GRAND FINAL 2009. Bluebags v Titans

[Pistol]

Newtown Bluebags v Gold Coast Titans

-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.
* THIS IS IT. THIS IS THE GRAND FINAL

Naming Teams:
* 5v5 (+ 2 reserves for both teams. SEMI FINAL CONDITIONS)
* 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 21st October 2009 at 9pm (Syd time)
REFEREE: The Colonel
Venue: FRONT ROW STADIUM

**The Referee Blows Game On!**

CLICK HERE FOR OFFICIAL WORD COUNTER

 

[Titanic]

The moment has arrived where we stand stripped and ready to do battle in the defence of our maiden premiership with the most formidable of opponents, the Newtown Bluebags; minor premiers and the holders of the Sandy Crack Cup.

As Elbert Hubbard said, "It is a fine thing to have ability, but the ability to discover ability in others is the true test." Bluebags, we salute you!

Into the arena for the 2009 Premiership, here come

THE

GOLD COAST

TITANS
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1. Amadean
2. Tittoolate
6. tits&tans
11. Titanic
13. TITs ANonymouS

Bench
7. Titan Uranus
8. bgdc

​

 

[Willow]

The Bluebags bus is here and ready to do battle against the reigning premiers...

Déjà vu​

It's 2008 revisited when these same two teams contested last year's decider.

On that occasion, the Titans ended the Bluebags winning streak with a well deserved victory.

Tighten your seat belts... A tough battle lays ahead...


NEWTOWN BLUEBAGS - 2009 grand final team

Willow (c)
gorilla (vc)
ozbash
Rexxy
Black Kitty

Res:
Cheesie-the-pirate
muzby

Good luck to one and all.

 

[Tittoolate]

The excitement! The Thrill! The TITANS bursting with power! Oh the butterflies (as dinner - you'll see why in a sec)! My dear old grey-haired mum is on the sidelines to see! The moment has arrived! And Tittoolate trundles onto the park for the big one, a quick salute to the crowd! ROAR! (742 words OWC below the line)

__________________________


Of cane toads and cockroaches.........

Well blokes we’ve had our cockles grabbed by the finals season again. For weeks fans and players lived and breathed the atmosphere of tsunami-like waves of change, resetting the finals landscape to prove the pundits right and the bookies wrong. As ever I’m left in a quandary - deflated at the ebb of another season but energised by the power, skills and spectacle. And so it was (a slight misquote from Phil Kearns) that every finals season is unique and this one was no exception. Again some mighty cane toads showed their mettle and added their names to the Queenslander’s private hall of fame.

With a sentimental tear in my northerner’s eye, and with my heart filled with awe at the Queensland Storm’s run to the grand final I paused to consider, Why? Not why did they win, but why did those short-sighted, misguided and mildly arrogant southerner’s opt for the epithet and stark visualisation of ‘the cockroach’?

This is particularly sad when one casts even a passing glance at the Northern emblem – the worthy cane toad (Bufo Marinus or “Boof” to his mates). His regal warts and beetling brow; his athletic poise and juggernaut frame; once encountered, never forgotten. A few interesting facts:

• Firstly there is only one Boof. There are thousands of species of Cockroach. Unlike the choosy Boof who knows a great state when he hops in it, one can find the cockie and his mates everywhere, from the Polar Regions to the Equator. How piteously common.

• The female cane toad is a prolific breeder – laying thousands of eggs – primarily because Boof, the bloke, is just so goddamn handsome, not to mention virile and well endowed! Fact. Just ask any of our sheilas. Cockroach male equipment is microscopic. Fact. Just ask any of their sheilas.

• The cane toad has poison glands lurking beneath its sophisticated veneer. This reminds me of Roosevelt’s ‘speak softly and carry a big stick’ philosophy; a principle much admired and copied by those north of the Tweed (especially around taipans).

• The junior cane toad is particularly poisonous; a defence against southerners trying to whisk our kids off and claim them for State Of Origin. Some wanker tried it with mine and, whooshka; they were back within 72 hrs.

• Treading on Boof causes a vastly different reaction in Homo sapiens to treading on a cockroach. The latter causes a mildly satisfying crunch, the former (particularly with bare feet) causes the knee to rocket skywards at mach 2, while ululations of horror pierce the air.
​

Old Boof sets the bar pretty high! What about those from the Blattaria order, the roach? Blat is onomatopoeic for Splat, now the NSW collective nickname, which is the sound roaches make when stomped by Boof’s size 10.

• Splat is a short-arse and like all those who are vertically challenged he has to a) squat in the front row at team photo shoots (next to the team mascot – which is why the Dragons get through halfbacks so repetitiously), and b) drive compensatingly-large four wheel drives.

• Splat will survive a nuclear holocaust: not only short but thick as well! It is well known that all the footy clubs, RSLs, pubs and chip shops will be flattened in a nuclear war. So what’s the point?

• To attract a bird Splat has to engage in posturing and other mating rituals. As those born in God’s Own know, to see Boof is to love him and he offers no more than what is seen.

• Splat shuns the light like some diminutive vampire; not brave enough to display his hideousness in the harsh light of day. Boof can regularly be seen on quiet back roads glaring back at the headlights in a defiant last stand.

• The Chinese eat deep-fried roaches (can you imagine how hungry they must get to munch on those!) whereas no one ever eats a second Boof. Our boy really does make ‘em croak!
​

I know now that I will survive ‘the long dark teatime of the soul’ of the off-season. We rest secure and comforted by the knowledge that on or off the field, in suburbia or the bush, the mighty cane toad and all his supporters rules the paddock and will be back every year hopping triumphantly towards State of Origin and Finals history.

And to the sound of Splat, we leap into 2010.

 

[gorilla]

*shouts*
"Get the f**k out of my way - you pansy Titans -bullsh*t"

*spits, adjusts a couple of nuts for safe-keeping and runs on field screaming (in bastardised Finnish [not a native language])*

"naida pariloida vahvasti maustettuna"

gorilla for the one and only:



**************************
What a bunch of ……

There’s a lot of symbolism in sport – teams fighting out a match is reflective of tribal warfare or primitive hunting. This sort of symbolism is quite overt and obvious, but there’s also certain subliminal or semiotic symbolism.

Cheerleaders, for example, could superficially appear a simple mechanism for leading chants and celebrating team victories, but it has darker associations and it could be argued that it’s a form of sporting sexuality, even prostitution. It’s not a bunch of kids jumping around at try-time anymore, nor has it been for a long time.

There’s an even more perverse symbolism, with a Freudian twist in rugby league – masturbation. I’m hoping this won’t disrupt your viewing, particularly pre-match interviews and commentator discussions.

The microphone is, subconsciously, a phallic symbol. Its shape is functional but like a ‘Flake’ chocolate, ice-cream or even ‘Chico Roll’ advertisement, if you squint hard enough the commentator is holding a stiff prick in his hands.

Now whilst I’m talking onanism here, I’m not going anywhere near latent homo-erotic issues. Most of the rugby league commentators are, whilst they hold that microphone in that way, wankers or self-strokers.

Apparently men often call their members personal names – we’ll call our semiotic phallus ‘Mike’.

There’s two main ‘grips’ in the arsenal: the “grasp”, and the “recorder”.

The ‘grasp’ is demonstrated by the tight-fisted grip positioned just below the mike’s head. This is the most common grip, providing strong control with easy access to the mike head and good coverage on the mike shaft. Phil Gould and Matthew Johns are real are the hard and fast leaders here.

The ‘recorder’ is a more sophisticated and temperate approach. The shaft is held between the thumb down from the back of the head, with fingers spread-apart on the front of the shaft. The fingers range along the length of the shaft between head and base, looking a bit like someone holding a recorder one-handed. The more dainty grippers extend the little finger apart, reminiscent of the ‘little pinky’ cup holding. Peter Sterling is the leader of the pack here, with Andrew Voss and a couple of the guys the cable shows noticeably picking up on the more stylistic technique.

In the ‘old days’ this issue never really came up. Frank Hyde showed an almost vanilla zeal in the handling of mikes – it just wasn’t done those days. The mike was kept on a table – generally no handling except by a technician (the commentary equivalent of a ‘fluffer’). Rex Mossop was famous for his public statement that no-one would force genitals down his throat, and he certainly didn’t handle the mike much. Ironically Rex wore his mike right next to his mouth/throat on a head-set during his career.

Cricketing commentators actually freak me out with their weird moustache-trimmer mikes held close to their upper lips. It makes me think of cunnillingus and their slow-mouthing style backs this up.

It’s not just the mike grips and wanking - commentators polarise the listening and viewing public and the differences between Roy & HG and Rabs Warren are as huge as their similarities.

The recent News Ltd (shudder .. ) 9,000 reader poll clearly showed most commentators are not held in high regard. Ray Warren was clear and away the most popular, more than double any other single commentator. This is accounted for by the sample being News Ltd (shudder .. ) readers and ‘Rabs’ (is it short for Rabid ?) calls the weekly and big matches so there’s not much air-time for anyone else. I dislike his commentary so much that it's unhealthy for me to think about it.

Peter Sterling was next best, tied with Ray Hadley (luckily on radio, but less coverage). Sterling’s vote was a kind of reverse donkey vote where he got votes when he wasn’t in the survey. Phil Gould dragged the chain well ahead of the rabble along-way behind – most with strong grips on their mike.

News Ltd (shudder .. ) was delighted at the list of worst having ‘Bee-sting Head’ at the top. If we add Ray’s and Big Munt’s scores together they’re a pretty high total for that show, but readers certainly had it in for Gould. A grouped category: ‘Other’ was second highest so there’s plenty of bad grippers out there.

Hopefully out in the media now somewhere there’s a best grip that’s going to take hold of the audience members and do away with all the other wankers.

http://resources.news.com.au/files/2009/09/24/1225778/976312-dt-sport-file-nrl-2009-fan-survey.pdf
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Somewhere between 749 and 750 words between the stars

 

[Amadean]

Amadean on with 735 for the Titans. I'm very proud, and more than a little humbled.

****


A Chip Off the Old Block



Not every boy has a great relationship with his dad. Families separate, personalities clash, illness intervenes… there are myriad sad stories of blokes who never knew, liked or loved their fathers.

I’ve never called my father Dad, Father or (spew) Daddy, preferring a first-name shout (as between equals) whenever I wanted attention, cash, help or support. To be fair, nearly everyone else I know calls him by his first name, so I suppose he’s pretty used to it.

He wasn’t always around when I was a kid; out bush or overseas with the army for months at a time. Whenever he came back it was always wonderful. To a kid the presents were always the most important (a toy robot from Japan [which he broke and replaced 15 years later] was and remains my most treasured possession), but as an adult now it was the company that mattered. From the stories he told at night to the encouragement on the sidelines of a footy pitch, I am the man I am because of his humour, warmth and attention.

Now, one of the great things about the internet is the anonymity it affords: my credit-card statement doesn’t actually say ‘Amadean’. This allows people to say things that they would never otherwise say, to own up to emotions they would never otherwise admit to. Most blokes only tell their Dad how they feel about him after he’s passed on, which saves embarrassing situations and misses out on important truths.

This isn’t the case here. If you would just scroll up your page to Tittoolate’s submission (a fairly firey assualt on the unfortunate denizens of NSW) you may read my Dad’s work. Hi there Mark!

After the excitement of last year’s Grand Final win for the Titans, I persuaded TTL (as he’s known in the clubhouse) to come on board and join in the F7s fun. I’ve always thought his wonderful style of thought and brilliant sense of humour would do well in print. He in return, decided that Dad-and-Lad activities are a blast and agreed to jump in. I’m bloody glad he did.

Of course, there has been more than a touch of competition to our playing together. We live thousands of kilometers apart these days, so backyard footy and pub pool aren’t so much of an option: the Top Dog struggle has moved into F7s. Frankly, with a few years of journalism and a skin-of-the-teeth Backpacker award behind me, I figured I’d make absolute mincemeat out of an ex-military engineer. It hasn’t quite worked out like that…

Three games in and after a quiet start, TTL’s form has demanded a starting place in the Grand Final; following brilliant 88 POTM and 91 MSF results. He’s been creative, touching, witty and terse, whilst I’ve been vulgar and blunt. I’ve been off the boil for a while now and hasn’t he let me know it?

No, actually. He’s been reserved, even dignified about the whole thing. Still setting an example for me, even after 26 years. I beat him in squash about 6 months ago and haven’t stopped bragging, TTL whoops me in writing and never rubs it in. The oldest adage of professional writing is “show, don’t tell”. Well, Tittoolate has shown me how its done without wasting words on bragging, betting or boasting.

It feels almost like it did back in u-14s, when TTL signed on to coach our less-than-brilliant local team of which I was a less than starring member. As a kid, having your mates even know that you have parents is hideously embarrassing, to have them interact directly is almost beyond bearing. I’m so glad he did.

Standing in the rain early every Saturday morning watching stick-thin boys play awful footy can’t have been his first choice for weekend relaxation, but he did it all the same. Looking back now, we share stories, a few laughs, injury accusations and all the other parts of the wonderful friendship we share.

I travelled a fair bit over the past few years and no matter how inconvenient, my Dad has always managed to drop by for a few days. We catch up, have a few drinks, eat too much food, compete over anything imaginable…… For months afterwards I feel confident, happy and cared for.

He even followed me onto F7s and is still leading by example.

Thanks Dad,

Love,

Luke

 

[ozbash]

The 'bash stumbles out onto the paddock.

Just love these finals....



**** My trip to the Finals

My team, the mighty Warriors, bummed out of the semi-finals in 2003 and it looked like that season was history for this fan, but my wife got off the computer one day and said "Guess what, I’ve just been confirmed the winner of a trip for two to the Grand Final at Telstra in two weeks !"

Good grief! Questions rolled around my fevered brain - who do I support, who do I yell for, who has the most Kiwis in their team?

It looked to be a very good game. Johnny Lang's Panthers had a great run towards the play-offs, picking up the prized Minor Premiership after finishing a disappointing 12th in 2002 and picking up the dreaded spoon in 2001.

It was coach Lang, and his son Martin's best season with Penrith (who, incidentally, were 100-1 long shots at the start of 2003).

They were up against Freddy Fittler and his Roosters. They had beaten us in last year’s Final, so I guess it was obvious who we would be screaming for. We were still hurting so 'Go the Panthers!'

My first trip to Sydney didn't start too well. A Customs man noticed I'd had a run in (or two) with the Kiwi police but an hour later he told me it was OK and let me loose on Sydney.

I couldn't help but feel humbled by the passionate camaraderie shown by my thousands of fellow visitors to the hub of the Rugby League universe.

My awe was quickly replaced by abject terror as a Greek gentleman drove our taxi van to our hotel. We have some lunatics driving the roads in New Zealand, but this bloke took the art of dodgem cars to a new level. Nonetheless, we arrived safely and had a day to check out the sights of Sydney.

After a lovely trip up the Parramatta Creek in an old paddle steamer, our tour leader (none other than The Mad Butcher himself) gave us our last minute instructions (don't give cheek to the security or police). We boarded our bus and headed for Telstra Stadium, prepared to participate in the fantasmagloria of the event.

The stadium was huge and we were nearly lost in the stairwell! The Aussies found it humorous watching the 'tourists' marvel at the architecture of a mere set of stairs.

The pre-match entertainment was a favourite of mine, Meatloaf, so it was off to a great start.

Our tour party dutifully stood in the lightly falling rain for the Eastern Island (Aussie) anthem and then it was game time, it was on!

Both teams threw everything they had at each other in the first half. A few mistakes were absorbed by both teams’ sublime defences until Luke Rooney dotted down in the 31st minute to put the Panthers ahead 6-0 at the break. What a fantastic atmosphere; the Roosters’ fans were strangely quiet but there was an air of anticipation throughout the huge stadium.

The second half got underway with an intensity rivalling that shown in the first half. The Roosters were the first to score after the resumption with Heggarty crossing the line. 6-all.

After 55 minutes I was witness to one of the gutsiest plays I think I have ever seen on a footy ground. Fittler rips a pearler of a pass to Toddy Byrne who pins his ears back and heads for the try line with nobody in front. Penrith lock, Scott Sattler took off after Byrne and mowed the flying Roosters’ wingman down before the line. It will go down as one of ‘the Grand Final moments’ of all time. Buoyed on by their mates determination, Penrith went on to score two more tries (one more to Rooney and one to Priddis) and beat the defending Premiers 18-6.

The place erupted after the fulltime whistle sounded. The Panthers were basically written off pre-season and to turn around and win both the Minor, and then the Major Premiership was beyond the realm of reason for all but the most ardent Penrith fan.

Leaving Telstra was an event in itself, the banter and sledging between the rival fans had to be seen and heard to be believed. The ever-watchful police and security were poised to pounce but I never saw any trouble, just thousands of sad Rooster fans trying to come to terms with their side’s demise, helped naturally enough I suppose, by the thousands of Panther fans.

Us neutrals kept well out of it. *****

(750 words)

Pic courtesy Foxsports

 

[tits&tans]

tits&tans, for the Titans, bounds on to the grass, fired up and thirsty for Blue blood. As a tribute to the quality of this year's F7s, he pulls this out of the Bag.

(Puzzle results will be posted after the match results or PM me if you can't wait )

743 Words (OWC) below the ***

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

Puzzletastic Redux

From the Editor:

It’s that time of the year again; the weather perfect, the atmosphere tense, the cheerleaders poised, the fans expectant and the teams pumped.
​

It’s time to take your brains out of their jars, shake off that slimy embalming fluid and plug them in.
​

That’s right folks, it’s Grand Final Puzzle Time! Once again, following our annual tradition, League Puzzle gives our loyal readers a chance to test their wits and knowledge against the finest statisticians we could dredge up from our mildewed basement offices.
​

This year, for all of our online friends out there, we are going to delve into the slightly bizarre world of online writing with a look at the web-renowned F7s competition.
​

So, without further ado, let’s begin.

All of the following clues relate to articles written for matches during the 2009 F7s season (excluding representative games). Having deciphered the clues and found the appropriate article, take the first letter of the title of that article and an inspirational message shall appear. Only those who are truly worthy shall receive this sagacious piece of advice.

(Hint: the words in italics might help you identify the team, author, content or title)

1. In the first GF rematch of the season, a titanic effort was made to warm up this soup and keep the rice fishy.
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2. Only a fraction of an hour long, this was a terrifying, fire-breathing beast of a Round 3 article that reminisced about the antics of the Topknots and the Brolgas in an epic 1966 duel.
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3. Up against the mighty Kiwis, this second round article launched into a sinewy and willowy overview of the possible impending doom of a certain group of prehistoric fish.
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4. This fourth round article rabbits on about the bone-crunching, torso-smashing hits that good ol’ Greg gives.
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5. Up against the might of the pussies in Round 4, this self-help manual should help c**ks deal with a good flogging (absolutely no pun intended!).
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6. This fifth round article sent our basement statto’s into a fit of euphoric salivation, as they realized that this magic system might ‘actuary’ marshal arguments to change the very face of the NRL.
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7. From a DUBious Point of View, this proxy posting for George’s team in the sixth round tells a tale of tricks and traps that tends to tragedy and loss … or perhaps not.
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8. A fantasy-tical SoOlution to the perennial Original problem, proudly proposed by the Panther’s in their Round 7 battle with the Eels.
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(Insert a comma here)
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9. Playing as a proud Panther in the last round, this author recounts a stormy Grand Final and the events since that have made it all seem like easy blue water sailing for this team
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10. In the third Warriors/Titans head-to-head, this article waxes lyrical about the anatomical benefits of and pays homage to a group of long-term friends, even though they so often take the piss.
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11. In the semi-final stage of this competition, this inimitable article names a reason why the Afrikaans, Danish, Dutch, French, German, Italian, Spanish, Swedish, Greek, Russians, Portuguese, Japanese and Koreans all speak the same language.
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12. As a cautionary tale of Wombats and wickedness for all coaches, this Round 9 offering was carefully crafted to shock and amuse by misleading the reader.
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13. This nutty League film review in Round 8 details a new Kiwi motion picture in the making that has an all star cast.
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14. Against the god-like Greeks in Round 8, this article describes a marriage made in League heaven as the author makes a crucial agreement and rocks on.
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15. Money makes the world go round and round and round, until it becomes crazy. A big mix of money and lucrative sponsorship deals will be future of the NRL, this Minor Semi-Final article argues.
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16. In a preview of this year’s GF, this seminal look at a year of F7s from the DailySpurt left no doubt as to who the breast men and who the coqs are.
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17. In an all out religious war against the fiery, scaly monsters in the last round, this proxy article preaches the insanity of the TV and newspaper coverage of our beloved game.
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18. In the first of a three-in-a-row run against last year’s champions, this Warrior’s plight of passion and hatred describes how a one-eyed obsession threatened to overcome the author’s love of the game.
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(Insert an exclamation mark here)
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Happy Puzzling!

 

[Titanic]

Titanic for the Titans bounds on to the field. "You bounder" yells the opposition fans, stating the obvious. "You pounder," shouts the drunk in Row G, stating the obvious. "You flounder," notes a passing fisherman, stating the obvious. "You athletic dreamboat," whispers my wife, stating the necessary. (750 OWC)

Good luck, one and all.
______________________________________________

​

Ten seconds with Billy

The pundits describe Rugby League as a team sport, a game where the dynamics between players are as important as the skills that each player brings to their team. There can be no argument against those sentiments, however, when it comes to dissecting a team’s performance it all boils down to each player’s contribution.

Little has been written about the loneliness of a professional footballer’s life, perhaps due to the often substantial compensation. The monotonous hours of fitness work, the lack of privacy issues, the sacrifices made in the interests of improved performance and the mental toughness required to drive the body past the seemingly endurable in most cases justify the financial rewards.

What inner strength does it take to make a man assault another in a headlong, suicidal charge, then get up and do it again? How does one drive a tortured, aching anatomy to gain that extra yard? Their efforts aren't just because they're part of a team. The catalyst is the psychological conditioning provided by hours of soul searching and ambition.

One only has to look at any NRL player and imagine what goes through their mind as they perform those moments of magic in front of thousands, admittedly supported by their team mates, but ultimately alone…

The unmistakable sound of ‘boot going to ball’ rips my attention away from our tiring forwards.

“Bomb! Protection!”, I scream.

That sound of a hefty boot connecting with the sweet part of the ball, more like ‘tick’ than a ‘thump’. An impossibly high, spiralling, torpedo bomb aimed right at me, better than a grubber though.

“I'm on It”.

Damn, Mortimer’s testing me again.

“Shut up Smithy, I’ve got it. Stay out of it Steve!”

A kaleidoscope of colour as my vision traverses the eastern grandstand. Pity the crowd is down, I’m losing the ball in the empty seats. Focus… focus… focus.

A flicker in the corner of my eye momentarily captures the rushing of their right hand side attack. That lout Hindmarsh has me in his sights... bloody thug. Forget it, turn side-on, eye on the ball. Where is it?

There it is, climbing seemingly under its own power, the NRL logo spinning hypnotically, climbing…, climbing… concentrate.

The swirling wind is moving it around, not like the gales that blow in over the Coral Sea back home in Innisfail. Forget that… concentrate.. where is that bloody Turner? Stay right out of it, mate, this is mine. A good grab at it and I’ll get around that big lump Hindy… he can’t turn at full speed.

Crikey, the wind’s got under it and it’s pirouetting towards… towards… towards the posts. Blinding lights… where’s that right hand post? Have to look, just a quick peek, Hindy’s quicker than I thought but at least I know where he is. Forget him, where are the posts?

I need to catch this one, the forwards are stuffed, no stupid rush of blood. Be patient… catch… run.

Will it never come down?

Shut out the noise. What noise? The crowd… can’t afford to hear them. It’s so strange… the silence surrounded by so much noise. Hindy’s big hoofs… like something from Jurassic Park. Stop it, concentrate. Shut up Smithy, I’ve got it. Where are the bloody posts? Steve, get out of the friggin’ way.

“Mine!”

Fullback, like Real Estate, is all about position, position, position. Tunza and his goddamn Real Estate… ridiculous. Gosh, I’m glad he’s not backing Hindy up. Re-focus.

Timing, get under it, it must go dead if I can’t hold it. The posts… the crossbar… Hindy’s no danger, too far back. It’s all mine.

Crikes, the ball’s disappeared into the lights… ah-ha, the crossbar’s shade gives me sight of it again.

“Look out for Grothe”, somebody yells.

A blur of blue and gold, a glimpse of the tumbling white projectile through squinted eyes and a leap… a leap with body tensed but soft hands. Arms out-stretched, fingers spread.

A body careens into mine, twisting me partially around but I ignore it… eyes on the ball.

A gut-wrenching feeling as the collision hurls me headlong into the turf. Thud… blackout. Pain shoots through my shoulder… I struggle to free my hip… am I trapped under a horse? Did I fall at the home turn? Who’s that slapping my head? Stop that shouting in my face.
​

Comprehension returns… relief... another bomb defused… the players take their positions, face to face with the tormenting, salivating opposition; one team, one mindset… thirteen individuals.

 

[Black Kitty]

Black Kitty comes running on for the Blue Bags. Tripping she falls on the soft dewy grass but doesn’t bother to get up, she’s exhausted, it’s nap time.


What’s in a name?

If it walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, chances are it’ll taste good with plum sauce. So why is it that the NRL seem so deluded as to think by changing the name of the game, they’ll suddenly get back all the respect that has been lost by misdoings and inappropriate behaviour over the last few years?

The Couriermail news paper stated that:

Now it appears the name “NRL” is on the nose in Australia and the code might have to be rebranded even though crowds and television ratings are very good.

... Mention “NRL” and many people think of boofheads running amok off the field rather than exciting on-field action."

I really must agree with them, as sad as it is. Rugby League has always had that slight stigma of being the game of the lower class of society, the working class, the bogans, etc. No one with any class or breeding would ever consider watching a game and if they did would hardly admit to it. Those times they did change, ever so slightly, over the last so many years. But not to as great a degree as really seems necessary for the survival of the game. What time and the blurring of the edges of the social caste has helped, bad publicity and ill behaved adolescent antics have destroyed.

Having, myself, been really quite disgusted by the amount of news coverage dealing with the pathetic antics the game has managed to attract this season, really found it rather laughable when I heard about the possibility of a name change for the game. Do they really honestly think if they call the game something else, the unruly behaviour of the players will cease? The off field acts of defiance to prove they can do whatever they please, only ends up smearing more scandal, disrepute and distain for the game over the front pages of every news paper and in every news headline in the country.

The NRL also has to face up to the fact that in this day and age the reputation of the game is ruled by the media and tabloids. Perhaps the antics of the players haven’t changed in 50 years, but the access the media gives the public has. Never before has there been the capacity there is now for media exploitation. The players need to be made aware that what they do does impact the game. That they need to be acting more responsibly. The name of the game will continue to suffer if they can’t get that through to the players.

If they really are as concerned as they appear to be about the reputation of the game, then they really need to take a better look at what’s going wrong. The news publications are saying it for them, the TV ratings and crowds are still good. It stands to reason that all is not lost. Though I do recall reading other reports that dared to say numbers were actually somewhat down this year. Even so, the crowd support must still be relatively good and therefore they should be worried about what will stop the fans they have from leaving, not what will get more fans in. One problem at a time. If fans are leaving due to the antics of the players, a name change for the code is going to nothing to save it. An attitude adjustment might though.

I know that it would be an extremely big task to come up with some form of disciplinary action these young men will listen to. But at least that may be an endeavour that could be feasible enough to have a positive outcome. A new name is only going to be something different for the typesetter to put into the headline.

It should be obvious that a change in attitude is essential. Without that, you’re not going to gain anything.

The players and the scandals will still all be the same thing, it’ll just be known by a different name. Just like calling a car an automobile. It’s still the same vehicle with the same shot carburettor, bad steering and hole in the muffler. Calling it something that might sound better doesn’t change its faults. Fixing the faults, however, changes the vehicle for the better. It is then, and only then, that you end up with something you can work with.


***737 words including title according to the official word counter***
***source: http://www.news.com.au/couriermail/s...389,00.html***

 

[TITs ANonymouS]

The stomach butterflies are going berserk as TITs ANonymous runs onto the field for his first ever Sevens Grand Final. Today, its is death or GLORY! (750 OWC)

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

Childhood lost

Intoxicating entertainment machine that it is at NRL level, Rugby League is still to the vast majority of us just a game, with less than 0.1% of enrolling junior players graduating to the NRL¹.

Not so long ago, I was strolling through one of my favourite parks… a long, lushly vegetated expanse of green bisected by a rushing stream. It was the sunset hour: the sky had begun its gentle transition from blue to peach; the willows along the stream waved wistfully in the early evening breeze. I was savouring one of those rare moments when you forget about death and declining mutual funds; for once, all was right with the world. Then, around a bend in the path, I saw it, a very unnerving site: a field, overrun with miniature rugby league players.

So tiny were these athletes that a team of U12’s would have towered above them like giraffes. So young were they that most of them would be hard-pressed to spell 'ball.' Of course, you could say that about some NRL identities, so let me be explicit: these particular players were somewhere between four and six years of age.

Boys and girls played together; they scampered about the field like puppies clad in teal-coloured t-shirts, presided over by an animated coach who blew his whistle periodically to coordinate their movements upon the field of combat. 'All right, spread out,' he barked in the cheerfully brisk manner of a gym teacher. 'Drop back now… that's the way.'

'Dive on the loose ball,' screeched a dedicated mum from the sidelines. The kids scrambled after the ball, sometimes tumbling into little wriggling heaps on the grassy field. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, but the social observer in me was inclined to shudder at the spectacle.

When I was a kid we played freely among our own kind, perpetuating the ancient culture of childhood. We pretended to be pirates, army-men or zombies. We built sand castles, climbed trees and puddle-jumped, sometimes in shoes. We played games passed down to us through numberless generations of kids. And we did it all without rules, schedules or adult supervision, that came later.

We were happy, vibrant little savages. Today, the average kid needs an electronic personal organiser to keep up with all the structured activities that have been laid out by overzealous parents. Gone are the days when a kid would simply show up on a friend's doorstep and ask, 'Mr. Osborne, can Butch come out and play?' Now you have to make an appointment, and odds are that the interface will be a group sporting event supervised by hyper-competitive chino-clad parents with manic tendencies.

You have to watch out for these parents… they're dangerous. Reports of parental violence at kids' sporting events have been escalating ominously. You hear about a broken jaw here, an all-in brawl there… mums and dads alike, over what used to be considered mere games.

Nobody should have to go home with an even lower IQ than the numbskull who bashes his brains out at a juvenile sporting event, just because some temporarily deranged paterfamilias thought his son's team had been given a bad break that might cost them a victory.

When I spotted those miniature players in the park, kicking and tumbling as they chased the ball, I feared for their futures. I wondered if their parents would micromanage their leisure in a manner that stripped them of a child's right to disorderly amusement.

If these feisty little five-year-olds were already playing organised footy, would they sneer at primitive kid-games like tiggy and hopscotch? Were their parents already preparing them for an NRL scholarship or were they hoping that they would compete for admission to university?

Were they turning their progeny into modern-day Spartans, all grit and sinew, at the expense of useless traits like imagination and the ability to fly a kite? The fact is of course that the well-ordered Spartans defeated the philosophical Athenians and toppled them from power forever.

While I watched those little Spartans respond to the whistles and commands of their coach as they romped around that field, I feared that the rapacious professional game was trampling their childhood.

In terms of critique, “burn out” in sport is a reference to the diminishing longevity of an elite player, however, for those kiddies who aren’t in that less than 0.1 percentile, “burn out” should equate to the conclusion of a life that has been lived to its Athenian fullest.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
¹Study by UNSW, 2009​

 

[Willow]

| Willow - Bluebags |



Little Big Trike

"...sometimes the magic works... sometimes, it doesn't."

It was a red tricycle.

Not sure where... some department store in Sydney. My parents were trying to ask me if I wanted it for Christmas. There was a blue tricycle next to it, my older brother had already laid claimed to that. I got the red one. I didn't care that I has no choice, there was something magical about the red tricycle.

That was my earliest memory. I was three-years-old.

I was told the red tricycle came from Santa Claus, despite picking it out myself. Not once did I question my parents on this apparent contradiction. Nevertheless, this was a huge moment in my life - probably wiping away all the bad memories of being tortured by doctors, needles, falling over, food experimentation... and of course the trauma of the actual birth itself.

Some people claim to remember their own birth. Being extracted from the warmth of their mother's womb, held upside-down in a cold and unforgiving environment, sometimes whacked, probed, and then the horror of being cut at the umbilical cord - for many this extended to at least one other appendage.

People remember that? They can keep it. I prefer the red tricycle.

Subsequent memories included a ridiculously long drive in a Ford Zepher that broke down on numerous occasions. I understand now that it was called an Easter holiday. I also vaguely recall embarrassing myself in public, tormented by the usual toddler ailments and generally keeping my hard-working parents on their toes.

But this apparent year of tedium was saved in the winter of 1963 when my father took me to watch the football.

"Nothing in this world is more surprising than the attack without mercy!"

Coming from a family of keen Newtown supporters, my dad decided to take his two oldest sons to Henson Park to see the Bluebags take on St George. It was supposed to be an initiation of sorts. The menfolk and sons ensuring the Newtown dynasty would continue. I recall a big crowd and really tall people. But the records show there were less than 4,000 short people in attendance.

The crowning moment came when my father placed me on his shoulders. In that instant I saw a Red V flash down the sideline and score in the corner. St George winger Johnny King was faster than me, even on my tricycle. I remember it like it was yesterday... well at least I think I do.

The team wearing red-and-white were ruthless that day, scoring lots of tries while the players wearing blue simply looked miserable. It was like a primal bloodlust had been unearthed in me, and I liked it.

I became a St George supporter. My older brother with the blue trike became a Newtown supporter.

That was the end of my red tricycle stage.

"He is little in body, but his heart is big. His name shall be "Little Big Man.""

I don't know what happened to the red tricycle. No doubt long since rusted away in the belly of a garbage tip. No, I didn't call it 'rosebud'. I have only just now dubbed it 'Little Big Trike' for you, the reader; and out of some sort of twisted sense of respect for my first big toy.

Truth be known, I had all but forgotten about it. Outside forces and enforced maturity may invade the mind and pervade the cerebral landscape - perhaps the final solution is to kill off the grass roots of innocence. Nevertheless, memories recently came flooding back and I found myself joining the dots.

There have been studies about this sort of stuff. The influence of early experiences, no matter how insignificant or accurate, can have a profound effect as we grow. These memories help us make decisions and determine subsequent actions.

Is the team we support governed these apparent series of coincidences? Perhaps the three P's are at play: of Parochialism, Parents and Peer Group Pressure.

I only know that there was an almost seamless transition between my red tricycle stage, and the more enduring St George state of mind.

So perhaps, subconsciously, I put it to the test. There must have been a reason why I bought my infant son a red play pen in 1993. Perhaps I overdid it with the red-and-white fluffy toys.

Earlier this year, my now teenage son went to the football with me, wearing a Gold Coast Titans cap.

Perhaps he has the other 'P' - Personal Choice.

| 750 words |

Ref:
Quotes from 'Little Big Man' starring Dustin Hoffman (1970)
Pic from Sydney Theatre Company, Shinichi’s Tricycle (Wordpress)

 

[Rexxy]

| rex | bags |

as its meant to be here

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/User:Rex_c_hunt







Contents [hide]
1 History of the Forum 7s
1.1 The Reuben Wiki-pedia
1.1.1 How It Works
1.1.2 Philosophy
1.1.3 Criticisms
1.2 Referees
1.3 Final Series
1.4 History
1.5 The Split
1.6 The Long March Back
1.7 2009 and beyond
1.7.1 Representative Matches
1.7.2 World Cup
1.7.3 Backpacker ratings
[edit]History of the Forum 7s

[edit]The Reuben Wiki-pedia

The Forum Sevens (F7s) is the name given to the creative writing competition currently hosted at leagueunlimited.com. Since inception in 2002, some 309 writers have submitted articles for judging by an impartial marker. The most successful teams are the Roosters and the Bluebags, who have won two premierships each. This year’s Grand Final (2009) is being played between the Bluebags and the Titans - with a closing time (full-time) of 9pm ESST of 9:00pm.

[edit]How It Works

Authors arrange themselves into teams that play each other according to a draw compiled before the start of the season. While teams can have a pool of up to 15 registered players, each game is limited to five players a side, plus two reserves. Articles are marked out of 100, with the team scoring the highest overall points declared the winner. Winning teams are awarded 2 points, which contribute to the team’s advance on the league ladder. Players must present an original work, of no more than 750 words, on a Rugby League-related topic.

[edit]Philosophy

The Forum Sevens engenders sportsmanship. While, friendly discussion is always encouraged, so to is discussion about the future.

[edit]Criticisms

While sportsmanship is central, criticism is welcome. Some feel the length of 750 words is designed more for essays than articles; while others feel the season is too long.

[edit]Referees

The pool of referees is drawn from ex players, admin and forum members. Team captains can ask Referees for clarification on any matter.

[edit]Final Series

The five highest placed teams at the end of the regular season compete in the finals series. The finals system consists of a number of knockout and sudden-death games until two teams remain. These two then contest the Grand Final, usually in the middle of October.

[edit]History

The concept of the F7s was first suggested in 2000-2001. A year later, a forum member called Tappy put a proposal to the managers of the rleague website. The inaugural premiership was won by the Eastern Suburbs Roosters.

[edit]The Split

In a battle dubbed the 'F7s Super League War', squabbles between management saw a split. 'Tappy' established the F7s on an independent forum Ish Biz. Rleague set up their own, only to see all posts later removed.

The competition was in further trouble when the ish-biz forums too disappeared. For all intensive purposes the F7s was dead.

[edit]The Long March Back

An 11th hour effort was made to try and save the F7 concept when a new competition was announced at LeagueUnlimited.com. Learning from the lessons, the new version was run to a set of rules.

In an exciting 2003 grand final, the Roosters defeated the Bluebags. The F7s had survived.

In 2004, a dedicated F7s website provided a home base with sponsorship and prizes. The F7s saw over 140 players participating.

The 2005 season saw no less than 180 players competing. Representative and trial matches included, the 2005 F7s saw 86 games in nine months - an increase of over 30 matches. In 2005, players in the F7s match forum posted over 760 articles.

The 2006 season belonged to the Parramatta Eels but will be remembered as the year Pirates went from premiers to wooden spoon.

2007 was the final season for referee Antonius, who oversaw a record 57 first class matches.

Season 2008 saw newcomers Titans win the grand final in their inaugural year.

[edit]2009 and beyond

Season 2009 featured nine teams including the Roosters who reformed in honour of former skipper Ozzie who passed away .

[edit]Representative Matches

Each year, the Forum Sevens have representative matches. F7s rep players must have previously played in the F7s premiership competition. Rep teams comprise of 10 players each. Matches are 7 v 7 plus 3 reserves per team. Players can play for any rep team where they feel their loyalties lie.

[edit]World Cup

The F7s World Cup 2008 saw the F7s World Cup added to the representative fixtures. This is a 3v3 format with six teams competing: Australia, New Zealand, England, Ireland, Malta, and Papua New Guinea.

[edit]Backpacker ratings

In 2004, F7s forummers were delivered the sad news that respected player and referee, 'The Backpacker' had passed away. A foundation member of the F7s in 2002, 'BP' was instrumental role in keeping the competition afloat during the tumultuous years. The 2004 premiers were awarded 'The Backpacker Memorial Shield'. Player rankings are known as 'The Backpacker Player Rankings'.


[1]http://f7s.leagueunlimited.com/history.php

 

[Pistol]

thar she blows

dont even think about it jesbass lol

 

[gorilla]

Get down - good game Bags and Titans

I have been the first the edit the Wiki page ....

 

[Willow]

Thank you time keeper.

Good luck to one and all.

 

[Black Kitty]

Good luck one and all

 

[Jesbass]

*shares a cold one with the two captains*

Well done to you both, and to your teams.

*tips hat in appreciation*

 

[tits&tans]

Excellent work guys.

Good luck everyone!

I think that was the best Grand Final this year!

 

[gorilla]

:alcho:
the 'Bags spa is hot and running - Titans, don't be shy about dropping the daks and spreding the cheeks as you lower into the bubbles.

Watch the burning embers, there's rope and ceegars - just get onto the taps over aside the strappers and fillup.

:lol: