Round 5 (2006) Bluebags v Warriors

[The Piper]

Newtown Bluebags v New Zealand Warriors

Venue: Henson Park

Crowd: 13,410 Referee: antonius

• This is a game thread only, therefore only game-related posts can be made here. Any other posts may result in loss of points and is at the discretion of the referee.

• Home team captain will be allowed 3 reserves, visiting captain will be allowed 2 reserves.

• Captains must post their entire team (including reserves) before posting and only those players listed may play this round.

Rules of play: http://f7s.leagueunlimited.com/rules.asp

Full Time: WEDNESDAY 31ST MAY at 9:00PM (SYD TIME)

**The Referee Blows Game On!**

 

[Willow]

The Bluebags arrive at the hallowed turf of Henson Park...

Willow (c)
broncoman
HMS Cheesemaker
Dragon_psa
JoeD
Interchange:
...Morticia...
Brendothejet
Timmah

 

[Jesbass]

In a state of mass confusion, courtesy of the new captain's inability to read a road map, the Warriors arrive at Henson Park by pure luck...

Starters:
Jesbass (c)
KeepingTheFaith
mad kiwi elloco bandido
Mixmasterreece (debut)
Polar Bob

Interchange bench:
byrne_rovelli_fan82
Robster

 

[Mixmasterreece]

Mixmasterreece on debut for the Warriors
-------------------------------------------------
Tell Me Lies, Tell Me Sweet Little Lies
- A story of one man's 'hard sell'

I die a little more every weekend, but on this occasion the pain is amplified. It’s Saturday the 13th of May and I’ve just watched the Warriors blow another lead, and lose a game in the last quarter of the match. It's a night where I'm at home and once again I've done my best to sell a Warriors game to my union loyal friends.

It's a hard job being a Warriors fan, and investing two hours of a Saturday night to watch a Warriors game is a hard sell to my mates who support union and support some of the most prolific teams in the history of the code; the Crusaders and the mighty AB's.

How I sell it is leverage and promises; dirty little white lies that bend the truth ever so slightly. I used to be able to justify this to myself, but now it's becoming increasingly difficult. Each week I promise fireworks, I promise big hits and I promise a return to the form of 2002 where the whole country was behind my beloved Warriors.

Each weekend the big hits don't come, and if they do, they are followed up by complete incompetency. The fireworks I so eagerly promoted fizzle out under the wet blanket of handling errors and the return to form just never eventuates.

Am I kidding myself? Have I lied so often that I cannot tell between the truth and my web of rugby league deceit? I think I am a victim of illusion - just like David Copperfield, the Warriors have used their special brand of smoke and mirrors to divert my attention. I'm blinded from the obvious rot inside the club and my attention has been drawn to the small positives: the re-signing of unproven players; Steve Price's first try for the club; the fact that the team is rarely handed out rugby league’s unique brand of street justice and that kindly Mr 'So-and-so' has reached 100 caps for the club.

Is that something to rejoice over and cherish a season for? Pardon me if I'm not firing my AK-47 into the air and climbing to the top of the highest mountain to express my delight through the majesty of song, but what about this season? What about 2006?

How is this possible, you may ask? Is this the biggest conspiracy since 9/11? Does the conspiracy go right to the top? Well, yes and no. Not one man has actively worked towards brainwashing the fans - it's just the nature of the squad. The Warriors are a rugby league enigma, brilliant one day and laughable the next, but always showing the promise to rip the throat out of opposition and blow the competition wide open.

I am a product of the season of 2002 it would seem, clutching to the straws of a distant past where 50/50 passes went to hand and a time where a man would play his heart out for his club. Who I blame for this is simple: it's the Clinton Toopis and Sione Faumuinas of this world. These are players whose pedigree I am so well aware of, but in the same breath are the players who I try to sell a game on and let me down week in and week out.

No man is an island unto himself. I know our special brand of Amway has its roots spread wide across this fine land. Every weekend our dedicated sales force toils away trying to preach to the unenlightened, making promises that perhaps our team just can't deliver. But what would we be if we just gave up and resigned ourselves to what could be the inevitable? It's simple - we would be Souths, my friends.

My brethren, I do not ask that you take to the streets and burn effigies of the squad, but what I do recommend is that you find different ways to sell our club to your friends and family. No longer shall we sell our clubs weekly matchup on the feats of days gone by, the over the head pass of Faumuina to Tuimavave, or the golden year where Clinton Toopi was a god walking amongst mere mortals. Sell on the fact that this club is your club, from your city, from your country. Take pride in your country and the club that is representing it in the toughest competition of them all.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
- 749 words

 

[Willow]

Replacement for the Bluebags...
JoeD out
Interchange:
...Morticia...

