Minor Semi Final: Titans v Dragons 2010

[The Piper]

Forum 7s - Minor Semi Final
GOLD COAST TITANS v ST GEORGE DRAGONS

-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 for visiting team, 3 reserves for home team)
* 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 1 September 2010 at 9pm (Syd time)
REFEREE: antonius
Venue: Front Row Stadium

CLICK HERE FOR OFFICIAL WORD COUNTER

 

[dubopov]

The Mighty Dragons have named an unchanged team for the clash with the Titans ..

dubopov (c)
murphyscreek (vc)
St Linnane
Dragonz Rule
Jason Maher

bench

Hornbyslilhottie
Dragon Punk

 

[murphyscreek]

murphyscreek for the Dragons.......C'mon you mighty Saints!!!!!!!!!

750 words between the stars.

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

Murphy’s Creek

The man hadn’t worn his beloved Dragons jersey for ages as the thing had seemingly shrunk over the past few years. But today he was determined to wear it, and somehow wrestled the non yielding material over his torso. The ‘P’ had long fallen off the sponsor’s logo and now read ‘ENFOLDS’, which ironically it barely managed to do.

He walked through the bush setting of his driveway into Lorikeet Lane. Today living up to it’s name as scores of Scaly Breasted were joined by a few Rainbows in their noisy shenanigans amongst the flowering native flora. For once the man didn’t stop to watch them, but continued to walk for two and a half further kilometres, trudging the criss-cross of dirt roads that lead past the cemetery and into the township of Murphy’s Creek. He intermittently struggled slightly for breath, but he put this down to the restrictive effect of the jersey on his chest cavity, not the thirty plus cigarettes a day.

Some might unkindly say barely a township. A shop, a Primary School, a train platform, a water tower, and a shed that housed the Rural Fire Brigade truck. But most importantly across the road from the Fire Brigade, a Community Hall. And today this old wooden hall was the man’s destination, being the occasion of the 1999 Grand Final between the Dragons and Melbourne Storm.

In the early 1900’s Murphy’s Creek had had two pubs, both long since demised. These days the locals had to make do with the occasional function at the hall as a substitute. A bar had been constructed inside and a raised platform at the other end known as “the stage”. There was even a pool table. You could buy cans of XXXX ‘Heavies’ or XXXX ‘Gold’ for one dollar each and the profits went to the Fire Brigade. They sold nothing else and byo grog was strictly forbidden. Pot, however, was tolerated as long as you smoked it outside and not in front of the younger kids.

The man walked inside and as expected the festivities were already in full swing, despite the kick-off being several hours away. A TV with a massive eighty centimetre screen had been set up on the stage, and the sporadic loud clinking noise heralded the coveted pool competition well under way. But what drew the man’s focus was the way the hall had been decorated. Everywhere he looked, there was purple. Purple streamers hanging off the roof and walls, purple balloons, people wearing purple clothes, and a large banner strung up behind the stage in large purple writing “GO STORM !!!”.

The man marched up to the bar and confronted Mick, the bartender.

“What the bloody hell’s going on with all this Melbourne crap everywhere?” he demanded.

Mick was Captain of the Fire Brigade and made a living slashing local paddocks, usually at mate’s rates. He was a pretty good guy, normally. The local kids called him “Gravel Mouth” because of the way he spoke out of one corner of his mouth in a rasping tone. The man knew that under Mick’s purple shirt there were burn scars down his left side, from when the boys got caught out by a sudden wind shift trying to save the Hodgkinson’s home in the fires of ’93.

“Well, most the town doesn’t follow the footy and those that do support the Broncos. So at the last Progress Association meeting we decided the whole town would barrack for Melbourne. Just to make it more fun.”

Mick looked him up and down and added, “You should get to more meetings.”

So the man propped at the bar and started drinking, shaking his head in disbelief as more and more locals arrived wearing Storm colours as if they’d been supporters their whole lives. He continued drinking as the match commenced and his spirits soared as Mundine, Blacklock, and co, tore through the Storm just as they had in the Qualifying Final.

At 14-0, he proceeded to sermonise to all within earshot about the superiority of the Dragons team and forecast a record win to the mighty Saints. Then the second half commenced. Thirty-seven minutes later the whole hall, minus one, erupted into cheers as a penalty try to the Storm saw them steal the match 20-18.

These days the beers are $2.00 each, and the choke word doesn’t hurt quite as much. And at least this year, if Saints make it, there’ll be NO BLOODY PURPLE IN SIGHT!

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

http://www.about-australia.com/queensland/brisbane/destinations/murphys-creek/

 

[Titanic]

Once more to the fray ... here come the Titans:

1. Amadean
4. Big Pete
6. tits&tans
11. Titanic
13. TITs ANonymouS

Bench

9. bgdc
18. lockyno1

 

[St. Linnane]

As he has done since making his debut in round two, St. Linnane rushes into dummy half following the Murphys Creek hit up, picking up the ball in both hands and scooting in the hope of gaining the territorial advantage over the retreating Titans.


750 words between the stars according to the OWC.


**********



You always have fond memories of your first...

Those that know me know that I am, well, a little obsessed. On Friday night, I won the best eBay auction ever. A genuine, player worn, Westmont branded, Penfolds sponsored, St. George jersey from the eighties, with the numbers on the sleeves. Number 24. Reserve grade prop under the old numbering system. It probably cost me more than five times what it cost back when it was made, but I don’t care, I really wanted it.

