Qualifying Final 2009. Titans vs Warriors

[Pistol]

Gold Coast Titans v New Zealand Warriors

-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.
* The loser will be eliminated. The winner of this game will advance to 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 7th October 2009 at 9pm (Syd time)
REFEREE: Pistol
Venue: FRONT ROW STADIUM

**The Referee Blows Game On!**

CLICK HERE FOR OFFICIAL WORD COUNTER

 

[Titanic]

The Gold Coast TITANS
Once more to the fray... here come the Titans:

The Run-on Team
1 Amadean
6 tits&tans
7 Titan Uranus
11 Titanic
13 TITs ANonymouS

The Bench
2 Tittoolate
8 bgdc

 

[Jesbass]

Coming out to a cheer of "topple the Titans", the following Warriors take to the battle field, breathing fire...

Starters:
Jesbass (c)
rayroxon (vc)
antonius
MKEB...
Spence08

Bench:
Kid-Dynamite
MrCharisma

 

[antonius]

antonius takes to the field, his weary legs kick off for the mighty Warriors, the ball sails into the air.................

*********

A Moment in Time

I had arrived in Australia from England two decades prior to this day.

I knew little of the game of rugby league, and wasn’t that interested in finding out about it. I was a soccer mad kid who was soon to find out that my game ran a poor second in this new land.

I made friends with some local lads in Belmont NSW, and in order to fit in, I eventually went along to a local game of league. I remember it well - Lakes United against North Newcastle. The game was tough in those days, and I remember the brutality more than anything else. That and the fact that I recognised one of North’s forwards, Denis Nichols. He and his front row partner Karl Hutchinson were smashing blokes left, right and centre. I knew Denis from BHP, where I was an apprentice and Denis was a tradesman. I couldn’t believe the bloke on the field was the same Denis I knew from work. It was like Jekyll and Hyde. At work, Denis was mild mannered and quiet; on the field, he was going ballistic in combination with Hutchinson. They caused havoc.

I continued to go along to Lakes games, my appetite whetted.

My love for the game grew. Around the time the Knights joined the competition, I met a man called William "Billo" Bower. He was old school, with a face only a mother could love, battered and broken from years of playing in the local competition against guys like Denis and Karl. I imagine in his day, Billo would’ve been as feared a player as those two. After he’d retired, Billo devoted his life to the Glendale Gorillas, coaching and mentoring many local boys and young men over many years. He’d be up the local pub every Friday running meat raffles for his beloved Gorillas. He’d organise functions, teams, travel for kids - you name it, Billo did it. He was an institution in the area.

He was ecstatic when the Knights entered the comp and came to love them as much as his beloved Gorillas. I imagine it was the same for guys like Denis and Karl as well. How they would have loved the chance to play for their city! I too switched my allegiances from Parramatta to the Knights, and became hooked.

I would attend games with my young family, and often sit with Billo on the hill. My son would play touch with the other kids at the back of the hill, and he would always go home bruised, grazed, and telling me what a great time he’d had. My young daughter too loved going and it was great to spend the whole day as a family at the games. They were happy days.

We were like so many other Newcastle folk. At last we had a Newcastle team, and we were going to ride them to eventual success. We loved our team with a passion. It was our town; our team. My grooming as a Knights supporter was cemented.

So we come to this day nine years later.

The first rays of sun appear above the grandstand, catching the goalposts and they glisten in the early spring sun. It’s September 28th 1997 and my team had reached its first ever grand final. The day promises so much; dare we hope to win?

At the end of this day, the now immaculate grass will be cut up, flattened and strewn with tape and various other pieces of discarded player paraphernalia.

At the end of this day, I will be exhausted, drunk, and ecstatic. The impossible will have happened, with the day living up to everything it had promised. We the underdog will have mauled the silvertails, and snatched victory in the most dramatic of circumstances in the final minute of an extraordinary match. A young man, Darren Albert, will have scored what will become one of the most replayed tries of all time.

At the end of this day. As Darren Albert leaps into the air moments after scoring that try, an old warrior and true gentleman in Billo, (now passed), would shed a tear; Denis, Karl, and dozens of the working class Newcastle men that had played and followed the game in the local comp would swell with pride.

My family and I would share this with them, as would thousands of other Novocastrians. My journey was complete.
This was our moment in time.

************
744 Words between **********

 

[rayroxon]

Rayroxon hopes that this match is anything but for the Warriors...

*****​

A Grand Final.

In July, I entered ANZ Stadium to watch State of Origin II. I had my ticket in hand, scarf around my neck and that big game excitement in my tummy. Everything was on the line. The Blues were playing to save the series and the Maroons were playing to take a record fourth in a row series victory. It should have been massive but, it wasn't. At half time I wondered why did the game feel so flat? The crowd was there, League's best players were on show and there was stacks of fire, pyrotechnics and inflatables but there was something lacking. It would take me 2 months to figure it out...