 

[Jesbass]

Wondering why the team on the field is a man short, Jesbass is shocked to discover KeepingTheFaith in a drunken stupor at the back of the team bus.

OFF: KeepingTheFaith
ON: byrne_rovelli_fan82

 

[byrne_rovelli_fan82]

byrne_rovelli_fan82 (Warriors)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Breaking Into The Big Time

Excitement ran high among Warriors fans. The same excitement ran through the seventeen players as they mingled around in the dressing room beneath the Eastern Grand Stand of Ericsson Stadium. The players relaxed together. They had plenty of time to chill before kick off and they decided to spend the remaining time to enjoy a little freedom.

But in one corner, a young man sat alone: rookie debutant Grant ‘Ravs’ Rovelli.

He’s not a loner of sorts and he’s all for joining in on the laughter and fun happening around him. But at that moment, he needed quiet - a bit of time to do some reflecting. He recalled the experience moving away from home down the coast to Sydney and into the mad professional world of rugby league.

That ever faithful first day of training still shone brightly in his mind. Mixing together with the other guys, seeing their faces as they eagerly waited to start had been such an infectious feeling. Grant made friends fairly easily; he had always been the easy going friendly personality. He’d struck up a great friendship with his halves partner in Jamie Soward. The two got on like a house on fire. Their combination as halfback and five-eight worked wonders in Jersey Flegg. Grant didn’t think he’d play as a halfback in league, but it turned out moving into a professional outfit like the Sydney Roosters Jersey Flegg team he’d been given the responsibility.

His coach had told him: “There’s a lot required of a halfback - chief player maker, the difference between winning and losing.”

Grant felt terrified at first; he worried he’d mess up in front of his team mates, the coach and the fans. But surprisingly when he got on the paddock for that first game it all went to plan. He played a significant role, doing the basics. His team mates, saving graces for him, gave him the time and space to execute. That first win set Grant’s head in motion and it got the rugby league community talking. This kid from the obscurities of Queensland was already impressing and it had only been one game!

Two years passed and Grant found himself at Premier League level. He had to pinch himself several times to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. During his second year at Jersey Flegg he had decided he’d do everything in his game to prove he wasn’t some first year wonder kid. He’d make it to the very top, to the NRL where so much more promise lies ahead. He remembered 2002, watching the Roosters 1st grade team toughing it out with the New Zealand Warriors in the Grand Final. Grant knew by then where his future lay. He wanted it more than anything in the world, to be there in the top side playing in a grand final match.

Like the two previous years, Grant left many an impression and whispers floated around. If he kept up his brilliant form there’s no telling when he’d get that elusive call up. But alas - as time went by and his second year rolled around that call never came. Resided to that fact, he was happy for team mates as they were eased into the top team. What made up for this was the way the Premier League side really clicked together and found themselves sitting pretty at the top and in a grand final. Grant didn’t care for much less, he’d gotten part of his dream. Playing in front of a big crowd, he and his team mates played to their potential and the glory was his to savour as a young captain.

Year three passed by in a blur. More of his team mates came and went he still hung around in second tier. Just as all looked lost for Ravs a phone call changed him. The Warriors were losing their long term halfback at the end of the year. Ravs couldn’t quite believe it - but a window had finally opened, and although it meant he’d have to leave the shores of Australia, he jumped at the chance.

“Ravs come on.” A voice broke him from his reverie. “It’s time to go.”

Breathing in, Grant followed his new team mates out of the dressing room. As they headed onto the park to face the Storm, he listened to the crowd roaring with passion.

Perseverance had finally paid off for the young man we know affectionately as Ravs.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Article: 748

 

[Willow]

Replacement for Bluebags:
Dragon_psa - out
Timmah - in

 

[Willow]

*Willow runs on for the Bluebags*


The Voice of Rugby League

Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
From glen to glen, and down the mountain side
The summer's gone, and all the flowers are dying
'Tis you, 'tis you must go and I must bide.

At 90 years of age, Frank Hyde has had a good innings. He captained NSW, won a premiership, and has been a captain-coach and a referee. One of life’s true gentlemen, Frank has been awarded an OAM, a MBE and a Dally M ‘Life Achievement’ Award. His career has seen him as a writer and journalist. In the 1970s, Frank had a top 10 hit with his rendition of ‘Danny Boy’. But most memorably, Frank Hyde is known as a radio caller and ‘the voice of rugby league’.

But sadly, Australia's most beloved rugby league commentator is gravely ill.

But come ye back when summer's in the meadow
Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow
'Tis I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow
Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so.

Born in 1916, Frank’s family lived on Sydney’s north shore. He began playing rugby league at St Patrick's Marist Brothers school. In 1925 his team won the premiership.