My wife didn’t share my excitement though. “Another one?” and “How many do you have now?” were her only comments. 27 is the answer to the second question. 27 Dragons jerseys of various eras, sponsors and manufacturers. But it would have been 28 if I still had my first.

I must have been 6 or 7 when I received my first Red V. It was a hand-me-down from a family friend. A Peerless branded, non sponsored jersey with the full length sleeves with the ribbed banding at the wrists. It must have been huge, I say that because I was 13 when I got my second one, and that was only because my brother needed a jersey to go to the semi final against Canterbury in 1992.

I loved that jersey, probably as much as my mother disliked it. Not because she was disliked Saints, nor the fact she was a non-practising Bunnies supporter, but for the fact it was white. Was, is probably the operative word. When I handed it on to my brother it was more of a dull grey with a pinkish V.

I worn the jersey at every opportunity. I wore it to soccer training on Wednesday nights. I worn it on the weekend day that Saints were playing. If Saints had the Friday night game, I’d even put it on over my pyjamas after my bath prior to watching them play on television.

In years five and six we were allowed to wear footy jerseys to school under our tracksuits on sports day. I wore, you guessed it, my Red V. I probably wore it more proudly than the uniform I wore for the other four days, and I was a kid who liked school.

Now I was a boy who liked playing sports. Even better I had a not too much younger brother who liked playing sports. Now anyone who has seen brothers play knows what happens. It starts out as touch football and within five minutes it is tackle; and within 10 minutes both are covered in grass stains, and one is likely to be bleeding. Now add the fact one of the two was wearing a white jersey to the equation.

As an adult, I am not a fan of washing. You can imagine how excited my mother was to have to get grass stains, mud stains or blood stains out of my Red V on a weekly basis. She did have a novel suggestion; “why don’t you support another team?” she said. “The Magpies have a V on their jersey” she said. “What about the Kangaroos, the national team” she said. Whilst I can remember her making these suggestions as clear as I can remember yesterday, I can’t remember how I responded to each. Whatever it was, it must have been convincing, because I continued to wear that same Red V once or twice a week for a number years to follow.

I don’t know what happened to my Red V after my brother grew out of it. Knowing Mum, it probably went to St. Vinnies. Every now and then I think about it and what it meant to me, what it still means to me. All the good times we had together. What my life would be like now if Mum had got her way, and I picked a new team based on the wearability of the colours of the teams jersey. I even check eBay from time to time, like a person does for an historic car they once owned, hoping that my first Red V would come back into my life. It’s funny how Vinnies probably got $5 or $10 for it back then when I’d easily give them $100 today to have it back in my possession.

Unfortunately, whilst each of the 27 Saints jerseys I own today have many stories and memories, some of which are absolutely amazing, nothing will ever come close to my little Red V; my first Red V.

**********

 

[Amadean]

Amadean put 20 on the Titans, but with the Dragons to score first

750 below the bar.

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

5 bucks says this is a good thing.

If you’ve been watching the news recently you may have heard about a few dodgy things happening to Pakistanis. I’m not referring to the devastating floods, which don’t generate a great deal of interest, but to the hilarious cricket bribery scandal.

If you’ve been watching the news a little more closely you may have head about a few dodgy things happening in Rugby League. I’m not referring to the devastating risk the Broncos may miss the finals, but to the hilarious penalty bribery scandal.

These two events share many amusing factors, from arguments in bars to intentional incompetence by the already fairly incompetent. They differ in that one took clever work by undercover journalists to uncover and the other was immediately obvious to the betting agencies involved. More importantly, they differ in that the amounts involved in the cricket scandal were internationally vast and Ryan Tandy’s efforts seem to have been motivated by trouble with bets he put on down the pub.

Now, before we run off into a massive exaggeration I want to make it perfectly clear that I support Tandy, even if he’s innocent. I, too, have been bored down the Clovelly pub and laid a few crap bets on the ponies. I, too, have thrown a game of competitive sport for personal financial gain (if you keep intentionally losing drinking games, people eventually start filling your glass for you!)

But aside from these personal similarities, I reckon Tandy was onto a good idea: just look at cricket. Here cash-for-incompetence has produced a couple of thrilling games, massive international media exposure and will almost certainly attract further investment from the ‘casual’ business sector in India. Frankly I think League could do with all three.

I watched the bloody awful first half of the Rabbitohs-Eels match last week and it could only have been made better by intentional fouls and frackups: perhaps Sandow could’ve put on a few ridiculous shoulder-charges or something….. An international aspect to League would be nice too. Instead of a tiny 4-nations, bribes and betting could lead us to incorporate Pakistan (who’d bring in India out of competitiveness), Zimbabwe (they need the cash) and North Korea (who enjoy ignoring international standards anyway). Add in Sudan, Libya, Greece (who are also short of a dollar these days) and Turkey (for the chance of picking fights with the Greeks) and League is back on track to being a world game. Of course, all this expansion will need to be financed, and that’s where the Bombay boys come into play again. See? Self-financing circle of awesomeness for League.