Come September, the Eels were riding a wave of form that was irrepressible. Jarryd Hayne was stirring something in the loins of impartial league fans everywhere. Phrases such as "Go Parra!" and "Up the Eels", both phrases long regarded as dirty in the league fans vernacular, were gaining popular acceptance and best of all, there was no sign of Manly anywhere (a dirtier word in most fans vocabularies).

As a Warriors fan, I had long accepted my teams fate and when the finals came around, I jumped on the Eels bandwagon. I watched in awe as Hayne danced through the Dragons defenses helping eighth beat the minor premiers for the second straight season. I enjoyed Moimoi's brutal running and the no-nonsense work ethic of Hindmarsh in their win against the Titans. When I realised that the qualifying final would be the Eels vs the Bulldogs, I decided it was best that I get in on that action.

When the release of tickets went on public sale, my mate, who I exclusively see Warriors games with, bought two for us and I was as excited as I had been for any finals game. It seemed the rest of Sydney felt the same way and each day the Telegraph published a ticket sales thermometer, reminiscent of the ones McDonald's uses in store on McHappy Day for Big Mac sales.

The big day finally arrived. I was that guy that wore another teams jersey to a finals game as a statement of impartiality but, in secret, I wanted to buy a blue and yellow flag to wave around. Although I hoped the Eels would win, I wouldn't fall into the same sort of despair as I would have, had it been the Warriors and they lost. I watched as hoards of yellow, blue and white clad fans surged around me and engaged in good natured banter. There was a feeling in the air of pure excitement and electricity, and I was a part of it.

As we wound our way up to level 6 of ANZ, there was a non-stop murmur and buzz that wasn't present at the Origin. Now, Origin has its history and parochialism, but because of the nature of the series, the home side is always dominant in their support. With this finals game in the heart of Sydney, and with two Sydney teams participating, it hit me that the missing factor at Origin was tribalism. Both sets of supporters yelled and contributed to a constant din that lasted the entire match and it was as much a joy to watch the crowd rise as one when a try was scored, as it was to actually watch said try.

The game itself didn't disappoint with its fair share of controversy and individual brilliance. When full time sounded and the Eels had won, I cheered, like I cheer for the Warriors; loud, full and unrestrained. I shared in the victory even though some would argue I was not entitled to, but, I was there, supporting the game and watching on as a fan of Rugby League

On Sunday, I cheered and cursed as much as any other Grand Final, unfortunately, it wasn't to be the fairy tale ending we craved. But, in that end, the Eels had succeeded. During their finals run, the Eels had done something the Sea Eagles had failed to do in their previous two campaigns. The Eels had become the fans "Second Team" and through their momentum and excitement, they had galvanised the supporters of all those teams already out of contention. Given the year 2009 had been off field, a crowd of 75,000 at a semi final was unimaginable at one stage. For me, that semi finals crowd and those teams made that game the grandest final of all.

*****​

748 words between the ****'s

 

[Amadean]

Amadean shows the Titans' crowd his softer side, with 724 below the bar.

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


Ode to the Sphincter Muscle Cells of My Urethra

In the time I’ve been concocting articles for Forum Sevens, I’ve referenced many oblique metaphors and incoherent similes. I’ve discussed fights, girls, wine, food, cars, weather, stadia and Clancy but today I’d like to pay tribute to a small group of individuals who have had a most tremendous effect upon my personal and League career.

Muscle cells of the sphincter of my urethra, I thank you.

They say every cell in your body is replaced every seven years. The last seven years would’ve been awkward, damp, antisocial and unsporting were it not for the unstinting efforts of you strong and selfless cells. Through all times when control mattered, when pressure mounted, when kickoff was imminent, when she sat on my knee, when leather boots needed softening you brave cells were never found wanting.

Muscle cells of the sphincter of my urethra, you only played locally yet I treasure you.

I hear so many complaints from various organs, systems and deposits about the circumstances I place them in, but rarely a murmur from yourselves….

The fatty cells of my Gluteus Maximus were whining incessantly after being pressed upon cold concrete blocks at the Yass footy game, yet six schooners down and you brave spincter collection didn’t force me to miss a moment of my cousin’s Grand Final. Her team lost, miserably, but the brownie points I gained from my Aunt were of true value.

Those pedantic wusses of the Optic Nerve are forever demanding sunglasses, reading glasses, rest, recuperation or never again having to transmit images of our school’s fattest prop showering after a game. Such cowardly behaviour is unknown to such tireless warriors as yourselves, whose strength and stamina allowed the complete signing of my name in the snow during our New Zealand tour.

Scaphoid bone cells, you know who you are. The shame of your ready-to-splinter attitude is known to many; to green-stick fracture after the most innocuous of fends is immoral and indefensible. That you demanded 5 weeks out of the heart of the season to recover is worse still. My urethral hard men bring no such disgrace upon this body, but rather honour through their “Never Say Drip” attitude to Grand Finals and Century Club’s alike.

Muscle cells of the sphincter of my urethra, that your passion for control never gained the widespread praise it deserved, but I shall never forget you.