Frank’s contributions as a player and administrator were enormous. He was graded as a centre in 1936, his first opponent being the great Dave Brown. In 1937, Newtown thrashed Easts by a record 57-5 in the City Cup Final and Frank scored three tries. A year later NSWRL Residential Rules forced Frank to switch to Balmain where he was appointed captain. The 22-year-old made a huge impression and was selected for NSW.

In 1939, Frank led the Balmain side to premiership glory. In the same year he toured New Zealand with the Sydney Reps and would have almost certainly played for Australia if not for World War Two.

During the war, Frank transferred to Newcastle where he captain-coached Waratah Mayfield. He later became captain-coach of North Sydney, leading the club to a grand final appearance.

In 1942, Frank somehow found time to marry his sweetheart, Gaby, the couple eventually raising six children together.

And if you come, when all the flowers are dying
And I am dead, as dead I well may be
You'll come and find the place where I am lying
And kneel and say an "Ave" there for me.

As a broadcaster for radio 2SM, Hyde blazed a trail with calls that have gone down in the annals of sports broadcasting. From 1953-1986, he called a record 33 consecutive grand finals and was never defeated in the ratings. Frank’s memorable “It’s high enough, it’s long enough and it’s straight between the posts”, could be heard across the red roofed suburbs of Sydney. Frank’s dulcet tones brought rugby league into our homes and into our lives.

“Most of today’s callers were smart enough to realise there will only ever be one Frank Hyde and weren’t silly enough to try to copy him,” says columnist Mike Gibson.

“I don’t think any of them will ever be Frank Hyde, nor would they want to be. I think everyone in the radio game accepts that Frank Hyde alone was the voice of rugby league … and always will be.”

A devout catholic, Frank has pointed to his faith as been the driving force behind his impressive list of achievements.

“I was a product of the Depression, so everything I have achieved in my life is a direct result of my faith,” he says.

Not often publicised was Frank Hyde’s charity work. After calling a game at the SCG, he would sometimes visit the Matthew Talbot Hostel to help those less fortunate.

“It’s funny because I would go down to help and the residents would abuse me for giving the man of the match award to the wrong bloke,” Frank recalls.

“It was all in good fun. But, seriously, helping the less fortunate made me never take things in my life for granted.”

In recent years, Frank has had to curtail his duties.

“I’m still under doctor’s orders, so I have to play it on the safe side,” he said. “I’m working my way back to health and plan to be around for some time yet.”

And I shall hear, tho' soft you tread above me
And all my dreams will warm and sweeter be
If you'll not fail to tell me that you love me
I'll simply sleep in peace until you come to me.

*750 words*
Ref:
Frank Hyde auto-biography, ‘Straight Between the Posts’.(1995)
The Catholic Weekly (2002)
1908.com
Encylopedia of Rugby League Players (2002)
Lyrics: Danny Boy

 

[broncoman]

broncoman
#2 Bluebags

Heroes in the Modern Game

My dad used to take my brother and I to plenty of footy games back in the early nineties, now that I’ve grown up I still enjoy going to the matches as much as I did way back then. However my Father never goes any more and I ask him why? He says, "It's not the same since the likes of Daley, Meninga, Furner, Stuart and co retired." I say the same thing to him every time, "players have to move on and they get replaced, much like the circle of life." It wasn't until recently that I actually decided to think about what my dad has to say, he's right in many ways, since the greats of the early to mid nineties have retired they haven't been replaced.

Most people would remember a few years ago when Brad Fittler was found drunk in front of a Sydney police station in the early hours of the morning, as one of the last remaining greats from the era I grew up watching, this tarnished his reputation in my eyes. The intense spotlight that the stars of our game are under is massive, players can barely go out to a nightclub with copping a spray or people trying to start fights with them, once incidents like these make it to the media it's damaged the players reputation. Only ten years ago there was no where near as much scrutiny on the players, league players were only ever in the papers for playing Rugby League or doing some fine charity work. I honestly don’t believe that the players in 2006 behave that much worse off the field than they guys in the eighties or nineties, it just seems to me that its a lot more publicised than it once was. This in no way means bad behaviour off the field is justified but the way its handled in the media means that the public see their favourite players in a different light.

In the Modern era loyalty has pretty much gone out the window, some players will play for three or so clubs in their life, for one reason or another they are forced out of their existing club or just leave to chase the dollar signs. Again this was rarely the case when I was growing up; guys like Cliff Lyons became fans favourites because the supporters knew the players love the club. The closest thing when have to rugby league heroes now are Andrew Johns, Darren Lockyer and Nathan Hindmarsh, what do they all have in common? They are all one club players, these are the type of guys that put their body on the line for the side every week and the fans appreciate that, they know the players love the club and will eventually see out their career with them. The players don’t even have to be considered greats of their generation, John Skandalis is immensely popular with Tigers fans, but he’s never moved on to higher honours except for a few City jumpers. This proves the fans get attached to certain players and from what I can see the ones that become the heroes are the ones who love their club.
As mentioned there does remain a number of heroes in the modern game, Darren Lockyer is the inspirational captain of Brisbane, much like Allan Langer in the nineties most of the play revolves around him. Both of these guys have achieved everything the game has to offer and the great thing about them is that they are so different in their styles of play. Andrew Johns is regarded as one of the all-time greats, I compare him more to Ricky Stuart than any other player. Both were over shadowed early in the career and were either left out of rep teams or played out of position, like Stuart, Johns will probably be held in higher regard after he retires. What’s better than a great forward he works his butt off? Nothing. Nathan Hindmarsh is a great footballer who is the modern day Brad Clyde, both were the heart of their forward pack whenever they ran on the field, everything about them is so similar, I am lucky to have seen both play.

I hope in the future that rugby league heroes are seen in a more positive light than they are now, they top players should be appreciated for what happens on the field and not what happens off it.

-----------
748 words including title

 

[Jesbass]

In a controversial moment, Jesbass discovers to his horror that Polar Bob is, in fact, a pirate. Polar Bob's refusal to put down his cutlass, accompanied with the captain's unwillingness to allow a player with a wooden leg and an eye patch to take to the field, results in the second substitution of the match.

OFF: Polar Bob
ON: Robster

 

[...Morticia...]

Morticia stumbles out with her Newtown kit on front to back

Tour of Duty

Team bonding, they said. Thinking back over other work bonding days, I groaned. The scavenger hunt through the main street of a small town dressed as a high class hooker had taught me to think more carefully about team bonding days than previously. Who would’ve thought, when sent to the operatic societies costume room and told to wear anything we wanted, that my costume choice was going to turn the day into one of my more shameful. $5 for a blow job. I was incensed. Not by being propositioned but by the mere fact I’d only been offered a measly five bucks. My colleagues thought it was a huge joke. Like Betty, I wasn’t amused. But, with time, it became a distant memory and I traveled the road to NSW’s for my latest team bonding day with some enthusiasm.

On arrival, I realised the few vodka’s consumed on the road may not have been the best idea but, in comparison to the pom I’d shared the back seat of the Wrangler with, I was certainly in better condition to play. I was slightly amazed at the choice of bonding exercise but was pretty sure I wouldn’t suck at it as I’d had a bit of experience in the field over the years. As I strapped the chest protector in place and slipped the head gear on, the old adrenalin started to kick in. For the novices, the rules were explained. A bit of team changing went on during it and most of the men constantly readjusted their crotch area, unaccustomed to their protective boxes. We were soon out on the field. The whistle blew…I’d been worried that I had lost a bit of my mongrel over the past couple of years with retirement from anything that remotely resembled me running on my scar tissued quad but I shouldn’t have been. The feel of something in my hands again, the sound of team mates running with me, the talk, the banter…that intense feeling soon came rushing back. I wanted to win but more importantly, I wanted to smash the opposition.

We were a hodgepodge team, mostly foreigners – the fat, the puny, the unfit and the one with the girl in it – expectations were low on our side and high on the other side and we soon found ourselves camped close to our own line. I tried to get us out. I spent more time crawling to get an extra metre or two, that prized possession staunchly protected in my hands and screaming for support than I ever had before. I ducked, I weaved and I think I even developed a step, not to mention that I mercilessly defended. Those orange band bastards weren’t crossing my line, not while I had juice still left in my tank. It seemed like an eternity that we were down there for. I was quite physically exhausted. For every metre gained, we lost two. I was frustrated and made the decision to make one last final push forward before the whistle blew. No guts, no glory…I ran. Rumour has it I yelped like a rabid dog as I did it. Five metres…ten…and then the head shot came. I wasn’t expecting it and was momentarily stunned. Off to the side of the field, the results of the shot were evident as liquid trickled into my eye. I wanted it cleaned as quickly as possible to get back out there. I didn’t care that the vision in that eye was hazy as I donned the head gear once again and made my way to the side of the field. Too slow, the whistle blew and my team mates, the bedraggled bunch of misfits, the ones who at school would’ve been last picked in any team made their way over to me. They were all grinning.

My run had been inspirational. No, we didn’t win the game, or any game but we won the war. Throughout the day, we improved. Our confidence grew and we became more tactical with each game played. Our team bonded while the superstars suffered infighting and tantrums. Who would’ve thought a simple game would have such a positive outcome. On the way home that night I ruminated lazily from my improved front seat position, “I love paintball”. No, it wasn’t rugby league but it could’ve been and its rugby league that taught me about being part of a team, way before I ever set out in the work force.

750 words

 

[Robster]

http://www.playtheball.com/rlwc00/images/playerprofiles/staceyjones.jpg
Was His Time Really Up?

I wake up on a freezing Sunday morning, and as one does, I pick up the Sunday News and see a picture of Stacey Jones saying: “I was pushed”. It then states ‘go to page 6-7 for more details’.

“I would have loved to have finished off my time at the club, but when I asked if it was time for me to move on, no one told me to stay,” the article quotes Jones as saying. “There was no pressure on me to stay. They were happy for me to go. But I would have definitely loved to have finished up my time there - it wasn’t to be.”

As the article continues, Jones’ words are beyond enough proof that Mick Watson managed to get my hero to lie in order to avoid conflict. I can still remember the press conference that Mick Watson held last year to reveal it was Stacey’s last season with the club. He had told the press that Stacey told him he sensed his time was coming to an end and he approached the directors to inform them Stacey was struggling with the environment and he wanted to look at opportunities outside New Zealand, not just for himself but for his family as well.

Lies, baloney and raw onions best describe Mick. Jones wanted to stay with his beloved club - his family loves New Zealand, so why would they fix what’s not broken and look for opportunities outside New Zealand? Mick, you snubbed my hero.

So was Stacey’s time really up? He is the man who made rugby league in New Zealand such a joy and passion to watch, his brilliance and magic making him a hero of many sports fans in such a small country, never short of hailing stardom among sports stars and achievements in sport.

Stacey has conquered so much in his career, picking up the recognition of the world’s best player in 2002 with the “Golden Boot”, has picked up seven Player of the Year awards coming from both the Warriors and the NZRL, led the Warriors to a first semi final birth in 2001, and made himself a sporting God making the 2002 Grand Final and winning the Minor Premiership. As it stands he has played 34 caps for the Kiwis.

Stacey is still loved so much by the Kiwi public, having made himself a huge role model to children, with them not just wanting to be like him, but wanting to be him, the face of the Warriors.

I remember the pre-season of 2004. I was at a training session watching the Warriors train. Afterwards, they signed autographs and as he signed a little boy’s shirt, the three year old boy leaned over and gave Stacey a hug. I remember the boy was so happy and for a young child to get emotional in happiness with tears is very rare but a true acknowledgement on why Stacey is so great in New Zealand.

Was his time up? Was he playing like he should hang his boots up anytime soon? Are the Warriors better off without him? After all, he still had kids salivating over him more than their love for sweets. After a dismal 2004 with a groin injury he was getting back to the groove in 2005 by playing his best football and scoring a personal best of 147 points and finished in the top five for the NRL Dally M medal.

And in 2005 it was Stacey Jones who was a saviour and a remarkable hero who came out of international retirement and succeeded in “beating the Kangaroos in Sydney” - something the Kiwis hadn’t done in half a century, and who could forget the heroic triumph of winning the Tri-Nations by breaking Australia's 27 year undefeated international tournament record.

Was Stacey’s time up? Not even close. Stacey was back to his best in 2005 and for Mick to think otherwise
baffles me as well as many more of us Kiwi fans. Oh how I would have loved to see my hero give the Warriors direction and hope this season, but as it’s been proven we are definitely struggling without him. My greatest ever hero was snubbed while he was playing fantastic football and Mick’s failure to see that has shattered so many Warriors fans.

For Stacey: if I could send you postcard it would say “I wish you were here” - I know you wish the same.

--------------------
748 words

Resources:
NZ Sunday News.
stats.rleague.com
Kiwi-Warrior - Stacey Jones Book

 

[Timmah]

#2 for the Bluebags, Timmah comes off the bench, helps Mort straighten out her kit in the dug-out, before running out and making a punishing hit on Robster... will it be ruled a high one?

***
The hate of them
To the uninformed, to those who haven’t read my musings on this very forum – that’s right, I hate Cronulla and Newcastle.

Strong word isn’t it? Hate. I don’t think so. It’s sport. Manly were the league’s most hated club for nigh on 30 years before a merger sunk any success they were to have for a substantial period of time. I don’t recall many, if any, people complaining about the rugged hate of Manly.

But where does this wretched footballing emotion towards a team from “The Shire” come from? Is it their location? Does it stem from the absolute insanity that was displayed on that fateful weekend in December 2005?

No. Does it stem from their lack of success? The fact that such a club can hold it’s head so high, yet never in it’s 39 year history been able to raise the symbol of glory we now call the Telstra Premiership trophy above their heads?

No. For me, it stems from their fans. Sad? Maybe. Justified? Probably not. But again – it’s footy.

For the previous few years, I’ve had many the pleasure and disdain of posting on internet forums such as The Front Row Forums – but not once have I come across a group of so amazing yet so frustrating and disgusting as those who embrace the emblem of the Shark. The reason for this is the amazing diversity. There are some great fans out there, the supporters are so wide and varied they have two club supporter groups. They have hoards of supporters who appear to swoon over one single player who doesn’t appear to do anything special except kick a few goals here and there (which he even seems to be failing at in 2006).

So what you ask. So bloody what? Why should them having diverse fans make you hate them? Good question. To be honest I don’t know. Like many others I have allowed the “Covell Brigade” to gain my ire, and have engaged in various sledging matches with some of the clubs less and some of the clubs more tiresome types. All I know is that I hate Cronulla-Sutherland. The “ShireScum”. And the reason quite frankly is: Just because.

But Newcastle and their fans? That one pops into the head straight away. In fact, three words can sum it up in no particular order: Johns, biased, Andrew. Recently on these very forums, a subject of conversation has been Who is the most biased poster? Shock becomes horror when you browse the results… not. The Newcastle fans are leading the race, with a Cronulla counterpart who will go un-named not too far behind. Being so close to having the label of Novocastrian slung on me, and having half the town around me supporting the club, one would think someone such as myself would not hold that affinity. However, the passion that ire’s me was lying in wait until one fateful day over 10 years ago, when the ‘great’ Andrew Johns took the field. It was not until the seasons of 2005 and 2006, when a forum laden with passionate fans of said club, made themselves apparent. Spouting the virtues of this alleged virtuoso, one was fed up quickly with their jibes and obvious bias towards this supposed footballing freak.

To conclude my pointless and meaningless jaunt, I shall relay to you an anecdote about my recent footballing experience in the aforementioned ‘Steel City’. I traveled, as a Bulldogs fan, dressed in red and white, and supported the Dragons deep in the heart of Newcastle. I thoroughly enjoyed the spectacle, seeing one of my most loathed teams get bashed from pillar to post. And you know what? I stood in the rain from minute one ‘til minute eighty, gave it to every fan who had yelled at me for being a “Kogarah yobbo” (little did they know the truth), and even sung the famous When the Saints go marching in. As we left, beaming from St George’s win and the smug feeling that stemmed from the Knights’ loss, I learned from my friend that his father owns one of their sponsor companies, and for the next home game, we could snare some box seats! Nothing better I thought, than to watch Newcastle get beaten again…

The ground announcer then peals: “Be here for the Knights next home game, on Saturday the 24th of June, when your Coal and Allied Knights play the…

…Cronulla Sharks.”



****
745 words between the stars according to the fancy-schmancy counter thing.

 

[Cheesie-the-Pirate]

As the ball is spilled from Timmah's hit on Robster, Cheesie picks up the ball and does the only thing he knows; running hard at the opposition.

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

Back to Kogarah, Again.

Well, it’s that time of the season yet again, time to head back to Carlton. There is a strong sense of déjà vu about the whole experience. It was only last year when we hung around till round 14 in mid-June waiting for Jubilee’s new lights to be installed.

Never mind the fact that the lights were eventually installed after the season had finished. Or even that the originally scheduled Round 10 match against Penrith had to be moved to Wollongong, ironically enough, because of the lack of lights. By 3:00pm on the afternoon of Sunday the 12th of June 2005 rugby league returned to the St George district for another year.

Good match too; Saints comprehensively beat the Cowboys in style, including some Harlem Globetrotters-style brilliance that had Phil Gould humming along. Despite this, the real joy was being back to the hallowed turf with the prospect of near fortnightly trips up the freeway to do it all over again.

Fast-forward 12 months and it is return to Kogarah 2006. Early June, 12 rounds have already passed us by and it is time for St. George Illawarra to play at Kogarah Jubilee Oval. Fortunately, though, the Jubilee Oval Steering Committee and their contractors have been busy. The old girl is looking as pretty as a picture.

Let’s face it; as much as the history of Jubilee Oval endears it to myself and countless other St George supporters, it certainly has never been a top-of-the-range sports stadium. It’s a true suburban ground, aided somewhat by an unusually excellent proximity to the major road and rail arterial routes to the southern suburbs and the South Coast. She features a small grandstand, aluminium benches and not nearly enough locations that dispense pies and beer. The corollary of this is the insufficient provision for dealing with the body’s reaction to aforementioned footy consumables. Final, are those tiny, useless, training lights.

There’s a great story that go with those lights. So good, in point of fact, that it gets told about five times a year by the boys on ABC Grandstand. Several years back a late afternoon match was scheduled for Kogarah. Trouble was, somebody forgot about the end of daylight savings time. Instead of finishing in the last full light of the day, the majority of the second half was played with the sun well and truly departed, with the very last vestiges of sunlight and those poor, pathetic lights doing their level best to make up for giant ball of gas that had long since disappeared over the horizon. Unsurprisingly, they failed.

Now, at the end of the day a bit of footy being played in failing light is hardly a major issue. Indeed, there’s a certain level of nostalgic charm about the whole idea. In this way it’s a pretty useful analogy for Kogarah pre-2006. It’s great to be at Carlton, but there was a reason why Saints moved their Sydney home games to the Football Stadium in 2000.

Whilst those at the ground in the anecdote might not have been seriously inconvenienced, indeed they might’ve got a bit of a kick out of the experience, the light was no doubt insufficient for the decent broadcast of television pictures. It certainly wouldn’t have looked professional and could not have impressed anybody sitting down to view their first game of NRL football. It’s the same for Kogarah before the upgrades. Those of us with one red-and-white eye find it easy to forget and forgive Jubilee’s foibles. After all, it is for us the historic charm of the place is strongest.

This, however, is the era of professional football and football clubs cannot get by on the whiff of past charisma. South Sydney is living proof of that. With this in mind, my trip up to Kogarah in just a few days’ time is all the more special. I’ve already got a comfortable seat in the grandstand so there’s nothing much in it for me, at least directly. Still, 6,000 new seats, brand new facilities and of course those magnificent (and huge) light towers promise something very special. A quality ground to go with those quality memories.

As we return to Kogarah for the umpteenth time, it is time to celebrate football in the heart of the St. George district. Finally, we have a wonderful arena befitting the wonderful clubmen who made it famous. Frankly though, I’m just happy to be back. Once again.

745 words, including title, according to the official counter.

 

[Jesbass]

Amids the absolute chaos from the sideline, Jesbass decides to attempt an ill-timed drop goal for the Warriors, but misses the ball and accidentally takes out the referee....

Transparency At The Top (750 words)

"They called me Mister Glass."

So says American actor Samuel L Jackson in the movie Unbreakable, a suspense thriller in which he stars as comic book style villain Elijah Price opposite unlikely superhero Bruce Willis. But Price's nickname isn't confined to fiction alone. The National Rugby League has its very own Mister Glass, and this is an evaluation of what happened when I was fortunate enough to meet him.

It is 5:30pm on Saturday the 20th of May, 2006. I'm sitting in a boardroom along with four likeminded Warriors fans, a complimentary bottle of Coke Zero in front of each of us. A whiteboard sits at one end of the room, and a large picture of Steve Price holding up the NRL Premiership trophy - a part of the National Rugby League's "That's My Dream" advertising campaign - hangs on one of the otherwise plain white walls.

The door opens and two clean cut men dressed in suit pants and buttoned shirts enter the room. They make their way around the table, offering handshakes and introducing themselves as they do so. The first is Wayne Scurrah, Chief Executive Officer of the New Zealand Warriors. The other is Richard Howarth, their Sales and Marketing Manager. Each man carries a pen and some paper. That alone makes it clear that they have come, not only to talk, but to listen. And who have they come to listen to?

Us. The fans. They want to know what our views are about the club, and how the general game day experience can be improved. They take notes, not afraid to float their own ideas to find out our take on them.

Time flies by, and before long the somewhat impromptu meeting, which was supposed to take only half an hour but has lasted twice as long as that in a very relaxed manner, is at an end. We thank both men for their time, shake their hands again, and make our way out of the building, safe in the knowledge that we had been heard – a direct product of us being considered valuable.

Or, rather, invaluable.

Wayne Scurrah leaves a lasting impression on anyone and everyone who meets him. And in the modern era of management addressing the media with well rehearsed clichéd sound bites, as well as the ever-present reality of privatisation, the Warriors’ CEO is a breath of desperately needed fresh air amidst a background of asphyxiation. There is no ‘management speak’ with him; no smoke and mirrors - just the plain and honest truth. He’s never too busy to hear a fan’s views or concerns or take on board a suggestion from one of the punters. In short, he is the quintessential gentleman of rugby league management.

For most Warriors fans, this is nothing short of a revelation – or, perhaps, a revolution – and is a far cry from what the club’s management has been in the past. The standoffish approach to both the media and the fans that was the order of the day for a number of years has finally gone. In its place is approachability, something not seen to this degree for quite some time. Cryptic and downright misleading comments have been replaced by honesty and openness. Questions by the common fan are no longer ignored, but answered with frankness and sincerity.

If our short meeting with Wayne Scurrah is anything to go by, the New Zealand Warriors are in very safe and capable hands, and the club is heading in a direction that promises greater inclusion and consultation of the fan base, as well as the mending of relationships with lower grade league clubs and the rebuilding of some of the long burnt bridges of the club’s past.

So what does this mean for the Warriors as a whole? If nothing else, it means the club is well on its way to working like a well oiled machine. The three main factions – the players, staff, and fans - are talking, and those with the most important ears are listening, and operating as a tight, cohesive unit. And that has to be a good thing for the club on the whole, as it means the likelihood of off field dramas, such as the salary cap breach that occurred under the previous management, prior to the arrival of people like Scurrah and Howarth, is greatly reduced.

Mister Glass is in town, and at least one Warriors fan is hoping he stays for a long, long time.

 

[Jesbass]

Post by proxy...

mad kiwi elloco bandido for the Warriors...

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

Memories (750 words)

As a young boy, I didn't know the difference between good and evil, right and wrong, rugby and rugby league. As far as I knew, the Kiwi rugby league team was just the All Blacks with white ‘V’s on their jerseys and they kick the ball half as much. This was when all Kiwi boys were expected to be All Blacks. All my opinions changed in 1985; the year that I first remember the Kiwis beating Australia in rugby league. 1985 was the start of the odyssey into the sport that I love above all else. The sport has provided me with both highs and lows over the last 21 years.

I remember sitting down with my father in front of our tiny television in ‘85 watching the White ‘V's play against Australia. I remember us winning that match and I remember my dad saying - a gleam in his eye - that he’d take me to the local park the next day to sign me up for the season. Dad lived up to his promise and marched me up to Hickford Park the following day.

That day I learned this sport is called rugby league.

My father encouraged me to enjoy all things league. We would watch whatever Winfield Cup games on television that we could, which in that day and age weren’t many. We even fostered Australian club sides as our own. We would go to the local parks to watch the local matches on the sidelines. Dad and I would watch the Lion Red Cup, with teams like Randwick, Upper Hutt, Mangere East, and Te Atatu playing, with the hope that our Taranaki Waitara premier winners would make the finals.

They never did.

Dad said to me once: "Don’t worry if Waitara doesn't win, because it will still be a good game, any game of league is better than one game of union, and better than no league". He further punctuated this remark with: "League is for men. Union is for guys playing ‘catch and kiss’".

To this day, I still chuckle when I think of union and grown men playing ‘catch and kiss’. Immature, I know, but I am chuckling now just thinking about it.

I loved when dad would wake me up at 3:00 in the morning and sit me down with a cup of Milo in one hand and a toast in the other and we would watch the Kiwis play Great Britain or the Challenge Cup finals. I then started to become familiar with the player names. You had the Sorensons, Dean Bell and James Leuluai, playing against Ellery Hanley, Joe Lyden and Garry Schofield.

My rugby league education began in earnest.

Playing football at school, lunch time was a bit of a challenge. The other boys all wanted to play rugby...surprise, surprise. They didn't know how to play league or their fathers would frown on them if they did, and I didn't know how to play rugby. Little arguments we had were fun. The boys bickering amongst themselves would say, "I'll be Stu Wilson, and you can be David Campese". These fights went on for ages as nobody wanted to be the Aussie. I’d say, "I will be Mark Graham", partially because I didn't know any better. After looking at the blank faces of the boys around me, none of them knew who Mark Graham was; I would usually give up and pretend to be Mark Ella.

At the time, during those school days it had been a learning curve. My dad and I had a conversation with a man named Kevin Tamati. Kevin Tamati was one of the hardest men to pull on a Kiwi jersey and a real gentleman to boot. He gained recognition for a wild brawl during a test which spilled over the sideline after him and the other thug were sent to the sin bin to cool off. According to my father this gave him instant kudos.

Kevin Tamati actually spoke to me. Of course, dad was there to spout off about how I loved to tackle, around the legs. Kevin shook my hand, patted my head and said: “Maybe we might see you playing for the Kiwis some day".

I went home with dad that day with my little heart pounding and a renewed vigour to play league. It was the ultimate highlight in my early childhood.

These are little moments. They helped seal my fate as a ‘league man-through-and-through'.

 

[Timmah]

Well done to both sides, getting 5 v 5 in on the bell Warriors, good work.

Great stuff.

Good luck!

 

[Willow]

Ref Blows Fulltime.

 

[Jesbass]

Wow, what a nailbiting finish! Best of luck to both sides! I think I'll go lie down, now...