Sure, there may be downsides. Gangster shootouts may become slightly more common outside footy grounds across the country (except Canterbury, where they come as standard). Families may be a little less likely to choose an afternoon at the footy if there are no wonderful moral leaders for little Jimmy to idolise – like a Joey Johns or Willie Mason. Its even possible that some of the thrill of watching a season could diminish when you already know the defending Grand Finalists will intentionally have a poor season and miss the finals. Wait….what?

Are we sure were aren’t already here? The Storm have been outed as cheats (and everyone knows the Broncos only differ through having better accountants) and Parramatta managed to take a first-class team from the finals to nowhere in one season flat. Drugs are more common than Gatorade, whilst the only difference between a forward pack and a bikie gang is that not all of the bikies have identical tattoos. Bookies frequently hit up coaches to clear players’ debts whilst punters bet on every imaginable aspect of the match.

As betting on League becomes more common, complex and accessible so do players become more vulnerable to temptation. Betting online, over the phone, in the pub, via SMS and through your girlfriend’s flatmate these days is an option for every player. When people who influence the results are able to bet on those results, nothing good can happen. God knows I’ve bought stupid stuff on eBay whilst drunk and I can’t imagine the temptation to have 5 bucks each way on a penalty goal to start wouldn’t get to some players after a few beers.

No, scratch my original argument. Bugger Bombay betting. The more easily players can bet, the more blokes like Tandy are like to get themselves in strife. The game doesn’t need it, and neither to the players.

 

[tits&tans]

tits&tans for the Titans flips the coin and shouts "heads, shoulders, knees and toes" just to make sure...

743 words between the stars (OWC)


**********

Peas please

​

When I was living at home, our evening meal was often wracked (and sometimes wrecked by) with rugby-centric “discussions”. Some were more heated than others, and although they never developed into an all -out fight, there were some very tense and quiet periods in our house for days on end. Eggshell days, we used to call them.

What was the source of this never-ending quarrel? And who were the “quarrelees”?

It was simple. Dad was a Union player and fan. I was and am a League fan. Enough said.

For years and years we argued about each code’s respective advantages, drawbacks, foibles and failures without ceding an inch. This 30 year history made the conversation my dad and I had recently absolutely shocking. We were sat in the living room of my parent’s house and were making good progress through a nice bottle of Talisker.

He suddenly blurted out: “It’s not that I’m going to give up being a Union fan. I couldn’t throw away 40 years of following the game after all. It’s just, I was watching a run-down of last season’s premiership and I was totally underwhelmed.”

The next 20 or so minutes contained some of the most honest opinions on the game that I’d ever heard my dad give. To save you the painful ramblings a few large glasses of good single malt produces, I’ve taken the trouble to edit and paraphrase:

My main problem with the game might be because I’m old, but I find myself distanced from the game and its players. My heroes are all from a previous era, in which the game seemed to be played more honestly and more simply. Perhaps in my youth, I could have watched backrowers or inside backs continuously taking the ball back inside, but now I find this strategy simply annoying and infantile, particularly when there is a 3 to 2 advantage on the outside. Rucks seemed to have disappeared and mauls have become a random fest of bookings.Players don’t seem to understand the maul either. An action that is accepted one minute is then harshly punished the next. Often, no one seems to know why the referee is blowing his whistle. The referee has become a hindrance rather than a help and now has the power to intervene every 30 seconds or so. This may have been the same in my year, but at least we could watch some great tries which counterbalanced this idiotic interference.

Tries should now be called touchdowns. Traditionally, the purpose of a try was to enable you to have a kick at goal. At the moment, the referees give kickers way too many chances without ever needing a try. Why even bother with tries?

​

It felt good to listen to a true union fan criticize his sport and a lot of what he was saying mirrored arguments I had put forward over the years. Then came the crowning glory of his meandering musings. He had developed a new sport. Just like Mendel played with his peas, so had my dad played with “his” codes:

The first major change is to use the “play-the-ball” idea from League. Actually, this isn’t a new idea and was around in the 1850s. When players were tackled, the ref called them “down”. The second is to keep the scrum and line-out as attacking weapons and encourage rucking to make a comeback.
​

The remainder of his speech introduced many new rules and points for this hybrid game, from which I have drawn the most coherent:

Use play-the-ball (6 or 8 tackles).
Keep scrums and line-outs to compensate for player’s different body sizes.
Allow rucking: a tackle only being valid when the player is on the ground, down or unable to pass.
Allow rolling mauls.
Maintain game speed with 6 interchange players per team and 12 interchanges per team per match.
13 players.
​

His idea was to create a sport that focuses on scoring tries.

Clearly, there is a lot to be said for and against the concept of merging the two codes. Although I can’t ever see us stooping to the depths of actually diluting our game with unrefined antics of Union, and that if anything, Union will simply die out rather than hybridize with League, as an intellectual exercise (indeed, simply as union-bashing rant), it does have merit.

So, any suggestions for a name for this new sport? Looniun? Uneague? Or just simply League 2.0?

**********

 

[Titanic]

Titanic for the Titans (750 OWC between the +++++)

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

It’s all a matter of perspective

"Jenson," Coach shouted. "Get over here."

Adam disconsolately shuffled, head down, towards the coach.

"Meat, what's wrong with you? Where's your focus?"

"I don't know coach, I'm just off today."

"C’mon mate, what's wrong? Is the bruising still tender?" the coach persevered, scowling.

Adam stooped to pick a blade of grass, throwing it sidearm in frustration. "Nah, that's nothing. I don't know, it's just that I keep thinking about Amy. You know, her broken leg's gonna cost her a place in the Commonwealth Games team. It was her big chance and I blew it."

The coach rested a gnarled hand on his enforcer's shoulder. "It was an accident Adam."

"Yeah, I know. But I was driving."

"Adam, sit down here and listen."

Adam hunched on the ground grabbing his knees, his shoulders slumped in despair. His coach knelt beside him, draping an arm over his shoulders.

"She doesn't blame you," Coach said, encouragingly.

He shrugged him away. "That's easy for you to say."

"No, that's what she said. We had a good talk a couple of days ago after the surgery." Coach stood and brushed off his knees. "Let's go see her after practice. You can ask her yourself, you big chicken. Right now, this team needs you to have your head in the game."

"Yes, sir," he mumbled.

Adam tightened his laces and trotted back onto the practice field. The coach signaled a play designed to send Adam straight into the defensive line. From the play the ball the ball was spun wide. Adam positioned himself deep and inside the five-eight. “Run on to it, ya big log!” shouted the coach.

Grunting defenders pushed and shoved as they realigned themselves to cover the play. Adam wound up, concentrating his rage on the thrust of energy he would need to bust that line. The pivot stepped right and engineered a no-look pass back on the inside to the left, and Adam watched it float into his hands. The rest of the starting pack whooped and hollered as he smashed into the waiting defenders, sitting two of them on their backsides and sending a third scrambling backwards like a cartwheel. "He’s back boys, the Meat-Axe is back," the coach barked moments later.

"Men, it’s our grand final and we're ready. Tomorrow, we play with everything we’ve got. Nobody leaves the field tomorrow wondering. Now tell me, who are we?" the coach shouted.

"United!" the team responded.

“What are we?” he bellowed.

“United!” the roar echoing around the stadium.

"Jenson," the coach called. "Get over here, we’ve got something to do."

*****

Amy's drab, sterile hospital room had been transformed into a floral shop display. Plants and balloons adorned every available nook and cranny. Pop music blared from the television, as Amy lounged in her wheelchair, leg propped up.

"Coach, what are we going to do with all these presents?" Adam asked, scanning the room.

"You're not on the playing field here, son."

"Crikey, sorry dad. Geez Sis, when did you become so popular?"

Amy grinned, snuggling up to a "Get Well Soon" fluffy pink koala. "Dad, don't worry, I'm gonna pick out my favourites and donate the rest to the Children's Ward."

"Sis," Adam began, choking back tears. "I'm so sorry, I didn’t mean it."

"It's okay," she soothed. "It was only an accident that could have been so much worse. Anyway," she smiled, "this has been great for my social life. Look at my cast," she pointed, winking. Teary eyed, Adam read the names signed in black felt pen on her lavender cast. Mostly boys, he realised and at least half of the team.

Adam sniffed and blew his nose. "So, you're sure you can forgive me?"

"Yes, you big girl. Anyway, you can make it up to me right now."

"How?" he asked, eyes narrowing.

"You can help me out of here and push me to the car."

“What, you can’t be serious? You need to rest.”

"Bugger off," she instructed, giggling. "Hurry up and get me outta here. Do you really think I’d miss the grand final? You'll get the flowers, right Dad and don’t forget my koala?"

As Adam “Meat-Axe” Jenson, United Rugby League Club’s uncompromising hardman, pushed his sister down the hospital hallway, he couldn't help but smile. Not at the image of his father cum coach enveloped by an out-sized pink doll nor by the thought of what he had planned for the opposition tomorrow afternoon… forgiveness sure felt good.

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

 

[TITs ANonymouS]

TITs ANonymouS runs on to the field full of finals fever....go the Titans!!!
750 OWC between the lines.
________________________________________________________

The Lost Art of Conversation

​

Recently, I accompanied some Chinese high school students on an excursion to experience pizza-making – something of a novelty here in Nanjing.

As we sat in the restaurant stuffing our faces, I noticed that they were all busily engaged with their mobile phones, rather than interacting with their classmates. Nary a word was being spoken amongst almost forty students. This was a complete eye-opener to me because during class time, when the electronic wonders of the world are banned, conversation seems to spring from these same automatons with youthful zeal.

How sad that texting to other students sitting 2 meters away has taken over from human discourse. Back in my day, had we been so lucky to be involved in an excursion to a pizza restaurant, we would have been busy taking the “mickey” out of each other or discussing the latest episodes of The A Team or The Six Million Dollar Man. Never would we have dared to sit in silence engrossed in a book, unless it was RLW.

Whilst these students hail from a very different culture than that in my beloved Townsville, the effects of the technological revolution are also being felt back at home.

I believe that one of the long-term byproducts of technology on society will be the inability of our successors to think and react with the appropriate amount of verbal aplomb. This could have very serious consequences for “The Greatest Game of All” too.

Consider the erudite Nate Myles, who last year had an infantile flashback. He was fortunate that he could face up to the media so eloquently after his unfortunately misplaced bowel movement with “I dunno, the place was a dump, so I thought I might as well add to its ambiance.”

He could’ve taken a leaf from that world-renowned wordsmith and his coach at the time Brad Fittler who, having misplaced his GPS, was found languishing on the wrong floor of his hotel trying to gain entrance to a young lady’s room. Freddy admonished the press with a smart-as-a-whip, “What’s her problem, she should enjoy the ride and think of England.”

In fairness, not all players of the non-gadget era could speak so wittily. Admittedly they were rarely short of words but often lacking polish.

Remember that great role model “Slamming” Sam Backo, one of the most colourful characters ever to dance the “light fantastic” on the footy field. Sam played footy with his heart on his sleeve - patchy at club level but given a maroon jumper, he turned into superman.

Sam won his share of Man of the Match Awards and deservingly attracted post-match attention from an adoring live television contingent. Unbeknown to many, Sam has a Doctorate in Bush Lingo, and often when re-living a game just concluded he would let the occasional “F” word slip into his narration.

The “F” word and other expletives are not necessarily a mark of vocabulary inadequacy. Two well known exponents of linguistic sparring, Wally Lewis and Mark Geyer once exchanged a few words to exchange during an up until then forgettable State of Origin in 1991.

The roar from the crowd was so deafening that they had to stand nose-to-nose in order to make themselves heard. The microphones had difficulty picking-up what was being said, but it is generally agreed that the King was commenting on MG’s arguably tenuous relationship with and between his parents. He also quoted liberally from Sam’s book “Expressionism and the Modern Male”. MG seemed a little frustrated with Wally’s petulance and with not being able to get a word in edge ways. He developed a horrible stammer over the letter “F” while offering sage advice on where the Queensland team could go to hide if they lost the match in question.

Will reminisces like this become a thing of the past? Will debates between players of differing options be reduced to “duh and duh-er”? Glory be, let’s hope not.

What about the commentators on television? “Rabbits” Warren has been around since Adam was a boy and has a vocabulary second to none. He can describe a footy incident in so many different ways, that it’s often difficult to remember what actually happened in the first place.

Who will take his place? Will we be forced to listen to a new generation of commentators describe events such as THAT origin try of Mark Coyne in a monologue of “he scored”?

I’d rather be dead or maybe sending a text message on my cell.

_____________________________________________________

 

[Jason Maher]

After bludging out on the wing for most of the game and slipping under the radar of the Tits, Jason Maher suddenly bolts infield to trail through and gratefully accept a wonderful offload from St. Linnane. He scoots off downfield, looking around for backup as he draws toward the scrambling defence...

750 words including the title between the tildes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

What's in a Choke?

Choke - verb To perform badly at a crucial stage of a competition because one is nervous, especially when one is winning.

​

Choker. The worst label that can be slapped on a sporting competitor or team. To be known for snatching defeat from the jaws of victory, as having the talent but not the mental toughness to go all the way, is a horrible thing. Easier to be labelled simply "rubbish", be free of expectation, and use the insult as motivation to prove the knockers wrong.

For the choker, however, the nagging self-doubt which led to the label being earned is the very thing that makes it so difficult to shed. Overcoming this doubt and shoving the "choker" tag back down the throats of the knockers has to be one of the tougher challenges in sport. The old saying "if at first you don't succeed, try, try again" doesn't quite cut it. Each failure makes it just that little bit tougher to "try, try again".

As I'm sure everyone reading this is well aware, my beloved Dragons have in recent times copped the "chokers" tag repeatedly. It seems that the cries of choke come out after every single defeat, as if we should win every single game. Apart from implicitly insulting our opponents and overstating our own ability, this is a very good example of the overuse of a term divesting it of useful meaning.

Of course, the overuse of "choke" is nothing more than a typical example of sports fans (and some media types) trying to get under the skin of other fans. It continues soley because we Dragons fans continue to get pissed off by it and thus take the bait.

Leaving aside rival fans having a dig, I want to ask the question: what is it that constitutes a genuine choke? I will base my answer on the definition above. Reading the definition, I spot four key elements of a genuine choke, and I'll suggest a fifth. (Note that the definition is framed in terms of an individual competitor, but I'm interpreting it in a team context.)

First and foremost, a genuine choke involves a poor performance. This rules out a late loss due to a lucky bounce of the ball or a poor refereeing decision. Second, a genuine choke is one that happens "at a crucial stage" of either a game or the competition (e.g. a team that loses from being 12 points up with 10 to go). Third, the aspect of nerves: a team, faced with the prospect of actually winning, drops their bundle due to the weight of expectation or a lack of self belief. Fourth, in order to choke, a team must usually be winning (and I would suggest by a comfortable margin). Fifth, and this kind of draws on the third and fourth points, I'd suggest that favourtism or expectation is key: the team must be expected to win. I think it would be unfair to label an underdog that gets run down at the death by a hot favourite as "chokers".

To cite an example, the Dragons loss to Canberra was labelled a choke by some. I disagree: we weren't expected to win (due to our history against the Raiders in Canberra), and we only led 4-0. Rubbish performance perhaps, but not a choke. Likewise, many would have called choke if we had lost from 22-0 up against Newcastle. Again, I think this would have been unjustified, due to the Old Boys Day motivation, the amount of time left, and the calls that went against us. If we had lost from 22-0 up with 15 to go, that would be a different story. To use another club as an example, I don't think it would be fair to claim Canterbury choked against Penrith on Monday, for similar reasons to the Newcastle-Saints game.