It is not just in comparison that such glory as yours shines through, for your bows can be taken on the highest of stages. In every achievement of mine you played an inestimable role. It was nearly seven years ago, when the oldest of your inspiring muscle group had just joined their efforts to those of my urethra as a whole that I saw her at Lang Park. Your induction was one of fire and pain; an induction of glory. Confronted with a full (near 540mls of pressure) bladder and a long beer queue you held firm. When I saw her, my face-painted, laughing-eyed darling, it seemed that every other nerve and muscle in my body flowed like water, but you made sure that remained a metaphor.

Sammy she called herself and probably still does, wherever she is. I loved her deeply, if briefly, and the memories of the night we shared will last forever. The UTI she left me with I put down to youthful exuberance and watching the Maroons win Origin. I don’t begrudge her that result; I am again indebted to you for dealing with the pressures of the evening. Not only did you wondrous cells fail to drench anyone, but you fought a painful infection with fortitude and grace.

Muscle cells of the sphincter of my urethra, I laid a photo by the bowl of someone who looked a bit like Sammy at the time of your last passing in name of my gratitude to you.

Too many times I’ve left the moment to thank someone pass. Too often I’ve stood by whilst a person who made a great impression on my life slid silently from view: coaches, captains, team-mates. All too often have I smugly shaken off a stiff stream without pausing to remember those whose unstinting existence made it possible.

Muscle cells of the sphincter of my urethra, thank you for taking the piss.

 

[Jesbass]

The fiery start to the match takes its toll on the Warriors, and Spence08 cops a broken jaw from a wayward opposition arm. Wunderkind Kid-Dynamite gets sent on to provide an enthusiasm boost for his embattled team mates.

OFF: Spence08 #-o
ON: Kid-Dynamite \\\\/

 

[TITs ANonymouS]

With memories galore, TITs ANonymouS takes to the field. 750 words below the line.

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

My Best Mate

When first I moved from Brissie to the glorious ‘state’ often referred to as Far North Queensland, I was a mere three years of age. We had a comfortable house with a nice yard to play in. My dad thought it would be good to have a dog for both my older brother and I to play with. He bought us a Blackmouth Cur, the same breed that features in the movie “Old Yeller”. So naturally dad, named him, Yeller.

Yeller was just a pup, so we had a lot in common; uncontrollable bowels, impulsiveness and a drooling mouth. I managed to sort out the drooling thing a bit down the track, but Yeller was stuck with his for life. Now Yeller was your typically loved family dog. Playful, loyal and blessed with more intelligence than a few people I’ve come across. He took a particular liking to me and we soon became inseparable; apart from when I slept (except in thunder storms), went to school or indoor bathrooms.

Now at the ripe old age of six I began my illustrious footy career. It soon became apparent that Yeller enjoyed the sport just as much, if not more than I did. He never missed a game I played in. He had to be physically restrained at each game. Yeller drove everybody nuts with his barking and yelping whenever I was involved - it didn’t matter if I was running, passing or tackling.

It was pandemonium the times when I did manage to break the line and run clear to score a try. Mind you, if I broke the line and was tackled before scoring, he would stop his antics, give a kind of disgusted cough and look away from me - a mild rebuke for my poor performance. He became well known throughout the junior football community and was something of a legend.

My team mates accepted him as if he was their very own, often giving him treats and happy to give him a cuddle or a scratch behind the ears - his personal favourite. Dad reminisces that it felt like he had three sons at the time.

The end of season marked another summer on the way and the annual team weekend camping trip further north to celebrate the year and hand out trophies. I was 12 years old and life was perfect as we camped at The Boulders near Babinda. This was our favourite spot and Yeller’s too. He loved being out of the city and near water with all of us kids. The parents had their tents set apart from us and we were having a ‘Boys’ Own’ whale of a time.

The water level in Babinda Creek was higher than expected due to heavy rainfall; the wet came early that year. This was very exciting for us youngsters; the surge of the flow down normally docile falls had temporarily become raging torrents - an adventure just too tempting to ignore. Despite the parents’ warnings none of us listened and I certainly wasn’t going to be left out - it nearly cost me my life.

I was first to ‘bomb dive’ recklessly into a rock pool, immediately getting sucked too close to a water-chute. This waterfall was no mere trickle and I underestimated its pull. It swept me over the edge, on a journey down the swollen creek, over numerous boulders and into rapids. Yeller, seeing me go over the edge didn’t hesitate but jumped in after me, careening head-first down the same ferocious cascade.

Battered, bruised and only semi conscious I was unable to call for help as I struggled to cling to any slippery rock I could get a fingernail grip on. My team mates were left scrambling far behind me.

Yeller, however, was able to keep his wits and barked his head off. His frantic yelping raised the alarm, alerting people further down the river that something was up. A quick-reacting local ‘cane farmer saw my predicament, jumped into the swollen torrent and reefed me out.

I was saved - Yeller was not. He was swept on downstream.

