http://www.news.com.au/dailytelegraph/sport/nrl/story/0,26799,24108097-5006066,00.html
By Nick Walshaw | August 01, 2008 12:00am
BRIAN Smith knows the worth of this rivalry. Exactly $26.90. Or the price of one Bavarian chocolate cake from Michel's Patisserie.
"Yeah, every time we win a game the office girls go out and buy a victory cake," Knights football manager Warren Smiles explains.
"It's a tradition Michael Hagan started. Actually it's one I think he's still continuing at Parramatta."
Of all the feuds, rivalries and outright bad blood exploding in 2008, none are more intriguing than this Battle of the Bavarians.
Because you can forget the egos and agendas on this one. Forget grudges and petty jealousies too.
In fact, ignore all those nasties that often turn the NRL into a giant pre-school sandpit.
Because these two adversaries, well, they've seen fewer dramas than a Hootie & The Blowfish concert. There's no controversy. No stinks. A rivalry measured not by fists and fiery exchanges . . . but water, flour, eggs and milk.
"Sorry, even I'm drawing a blank," noted historian David Middleton concedes.
"I can't recall a critical remark made between them."
Yet no one needs to see the Middo mind ticking over to know something bubbles here.
Don't need to hear that "no comment" from both men when the topic is raised. Nor read all 650 press reports they've both appeared in since October 24, 2005.
That was the day Smith learned his Parramatta deal was done. Some 28 days later Hagan also shoved on to the NRL market.
A unique set of circumstances that would eventually see this duo complete, well, the most controversial swap not involving a bowl and car keys.
It was a exchange drawing instant comparisons. Instant headlines. One that sealed their feuding fates.
Because, sure, these fellas never wanted war. But neither do roosters until someone ties blades to their ankle, places them in a cage . . . and shakes.
Shakes. Like during that slanging match between Hagan and Souths counterpart Jason Taylor. The old halfback rivals dropping a series of f-bombs before JT really let it rip.
"Mate, what's here at Parramatta Brian Smith already had that in place," he fired.
"Meanwhile, he's up there in Newcastle trying to re-build what you f . . . . ed up."
Shakes . Like Fairfax columnist Phil Gould a fortnight ago, when asked why Parramatta were doing so poorly.
"(Because) it takes 18 months to destroy a good culture and 18 months to repair a bad one," Gould lectured. "Look at Newcastle and Parramatta, where they were and where they are now . . . the answer is fairly obvious."
And so, come Monday night, these two roosters fight.
Each with eight cakes, seasons on the line and everybody watching.
Because, suddenly, this is more than two coaches who've competed through eight seasons, 14 matches and one unforgettable 2001 grand final.
It's a battle of principles. Of ideals. Of the oddest pairing since Julia Roberts married Lyle Lovett.
Smith, of course, is the dictator. All whiteboards, breathalysers and random text messages.
A former James Cook High teacher who demands socks up, shirts in. Who starts churning through video less than two hours after games.
In 18 months this perfectionist has increased the Knights rehab staff, overhauled their playing roster and added son Rohan as second assistant coach.
And while the dogs barked, his caravan rolled on.
He replaced old shipping containers on bumpy training paddocks with an elite training and recovery centre worth millions.
Even Knights junior sides now have sprint and strength coaches for the first time.
Smith is the footballing mind who, come Monday night, will have survived a staggering 500 games. Who beat Penrith in round 18 with, says chief executive Steve Burraston, "the best coaching performance I've ever seen".
"So there's no doubting we made the right choice," Burraston says. "Because Newcastle needed a technical coach.
"Needed someone who could take our players back to basics and develop game plans around them. Who could lead us into life after Andrew Johns."
And there it is again. Shakes.
Because in the other corner stands the man who, the Knights board suggested, could do none of that.
This bloke all Queensland hospitality and mumbled press conferences. Whose laidback style was once likened to a coach "knitting in the grandstand".
Which only provides fuel for the feud.
Because Hages, his critics say, is too easygoing. Smith too strict. One bagged for his 21 winters without a first grade premiership . . . the other's title forever attributed to one A Johns.
These are two men disagreeing on styles, office structures, even post-try celebrations.
Hagan, the impassioned Queenslander who still lost his two Origin series as coach.
Smith, the finals specialist who has copped the most unappealing coach tag every year since Rugby League Week first posed the question in 2000.
"So if you could only put 'em together" one player coached by both says, "mate, you'd have yourself the best coach on the planet."
But that won't be happening. Because this is a feud, remember.
And come next Tuesday morning . . . well, only one bloke gets to eat his Bavarian chocolate cake.
By Nick Walshaw | August 01, 2008 12:00am
BRIAN Smith knows the worth of this rivalry. Exactly $26.90. Or the price of one Bavarian chocolate cake from Michel's Patisserie.
"Yeah, every time we win a game the office girls go out and buy a victory cake," Knights football manager Warren Smiles explains.
"It's a tradition Michael Hagan started. Actually it's one I think he's still continuing at Parramatta."
Of all the feuds, rivalries and outright bad blood exploding in 2008, none are more intriguing than this Battle of the Bavarians.
Because you can forget the egos and agendas on this one. Forget grudges and petty jealousies too.
In fact, ignore all those nasties that often turn the NRL into a giant pre-school sandpit.
Because these two adversaries, well, they've seen fewer dramas than a Hootie & The Blowfish concert. There's no controversy. No stinks. A rivalry measured not by fists and fiery exchanges . . . but water, flour, eggs and milk.
"Sorry, even I'm drawing a blank," noted historian David Middleton concedes.
"I can't recall a critical remark made between them."
Yet no one needs to see the Middo mind ticking over to know something bubbles here.
Don't need to hear that "no comment" from both men when the topic is raised. Nor read all 650 press reports they've both appeared in since October 24, 2005.
That was the day Smith learned his Parramatta deal was done. Some 28 days later Hagan also shoved on to the NRL market.
A unique set of circumstances that would eventually see this duo complete, well, the most controversial swap not involving a bowl and car keys.
It was a exchange drawing instant comparisons. Instant headlines. One that sealed their feuding fates.
Because, sure, these fellas never wanted war. But neither do roosters until someone ties blades to their ankle, places them in a cage . . . and shakes.
Shakes. Like during that slanging match between Hagan and Souths counterpart Jason Taylor. The old halfback rivals dropping a series of f-bombs before JT really let it rip.
"Mate, what's here at Parramatta Brian Smith already had that in place," he fired.
"Meanwhile, he's up there in Newcastle trying to re-build what you f . . . . ed up."
Shakes . Like Fairfax columnist Phil Gould a fortnight ago, when asked why Parramatta were doing so poorly.
"(Because) it takes 18 months to destroy a good culture and 18 months to repair a bad one," Gould lectured. "Look at Newcastle and Parramatta, where they were and where they are now . . . the answer is fairly obvious."
And so, come Monday night, these two roosters fight.
Each with eight cakes, seasons on the line and everybody watching.
Because, suddenly, this is more than two coaches who've competed through eight seasons, 14 matches and one unforgettable 2001 grand final.
It's a battle of principles. Of ideals. Of the oddest pairing since Julia Roberts married Lyle Lovett.
Smith, of course, is the dictator. All whiteboards, breathalysers and random text messages.
A former James Cook High teacher who demands socks up, shirts in. Who starts churning through video less than two hours after games.
In 18 months this perfectionist has increased the Knights rehab staff, overhauled their playing roster and added son Rohan as second assistant coach.
And while the dogs barked, his caravan rolled on.
He replaced old shipping containers on bumpy training paddocks with an elite training and recovery centre worth millions.
Even Knights junior sides now have sprint and strength coaches for the first time.
Smith is the footballing mind who, come Monday night, will have survived a staggering 500 games. Who beat Penrith in round 18 with, says chief executive Steve Burraston, "the best coaching performance I've ever seen".
"So there's no doubting we made the right choice," Burraston says. "Because Newcastle needed a technical coach.
"Needed someone who could take our players back to basics and develop game plans around them. Who could lead us into life after Andrew Johns."
And there it is again. Shakes.
Because in the other corner stands the man who, the Knights board suggested, could do none of that.
This bloke all Queensland hospitality and mumbled press conferences. Whose laidback style was once likened to a coach "knitting in the grandstand".
Which only provides fuel for the feud.
Because Hages, his critics say, is too easygoing. Smith too strict. One bagged for his 21 winters without a first grade premiership . . . the other's title forever attributed to one A Johns.
These are two men disagreeing on styles, office structures, even post-try celebrations.
Hagan, the impassioned Queenslander who still lost his two Origin series as coach.
Smith, the finals specialist who has copped the most unappealing coach tag every year since Rugby League Week first posed the question in 2000.
"So if you could only put 'em together" one player coached by both says, "mate, you'd have yourself the best coach on the planet."
But that won't be happening. Because this is a feud, remember.
And come next Tuesday morning . . . well, only one bloke gets to eat his Bavarian chocolate cake.