No, for a genuine choke, you have to look at the preliminary final between Canterbury and Parramatta in 1998. No team should ever lose from 18-2 up with 10 to go. Or closer to home, the Dragons finals exit last year, especially getting rolled at home by the 8th placed team, who we'd flogged the previous week. And while I don't think it will be fair to label the Dragons chokers simply for not winning the Grand Final (winning a premiership is too difficult for that to be justified), a repeat of last year's back door finals exit will justifiably attract the "chokers" tag again.

~~~~~~~~~~

Reference: definition from Wiktionary - the free dictionary. http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/choke. Accessed 1/9/10 at 5:00PM.

 

[dubopov]

Stop at nothing .. stop at nothing .. the relentless front rower Dubo mantra-ed as he assaulted the Tits defence ..


TANGLED WEBS

Oh my God !!! Shock !! Horror !! Bulldog Ryan Tandy is apparently under investigation by the NSW Police for allegedly giving away a penalty in front of the posts against North Queensland; thereby giving a Cowboys' Penalty Goal, which had huge support with betting agencies, the likelihood of being the first points of the game. The Cowboys ruined the party by scoring a try instead. Tsk Tsk.

My heart bleeds for the yuppies dominating the NRL these days - jeez, even blokes like Tandy are probably getting $100000 a season and then have unlimited opportunities to supplement their income with 'wise' investments on the TAB. You can hear the cash registers clink every time there's a missed tackle or dropped ball.

These blokes would never have survived if they relied on bush footy for a living. We were paid about 50 bucks a win with free piss after the match. Added to that, we only ever had a yearly chance to be involved in a match where real money could be won - City v Country.

In the late 90's our local Rattville Rebels were blessed with four members of the Country squad and our bitter Group enemies the Brewdrooper Boars had the talented yet sly Denby Wilkes captaining the City side. He qualified for City because he made his First Grade debut when attending some poncy boarding school in the big smoke.

Always the entrepreneur, Wilkes had a chat to 'Beetle' Bailey and I in the local the day after the teams were announced.

"Reckon yous'll win the Rep game ?" he queried.

"Yeah, we've got you city soft-c**ks covered", Beetle declared, "particularly with those guys", he added, gesturing towards Johnno and Billy Adamski. The brothers were regarded as the Ellas of the bush.

"Don't f**kin' look at 'em !! ... They'll come over here", Wilkes admonished. "I don't want those black pricks in on the deal."

"Ease off Denby .. they're good blokes", I blurted as I stood up ready to drop the bastard.

To give credit where it was due, Wilkes had devised a seemingly foolproof plan to net us a sh*tload. All that was important was the timing. He assured me that a couple of his team-mates would 'do the right thing' to ensure a huge payout.

Prior to this potential betting bonanza, the only betting scandal I'd known about happened when I was ten when the mighty Rebels' Captain, Scrotum Sweeney, passed the ball to a team-mate when in the clear to ruin my chances of winning the First Scorer Double. I later saw Scrotum's mother cashing in her winning ticket. Now, finally, I had my chance to board the gravy train.

Beetle was more circumspect, "But .. but .. it's dishonest", he pleaded.

"Nah mate, it's the way of the world .. just throw the pass when you have to and it's worth two grand. Think about it Beetle, it'll keep ya in beers for months", the con-man convincingly argued.

While this was happening, I went to water the horses and had a brief chat with Johnno who thanked me for sticking up for him. He'd been a mate of mine since Primary School and we always helped each other, so it was nothing new.

When I got back to the bar, Wilkes had gone but Beetle was happy. He would get even happier on Friday Night if everything went to plan.

The Wilkes plan was simple(a Wilkes' trait), and it made a lot of sense(a non-Wilkserian trait). We would cash in on a draw at half time, a draw at full-time and a draw at the end of extra time.

During the game, everything seemed normal but the sting unfolded perfectly. We got a penalty at the end of the first half and I dutifully kicked the goal. 10 all. Beetle tried a scripted offload near our line late in the second half which Denby gleefully intercepted. Sadly, as his fist bashing the ground indicated, he missed the conversion on the siren. 18 all.

During extra time, I noticed the Refs giving penalties to City for minor infringements - the bastards were trying to get the result they wanted. I was pinged for being offside and Denby seemed non-plussed as he potted the penalty.

"f**k !!. It's supposed to finish 18 all", I screamed.

"Don't worry bro", Johnno assured, "We'll get this. Lucky we didn't trust that merkin heh".

On cue, Johnno hoiked a shallow kick-off which was gathered by Billy who scored before Wilkes knew what was happening.

 

[Big Pete]

Making his long awaited return to Forum 7's Big Pete pins the ears back and runs straight into the Dragons line for the Gold Coast Titans.

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

Mate ship​

​

I love my footy.

In fact, I enjoy the game so much so my friends are forced to drop whatever topic they’re discussing and bombard me with questions suck as: “What do you get out of watching football”. For the longest time I didn’t have an answer, largely because I didn’t think anything of it; until the other day where I chose to analyse the game in search of it’s morals. After doing so, I had finally come up with my answer – mate ship. The game had shown me mate-ship and the benefits one can reap from it.

Over the years, we’ve seen a number of teams take out the premiership table and in some years such as 2003 with Penrith and 2005 with the West Tigers we’ve seen teams rise from relative obscurity and pluck premierships off much fancier and classier sides. Some people like to chalk those years up to luck and stick to a number of cynical points that detract from the game and miss a clearly visible reason behind a team’s success.

You just have to look at a team like Penrith’s 2003 side to see what kind of rewards mate ship could bring to a side. Here was a squad that had featured on the bottom of the ladder for two seasons, didn’t have much in the way of talent and certainly didn’t look like premiership contenders let alone premiers. Yet time and time again they managed to get the better of classier opposition such as the Brisbane Broncos, Sydney Roosters and Canterbury-Bankstown Bulldogs. They clearly didn’t have the names to get the better of these opposition sides but they didn’t have to, they were the Penrith Panthers and they weren’t going to let go of their dream of winning a premiership without firing everything at the opposition.

It’s also clearly evident that a lack of mate ship can lead to disappointing results. When a player clearly doesn’t want to play for his side the entire team’s performance deflates and they end up conceding more losses than actual victories. An example of this result is the performance of Parramatta this season. Despite fielding a number of fantastic players such as Jarryd Hayne and Nathan Hindmarsh the club has gone from runners up to being run out of the finals with still a week to play in the national competition. Yet in spite of their talent it’s incredibly easy to understand how they haven’t made it given some of their performances.

A brilliant example of this was in Round 15 this year when the Eels took on Newcastle in a game where the Knights caused one of the big upsets of the season stealing a 2 point victory at the death. It was a dreadful performance by the Knights who’d been struggling all season to put together an 80 minute performance after their season was disrupted by the shocking releases of Chris Houston and Danny Wicks. Anyways what makes this game a brilliant example is the performance of one individual in Timana Tahu. It was only a week or so after the famous conflict Tahu had with Johns and the dual internationalist was fired up. Unfortunately, it wasn’t to the benefit of his team mates and after only five minutes Tahu found himself in the bin after throwing some violent punches following an innocuous hit up by Newcastle. Clearly, Tahu wasn’t concerned about his team mates and as a result they were left embarrassed.

However despite the many embarrassments the code itself has faced the one area it can never be critiqued is it’s global mate ship. Mate ship isn’t reserved to just team mates, it’s also offered to the opposition as demonstrated with the post-game hand shake. Perhaps the most famous moment of this was in the 1963 grand final where Norm Provan and Arthur Summons were able to embrace despite being on opposite sides of the field and holding one of the game’s fiercest rivalries of the time.

Now, this article may not of come as that big a surprise to you. I mean, this is a basic discourse to recognise. However it was this discourse that inspired me, my team mates and the opposition to write tonight. Just like the first grade superstars themselves we all came here tonight to stand up for our fellow man. I just hope I’ve done my part.

(732 Words OWC)

 

[DRAGONZ_RULE]

DRAGONZ_RULE enters the fray moments before the final hooter, and pulls out 741 words between the stars!

***********************************
LIFE, LOVE AND RUGBY LEAGUE: A HELLISH PARADISE

CHAPTER 6

“Whaddya reckon? D’you reckon Bluey can do it? ‘Ken oath, that was a fair try, mate!”

“Dunno, mate. Reckon he’s got the goods, but Kingsgrove are a bloody good side...”

18 minutes into the U16s Grand Final of 1994, Renown United had looked dead and buried. Kingsgrove Colts, with only one small blip on their season radar, were scoring at almost a point a minute. A single awe-inspiring play later, however, and Kevin ‘Bluey’ Wilson had given Renown a foothold in the match.

The score was 16-6 – if the try had done something other than affect the scoreboard, it was to get the crowd talking. To make the Kingsgrove parents slightly nervous. To give Renown fans a slight glimmer of hope.

Hope. That’s what the fans were clinging to: hope. Fans of both sides, in fact, for half of the spectators hoped for Bluey’s magic, with the other half fervently hoping for the opposite.

And it was the fans on Renown’s side of the Grand Final equation who had reason to cheer next, with Bluey orchestrating a fine blindside play to set up Tom Edwards in the corner. Bluey nailed the conversion, and minutes out from halftime, with the score now 16-12, hope was more than a preciously rare commodity amongst Renown supporters – for them, the emotion had assumed an infectious disease-like characteristic, spreading from person to person like wildfire, and coursing through their veins.

The half-time hooter rang out over the loudspeaker. Bluey was feeling great, knowing that he had pulled the boys from the brink and given them a real shot at winning the unwinnable. He was desperate to get the job done, concomitantly for selfish and selfless reasons, and his eagerness was obvious as he belted out the last couple of lines of the team song.

Bluey bolted out of the change-room, took his place on the field, and got ready to receive the Kingsgrove kick-off – the whistle blew, the thud of leather boot striking synthetic ball.

But Bluey wasn’t ready. He’d stolen a glance towards the sideline, searching for the face he was so desperate to see … looking, looking, looking … was it her, or her, or—SMACK! The ball, so often on a string when Bluey touched it, cannoned straight off his chest and through his open arms. Knock-on.

The crowd murmured, with discontent and incredulous excitement intermingled amongst those watching the match. Bluey’s cheeks burned red – the murmurs sounded like the drone of a million buzzing wasps to him.

The embarrassment intensified as Kingsgrove spared no time taking advantage of the error, scoring out wide and extending their lead to 20-12 – all Bluey’s good work had been ruined by his foolishness!

A dour period ensued as Bluey (and, by association, Renown!) struggled to drag themselves back into the game. All the while, the clock ticked down. 15 minutes, 10 minutes, 5 minutes to go.

And then the voice, again. Just like in the first half.

“COME ON, BLUEY, YOU CAN DO IT!!”

Bluey was inspired, and immediately saw the opportunity. A tired defender on the fringe of the ruck. An audacious chip’n’chase. A regather. A typical draw-and-pass. A try under the posts. A conversion.

20-18. Two minutes to go. GAME ON!

Bluey knew Renown only had one more set. The stakes were high, but he now knew he could do it.

“Hit them on the third, they won’t expect it,” he thought silently.

Tackle one: regulation hit-up from the deep kickoff. Tackle two: repeat the dose. Bluey counted the numbers, spotted a one-man overlap on the right-hand side …

Tackle three: Bluey called for the ball. Threw the long cut-out pass. Tom was away, streaking down the field, with Bluey in support. Tom waited, and waited, and waited, until the Kingsgrove fullback decided to tackle him. A brilliant flick pass at the last second, and Bluey had the ball. Saw the line. Ran as fast as his legs would carry him … dived under the posts … TRY!! TRY!! TRY!!

Renown had won!! His teammates swamped him – Bluey had done it! The parents went crazy, the Colts were crying, the Renown boys were bear-hugging him.

But for Bluey, the world stood still.

He saw her face stand clearly out from the crowd. He saw the tears coursing down her cheeks.

He ran over to her … she looked down at him …

“I love you, Bluey.”

“I love you too … mum.”

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

 

[DRAGONZ_RULE]

Can I please edit the above post to fix the formatting, as I had to post right on the deadline!!

 

[Drew-Sta]

f**k me, that was a close one DR!!

Well done Titans and Dragons. I thought the Saints were only gonna get 4 in then DR gets in on a f**king thread. Well done to all!

 

[DRAGONZ_RULE]

OK, I have edited the above article so that it doesn't look like one big mass of text without any paragraph breaks. Don't know why Microsoft Word does that to me!

 

[DRAGONZ_RULE]

f**k me, that was a close one DR!!

Well done Titans and Dragons. I thought the Saints were only gonna get 4 in then DR gets in on a f**king thread. Well done to all!

Yeah I know!!

I am right in the middle of my mid-semester exams at uni, so have been pushing the proverbial uphill to get some time in edgeways.

Getting it finished in time right on the full-time siren is such a relief, was so scared that I was going to be hated forever more!!!


Good luck Titans!!!

 

[antonius]

Dragons

Murphyscreek
Murphy’s Creek
750 Words
The 1999 grand final seen through the eyes of a dragons fan. Some passages brought a smile and I thought it well constructed, and easy reading. Descriptive writing painted the picture of Murphys Creek for me.
Score 87

St. Linnane
You always have fond memories of your first...
750 Words
Good story about the writers first footy jumper. All the memories that jumper holds would make it priceless I’d suggest. A couple of minor grammatical errors that didn’t affect the score.
Score 86

Jason Maher
What's in a Choke?
750 Words
An honest look at the word choke from a Dragon fans point of view. The writer makes some solid arguments in defence of his team, and examines the word in depth.
Score 87

Dubopov
TANGLED WEBS
751 Words
The world of gambling raises its head again in this piece. The writer shows in this that nothing is ever guaranteed when you try to manipulate the books. I checked your word count twice on the OWC and came up with 751 both times.
Score 84 after 2 point penalty

DRAGONZ_RULE
LIFE, LOVE AND RUGBY LEAGUE: A HELLISH PARADISE
CHAPTER 6
741 Words
Unfortunately I have had to disqualify this piece. I am really sorry to have to do this as I know how hard it is to get this far in the competition. The piece has been edited after full time. Writers are given 10 days to get their submissions in. Posting at 9.00pm (as is the case with this piece) on the final night is fraught with danger. It seems to be a common trait these days but you pay the penalty if you get it wrong. Posting 15 minutes earlier would have given the writer time to edit this as he eventually did. It would have been better to leave it in the original posted format.
Score 0

Dragons Total 344


Titans

Amadean
5 bucks says this is a good thing.
750 words
A very interesting view on betting in the game. The writer takes us through some amusing scenarios, and ends with a sobering message. Imaginative and well written.
Score 90

tits&tans
Peas please
743 words
I liked this piece, but probably not for any reason you may think. While reading why dad was disillusioned with union, it became apparent that a lot of his complaints about his game could equally apply to ours. Or maybe that’s what you intended?
Score 88

Titanic
It’s all a matter of perspective
750 Words
The softer side of a teams hardman. Nice story. Yes it does put life in perspective.
Score 86

TITs AnonymouS
The Lost Art of Conversation
750 Words
The art of conversation is being lost. The writer gives us an amusing look at life in the game when conversation is lost through the constant art of texting.
Score 88

Big Pete
Mate ship
732 Words
What the game is all about “Playing for your mates”. Some errors spoiled the reading of this, but the theme was good and well argued.
Score 85

Titans Total 437

Result Titans 437 defeated Dragons 344 POTM Amadean


Some good reads in this game, it’s a shame that some errors cost the Dragons points, however they would have needed a score of 94 to prevail.

 

[Rexxy]

Dobopov[/B]

In the interests of accuracy (and irony), let the record show the posters name is Dubopov.

 

[antonius]

In the interests of accuracy (and irony), let the record show the posters name is Dubopov.

Thanks, I've edited it.