he’ll be getting burnt regardless. He seems to be leaving all other preparations to the last minute.

Some pre match routines are a little more expected. ozbash is hanging in the corner, having managed to sneak a woolly friend in. Ridders is have a look over some questionable Fernando Torres pictures. And of course, Timmah is eating all the pies.

The change in atmosphere as Willow finally brings order to proceedings is stark. With all the reverence of, well, a reverend, the team list is read out. Some players look pretty happy, some disappointed. The wracking of brains has begun as the lucky seven mentally prepare themselves for action.

“Time to go, lads,” is heard from the outside, with the accompanying knock on the door. The referee has spoken. Some players look relaxed and comfortable as they start the walk over to the tunnel. Others look as though they’ve been summoned for the gallows.

Half Time
Puffing. Panting. Retching. Coughing. Spluttering. The shed is just a blur of hands grabbing for drinks, hands grabbing for oranges, hands grabbing for cold taps. Why didn’t the club do more fitness work over the off season? After what seems like no time at all it’s back to the grind.

Full Time
“Yahoo,” comes the cry up the tunnel as the triumphant Bluebags re-enter the sheds. Back-slapping and high fives all around. The esky is already waiting, full of KB Lager. It is Henson Park after all. Players circle the rooms, looking for something to bang, be it a locker, a handy bin or the ‘massage’ tables. Captain Willow leads the roar...

‘Newtown is coming, Hear the Bluebags humming, NEWTOWN, NEWTOWN...’
-----------------------------

750 words between the lines according to the word counter

 

[Drew-Sta]

Well done, 5v5 for GF

Given we're now all in, shall we call FT?

 

[madunit]

Sounds good by me

 

[Non Terminator]

I'm sure people want the result. Been doing it for about twenty minutes, but as this is a Grand Final, taking my precious time today. Good luck all, stay tuned.

 

[Big Mick]

I'm sure people want the result. Been doing it for about twenty minutes, but as this is a Grand Final, taking my precious time today. Good luck all, stay tuned.

No drama's dude.

Take your time.

Looking forward to it

 

[Big Mick]

Well done to the Bluebags and Panthers for getting 5 cracking articles each in.

To my lads...I'm proud of what we'd achieved. I don't think going into the season we were a sexy pick to end up here, but we did through all your hard work and it was a pleasure playing beside you. You are all legends and I'm proud of everything we've achieved as a group.

 

[madunit]

what a bloody finish!

 

[Willow]

Thanks timekeeper/ref.

It was tough work yesterday but looks like we all got there. 5v5 at last.

Good luck one and all.