Many tear-choked hours of searching later we discovered his sagging, waterlogged body trapped between two outcrops of rock. My best mate, my saviour was gone for good.

The footy season never again held the same magic for me. In writing this, it all comes back as if it was yesterday; the fun times I shared with and the debt I owe to old Yeller.

Gone but not forgotten.​

 

[Titan Uranus]

Titan Uranus drags his creeking joints on to the field for the Titans.
​

747 words on the OWC including the title

Have I Lived?

​

It’s the end of another season, a time for retrospection of events past. Additionally, having recently had a birthday provides another occasion for not just retrospection but also introspection.

Upon reaching an age where the vast majority of professionals are younger than me, I have realised that as we grow older dreams die. This is especially true in a year when I’ve had particular cause to contemplate my own mortality.

Near the start of the season I was shocked that a friend had suffered a brain aneurysm and would’ve died had she not lived so close to a hospital. Throughout the year my aunt has undergone several bouts of chemotherapy. My cousin’s husband who although only in his forties, has had brain tumour surgery. It wasn’t successful and he has been given two years to live. More recently my gran’ had a stroke and was found collapsed in her garden. The doctors have said she doesn’t have long left.

The biggest shock of all though was when I found that my dad had been diagnosed with cancer. He has undergone major surgery twice in the last two weeks.

My father, as with many of us, was the first to take me to a football game and watched me play when I was younger, proud when I did something good which sadly didn’t happen enough. To put this into perspective, before his recent treatment our conversation consisted of two things: the treatment itself and football. We talked of who’d had a good season, who hadn’t, who was out injured, who we had chosen as our fantasy team’s captain.

I’m sure that he’d have liked it as much as me if I could have played rugby league professionally, in either hemisphere, but looking back at my life I like to think that he’d be happy with subtle impact it’s had.

My zodiac sign is Leo which in China means the year of the Horse, so from birth I was both a Lion and a Bronco. Before I could talk, I’d seen the ‘big five’ under the shadow of Kilimanjaro; lion, buffalo, elephant, leopard and Rhino.

I spent the next stage of my childhood stumbling across South Pacific WWII relics, playing on talcum powder beaches and swimming in crystal waters. There I witnessed people catching fish with nothing but a spear. Despite their fearsome reputations they only showed amity to me and I felt accepted among these ‘Warriors’.

I lived through a cyclone that wreaked a lot of havoc but, unlike everyone else this year, I did not succumb to the Storm.

I loved the sun of a sunburnt country, but not when it burnt me too, yet that didn’t stop me from steaming through a pack of Kangaroos.

As a teenager we spent several summer holidays on Greek islands, including Crete where we saw the Palace of Knossos, the Minotaur’s home. I can say it’s the more impressive of the two homes of human Bulls I’ve seen.

At university I studied anthropology, a subject whose first ethnographies were written about Papua New Guineans and, among other things, I learnt the importance of Kumuls.

Throughout the world I’ve seen countless cathedrals and temples, homes to Saints that are far grander than anything suburbs of Sydney can offer.

I’ve experimented with facial hair and won a beard-growing competition. Additionally I’ve spent one night in Bangkok where my friend, accidentally he says, led us to a street of gay bars, where I could easily have been mistaken for a Bear.

Nearby Angkor Wat, the Mekong Delta, the Killing Fields, all fascinating experiences within the fast-changing economies of these Asian Tigers.

Some would say that Melbourne players ate Eels for breakfast. I really have.

I’ve found love in the Russian winter where I visited the great monuments left behind by the nation’s leaders in St Petersburg and Moscow, where I stood in the square and was, if only briefly, a City Red.

Now I’ve lived for many years in China, long ruled by the Dragon Throne and been to the Great Wall, Mount Everest and many other places, too many to mention here.

I’ve lived not just in the King’s town upon the river Hull but on four continents and travelled the world all over, you could say I was something of a Rover.

So, it would seem that although I’ve never played professionally my life has developed some kind of symbiosis with this great sport on many different levels.

​

 

[Kid-Dynamite]

Kid-Dynamite looks to be a spark in the mighty Warriors team, injecting himself of the bench as the self proclaimed 'Super Sub'



The Written Highlight Reel

Season 2009. What a year.

We had old heroes re-establishing their names and new heroes writing theirs into the list. We had crushing hits and sublime tries. Nail biting finishes and walk in the park results. There was controversy off the field, oh boy was there controversy. But I have no doubt that the on field brilliance out weighed it.

Jarryd Hayne performing like Houdini, Fuifui Moimoi running like a rhinoceros, the Morris twins faster than Grease Lightning and scoring tries like nothing else. Gee, I sure do hope for Mr and Mrs Morris's sake they don't still give their boys money for every try they score.

And how about Wendell? 'Big Del', 'The Dellanator'...call him what you will. He was back in season '09 and what a breath of fresh air he was. Who will ever forget his tribute to the late Michael Jackson with his moonwalk celebration after scoring another one of his 5-metre tries. Just kidding!

His unforgettable antics made people turn up and watch games, and he was a real contributing factor to a stellar year in regards to TV viewings and crowd attendances for the NRL.

The 'biff'. "Bring back the biff!" And 2009 did. I saw Eric Grothe one on one with Neville Costigan; Steve Price on Brett White in Origin; Lachlan Coote, one of the smallest and youngest in the comp fighting out of his weight class when he had a scuffle with Greg Inglis. I saw Terry Campese, Chris Sandow, Michael Ennis, Ben Rogers and youngster Daniel Vidot throwing a few. And who will ever forget that Sunday afternoon at Leichardt when Robbie Farah and Anthony Watts well and truly wound back the clock!

Speaking of guys like Lachlan Coote and Daniel Vidot, didn't we see some great emerging young talent coming through?

Kevin Gordon and David Mead at the Titans, Josh Dugan at the Raiders, Kevin Locke at the Warriors, Daniel Mortimer at the Eels. And then names like Winterstein, Barba, McCullogh and Croker, re-assuring us that while we may lose players like Karmichael Hunt and Craig Wing from our game, there is most definitely a sufficient amount of young guns coming through to be tomorrow's heroes and entertain us well into the years to come.

Oh, I really do love the footy.

And while some like it tough and hard, I must admit I'm a bit the other way and like to see it free flowing. I love the try scoring fests. Nothing gets me out of my seat more than an incredibly, amazing play to get your team a 4-pointer.

Micheal Jennings running from inside his own in goal to score against the Roosters. Or how about Benji's behind the back pass to set up his winger for a try? Jarryd Hayne's chip and chase effort against the Tigers? I'll never forget the great Ray Warren's commentary: "Ohhh, Jarrryd Hayne. Superstar! Superhuman!"

Those were and are the kind of moments that have me in love with the game.

'Records are made to be broken' they say, and in the very first round, fan favourite Hazem El Masri broke the all time point scoring record. A highlight I'm sure for many. As well as that, the man they call 'El Magic' joined the '300 Club' for games played this year along with two greats of the game in Darren Lockyer and Steve Price.
And while Hazem achieved some great honuors this year, he will no longer extend his records as 2009 turned out to be the year he hung up the boots and retired.
He wasn't the only great player to call it quits though, with Warriors legend Stacey Jones retiring twice and for all, and Roosters all time great Craig Fitzgibbon giving up the ghost.

In the end, though, the honours of 2009 went to the Storm. The well-oiled machine reached their fourth grand final in a row and they earned a well-deserved victory. Parramatta captured the hearts of so many though with their fairytale run, and the Bulldogs are biting again after coming back from the wooden spoon in '08 and making the grand final qualifier in '09. There were some disappointing results for clubs this year, but hey, it's true when they say there's always next year.

Oh what a season 2009 was.

I can't wait to do it all again in 2010, because you know it'll be bigger and better than ever. It always is!

(743 Words)

 

[MKEB...]

Here I come, ready or not...Gumboots? check. Sleeves rolled up? Check. Braces on? Check. Knotted hanky on head? Check
MKEB... for the Warriors is ready to go.

"Architect sketch, Architect sketch"
****************************************************************
Solid

More than just a word? Or simply idealism?

When push comes to shove; when push can give no more and shove can barely take its equal measure.

When time cannot be measured in absolutes; when you cannot know where one second ends and the next second begins.

When youthful over-exuberance and apathetic lethargy meet in Khamaic pugilism; when the irresistible force meets the immovable object.

Solid is the end result.

Add a couple of letters to solid and perform a “switcheroo”; solid becomes spoiled.

Likewise, remove a letter and solid becomes sold.

Nothing can be removed from solid and nothing can be added...solid just is.

It is the gut busting eighty minutes of physical exertion that we call a footy match. Yet it is the ten minutes of golden point extra time that follows. It is the period of time that it takes for your knees to become a gelatinous mess of sinew; the time that is measured by the timpani concerto being drummed into the back of your head by your overworked arteries; it is the time it takes for your lungs to furiously scream “STOP! I can take no more!”

Yet solid is that unannounced fleeting moment that can lead to either an eternity of rapturous joy or a lifetime of internal mental torment. A missed tackle, a delicately slotted conversion, a dropped pass, that season winning try…they are that solid slip in time.

Solid is the shoulder of the six foot five “brick-loo” that has firmly careened into your unaware and unguarded ribcage, knocking you off your feet. That same shoulder and same hit that sends terra firma racing towards you at a rapid rate of knots, accompanied by the numbing sense of concussion that you don’t really feel. Nor will you feel it for two days after. That same word, solid, is what brings us back to our feet to fight another day. To get even with the lummox who knocked you down, by perhaps giving him back some of his own medicine, in the form of sending him arse first into the turf.

Solid is not just the physical energy that you expend on the game. It is also the mental energy. It is thinking of the best way to avoid the troglodytic front rower traipsing after you in pursuit. It is the unerring focus and concentration on catching the ball flying in your direction, focusing on how to maintain a sound defensive pattern...in fact, maintaining a defensive line so sound that it makes the Great Wall of China seem like nothing more than a straw fence.

Solid is a team member; a team; your team. The satisfaction of knowing that your team will play every week, for each other, and for you; and you will reciprocate their seamanship, not because you have to, but because you want to; because football is camaraderie in the form of a contact sport, and, in essence, why you participate.

You all strive to arrive at training first and are the last to leave. Being willing to take your car, take passengers, and bring the team gear to the game. The man that, even though on crutches, will arrive and clap his team when they play.

Solid are the football morals that you teach your little boy when he undertakes the football pursuit. They are the same hearty lessons that your dad taught to you. The lessons of play hard but play fair; that football is a team game, and you can’t win a game with a team of one.

You hope they are the morals that all fathers teach their children.

Solid is not yielding to the pressure of the often disruptive environs of the game. It is sturdy and not easily broken. It leads you to become more focused on the game and the team rather than the perks often associated with the game: the hazy world of booze, the lascivious nature of women, the adoring eyes, the gambling, the lifestyle, and the schmoozing sponsorship trail.

Solid is what we want and expect ourselves to be. Sometimes we expect too much of ourselves. We don’t want to miss tackles, miss goals or be relegated from the team because of some off field antics. We expect ourselves to put in a genuine effort, for our team’s benefit and for our own.

And we will. Because that’s what solid demands.
*********************************************************************
732 words between the stars...(which incidentally looks like the constellation Ultra Velox Chelys or Very fast Tortoise)

 

[Titanic]

Titanic for the Titans takes the field and glares into what have seemingly become very familiar faces... oops, turn around you fool, of course they're familiar, they're your own team. (750 OWC below the dotted line)
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

​

Apocalypse Then

The nature of humanity’s frailty dictates that we all have to “play” through personal tragedy at some stage of our lives. Sadly that happens mostly at times when we are the least prepared.

1998 began as a very good year. The Super League debacle was as over as it would ever be. It was the year my son took his first driving lesson and stole his first kiss. Well, maybe ‘stole’ is too strong a word; my wife told me there was more likely a large slab of mutual consent. For the ‘apple of my eye’ it was his last year of high school, he played his last First XI match in March and took 3-22. The Bronco’s had signed him for their youth squad and he looked like he was going to play grade like his dad, although not so much the hitter but a runner.

One Saturday afternoon of that July, my boy led his school team onto the field to contest the regional Rugby League finals; strong, lithe and confident, shouting encouragement to his team mates. Watching from my coach’s position on the bench, it was all I could do to concentrate on the job at hand and not burst with pride. We received the kick-off and after twenty minutes our team had forged ahead 8-6. The game was not extraordinary and there was no bitterness between the teams.

At half time, huddled in a small group and surrounded by other anxious parents, I addressed the team with words of encouragement. “Stick to the game plan and the points will come,” I unremarkably advised. “Now get back out there and make a name for yourselves. The selectors are all here, so make sure you won’t die wondering.” I caught my son’s eye and winked, tucked my clipboard under my arm and again took my place amongst the reserves; everything was as it should be.

Six minutes into the second half our halfback bombed the left hand upright. A melee of players converged, all hell bent on their respective tasks. Up went the chasers, including my lad, and in cannoned the defence. It was a great kick and the pack rose as one, all except my boy who flew higher. A try was beckoning.

In that frenetic scramble, in that moment of frantic grappling, in that non-retractable fatal split-second, I witnessed what no person, let alone any parent, should ever have to endure. The jarring sound of his skull’s tumultuous collision with the post is indelibly seared into my memory. The shuddering vibration of that impact reverberated across the ground, tolling time to stop. The sight of his already unconscious, unsupported headlong plunge into the unforgiving turf will never fade, no matter how much I drink. Trust me, I’ve tried that.

I couldn’t function. My reactions in a crisis, normally so decisive, were leaden. Somehow I reached his slumped form and stared in horror at the unnatural twist of his neck, the trickle of blood from his ear. I searched for the savior that would never come. The faces of my friends became strangers’. As I cradled his limp clammy body, still warm from his last exertions, I mumbled a mantra over and over “it’s ok, you’ll be right, it’s ok.” But it wasn’t. In my unbelieving hands, drenched by tears I couldn’t feel, the life that I had given him receded.

The disenfranchised stumble to the ambulance was a blur but not the nauseous heart-wrenching trickery of fool’s hope as my son’s dirt-smeared arm slipped off the stretcher. A picnic blanket shielded me from the graphic reality as I plunged into inner turmoil… “he can’t breathe under there” my paternal instinct wailed, while my subconscious screamed “why?”

What followed was a hazy kaleidoscope of shattered plans, hollow loneliness, meaningless platitudes and the pointless routine of the continuum of life. My home was without joy, my marriage was rudderless and my business no distraction. The one great constant in my life had been Rugby League but it served as a painful reminder. My baby boy was gone.

Nothing could eradicate the stabbing nightmare of the silenced crowd; his sightless eyes; the hopelessness; the funeral; the anger; the divorce; the futility, the stoic pretence and eventually escape to China.

Eleven years later.

Life, however so cruel, is none the less resilient. I’ve rekindled my love of Rugby League, remarried and we’ve been blessed with a son.

Laus deo, chao ab ordo… Praise God, from chaos comes order.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

[Titanic]

For the Titans, tits&tans beams his contribution via satellite phone from atop a Chinese mountain where he is contemplating his navel to Titanic for proxy posting who in turn politely advised the opposing captain and the referee of his intent. Both said referee and opposing captained concurred, so without further ado, here it is. (750 OWC between the lines)
__________________________________________________________________

​

When the feeling’s gone, and you can’t go on.

How little, Barry, Robin and Maurice knew about how accurate and yet incorrect they could be.

Merriam-Webster defines a tragedy as “a disastrous event”, although what constitutes disastrous is open to personal interpretation. Is it a family death? Is it the loss of a favourite possession? Is it a screw-up at work? Is it a typhoon demolishing your home?

The definition changes for each of us and depends on the priorities we set in our lives …

He is there every week, without fail. Regardless of weather and looks from other spectators, he is in the same position every week. His face is always the same; a look of forlorn sadness, of resignation, yet within the depths of his eyes, I am sure I sense a spark of something brighter than burning coals. He doesn’t talk to anyone and no one talks to him. He simply watches us run around on the paddock with an intensity that not even our coach has.

As kids do, we created a nickname; Stumpy. Had this been a cricket squad, there might even have been some humour in that nickname. But, we called him that because of the two smooth stumps that poked out of the bottom of his very short trousers. He scares me a little, but I’m told he is “'armless”.

It took many months for me to build up the courage to talk to him. A tentative “hello” began what was to become a whirlwind of emotions, that, at 15, I couldn't fully grasp.

He nodded.
“I’m Daniel."
He nodded in acknowledgement.
“Did you play when you were young?” I mentally kick myself; he has no legs.
He nods again.
I’m surprised. “Who did you play for?”
His voice was gravelly and unused. “I used to play for this same mob as you do today."

Over the next couple of weeks, he slowly opened up ...

He and his elder brother had grown up locally and had both played for our junior teams from the moment they could run and catch. He had been moderately successful, but his brother had been a star. Every award and prize on offer, he won. The locals said he was the best in the state and the best that the region had seen in a long time. The major clubs had all sent scouts to watch him play and his future seemed set. A contract, fame, adulation and, of course, being paid to play the game he loves, all floated tantalisingly close on the horizon.

They had just won the Grand Final and were celebrating. The beer flowed and the laughter was loud. It was a well-fought, gut-pleasing game to win and the team was ecstatic. It was the early hours, when they left for home. He had had a few too many but his brother, as man of the match, had had no choice but to imbibe plentifully. The snoring corpse on the back seat attested to that.

It was a route home that he had driven, ridden, and walked hundreds of times and he knew every curve and bump of the road. It was dark and he was driving confidently fast.

Suddenly, he was in pain. The car was on its back and his legs were crushed under the dashboard. His brother, however, was hurled clear.

He never gave any more details of the crash, but he did explain the consequences. Weeks of surgery and waiting, more surgery and more waiting couldn’t save his legs. His brother, on the other hand, had been more fortunate and had simply injured his right arm.

He sank into depression, attended counselling, started drinking and sank further, seeing no end. His brother recovered from his injury and continued playing. He played well but never reached the heights he felt he should have. He played as if carrying a huge weight. It wasn't until reading his suicide note that his family realised the extent of the crushing guilt he felt for how his little brother suffered. ​

Either as punishment, reward or respect, he comes to every training session and game. He sits, silent and intense, and leaves. The feeling in his legs has gone, but not in his heart. He truly “can go on”.

The tragedy for me, is more than just his story. It's the lack of respect and recognition he receives every week. That stops now.

Peter Leighley, you are hereby recognised as a Rugby League hero.
________________________________________________________________

 

[Jesbass]

With the match and season on the line, Jesbass lets out a hiss and shoulder charges his opposing captain...

This article is 748 words long, consisting of the article itself, (between the stars), and including the text content of the images, which have been copied between the lower stars and the +++ line for the purposes of word count.

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

What Becomes Of The Broken Spirited?

​

Of all the ghouls and ghosts that have made themselves known in mankind’s history, the Spirit of the Game is one of the most famous. Casper, the Headless Horseman, and Hamlet’s father all pale in comparison to the translucent protector of fair play.

Initially sighted on August 29th, 1895, at the George Hotel in Northern England, and always referring to his vaporous self as Spiro de la Game, the ever popular guardian of gameplay gallantry has rightfully been able to take his place at the top of the spiritual sporting realm.

But 114 years is a long time, and the supercentenarian has been doing it tough recently - something that is set to be revealed in his autobiography, In The Spirit Of Me: The Afterlife And Times Of The Soul Of The Game.

"2009 was almost the end for me," reflects the author. "As far as scandals go, it was definitely one of the worst."

If anyone knows about scandals, it's the Spirit. He has never been afraid to make his feelings known, having featured in hundreds of news headlines at even the slightest hint of poor sportsmanship.

There were his comments on the lifetime ban of Dan Davies at the hands of what he perceived to be a heavy handed New South Wales Rugby League in 1917.

That was followed in 1941 by crying foul at the French wartime situation for his beloved code. He was particularly scathing of Marshal Philippe Pétain when, as part of his gradual collaboration with the Nazis, he proclaimed the banishment of rugby league from France, and the seizure of all assets of the governing body to go to an opposing code.

"Pétain was a traitor to both code and country," Spiro dictated in his book.

In 1954, it was referee Aub Oxford's abandonment of a match between New South Wales and Great Britain due to excessive brawling, with de la Game quipping: "When Aub left the two bewildered teams, the Spirit of the Game did likewise. In fact, I'd never managed to get onto the field of play at all."

These events threatened to puncture a glittering career for the game's most enduring and omnipresent ambassador, as did the Tamati/Dowling fight in 1985, and John Hopoate's so-called wedgies in 2001. At the time of the latter, Spiro famously said that he felt "spooked" by what he'd seen that day.

But it was the season just gone that struck him the hardest.

"People forget that I'm getting on a bit. I'm not quite as intangible as I used to be, and I feel like I'm losing a bit of my supernaturalness. The stress of my job could be fatal, even to the undead."

Something else that the league community forgets, he susurrates, is that every drunken error or act of physical abuse affects him personally. A bruised and battered shadow of his former self, Spiro was treated for alcohol poisoning mid-season.

"I honestly thought about giving the game away. A ghost my age shouldn't be strapping on footy boots every weekend!"

But it isn't all bad news in the ghostwritten and candid title. Spiro reflects on what piqued his interest in the game in the first place, going right back to that fateful day in August, 1895.

Since his discovery by representatives of the 21 clubs that established rugby league - a group of men that he reminisces about as his "founding fathers" - de la Game has cited the Northern Union stance to initiate broken pay for footballers as the catalyst for his first appearance, and he insists that the 2009 Grand Final won't be his last.

"As much as the people involved infuriate me at times - as much as they deserve a good old fashioned haunting - I can't give up on the game. Rugby league needs me more than ever. I reckon I'll find it within this withered old bodiless soul to go around one more time."

*In The Spirit Of Me: The Afterlife And Times Of The Soul Of The Game is due for release in time for Halloween at bookstores worldwide.

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

Huddersfield...
Thursday, August 29, 1895
Spirit Spotted At The George

Glebe Gossip
Saturday, May 12, 1917
de la Game's Davies Dismay

Voix Vichy
Friday, December 19, 1941
Petain A Shame: de la Game

Sydney Sportsman
Saturday, July 10, 1954
Spiro Leaves With Oxted

Brissy Bulletin
Tuesday, June 18, 1985
Tamati, Dowling 'Sad': Spiro

West Sydney...
Saturday, March 24, 2001
Spirit 'Spooked' By Hoppa

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

Sources:
http://www.fodey.com/generators/newspaper/snippet.asp
http://rl1908.com
http://www.searchforancestors.com/utility/dayofweek.html
http://stats.rleague.com/rl/rl_index.html
http://wikipedia.org/

 

[Jesbass]

In a moment of madness, (he's had a few), Jesbass tackles the referee, grabs his whistle, and calls the game to a halt.

Off to the showers, boys! Weee! :crazy:

 

[Jesbass]

Well done - and good luck - to both teams. 5 v 5 is how we like it! :thumn

Over to you ref. Oh, and you can have your whistle back!

 

[Titanic]

Titans we again stand on the brink - good hustle considering Titanic who should be in Nanjing is in Jiangning; Titan Uranus who should be in Gulou is in Xianlin; tits&tans who should be Beijingxilu is on a mountain somewhere; Amadean who should be in Canberra is on the Gold Coast; and, TITan ANonymouS who should be in Nanjing is off the planet.

Onya Warriors good try again

Over to you Mr. Pistol for what looks to be a very enjoyable job.

 

[Pistol]

Titans we again stand on the brink - good hustle considering Titanic who should be in Nanjing is in Jiangning; Titan Uranus who should be in Gulou is in Xianlin; tits&tans who should be Beijingxilu is on a mountain somewhere; Amadean who should be in Canberra is on the Gold Coast; and, TITan ANonymouS who should be in Nanjing is off the planet.

Onya Warriors good try again

Over to you Mr. Pistol for what looks to be a very enjoyable job.

am I refereeing this one

okie doke

down to business

 

[Titanic]

am I refereeing this one

If it's not you then it's somebody who looks just like you.

 

[Jesbass]

If it's not you then it's somebody who looks just like you.

I think it might be me... :sarcasm: