Mr Spock!
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Souths in the 90s tanked some games. Although 'fixed' probably isn't the same as tanking.
Ken shine confronted the players about it.
Here's $50K to throw a game
By John Elias
YOU don't forget faces like the one that belongs to Dave. Mean and reckless faces with unforgiving eyes that give nothing away. The last time I had looked into those eyes was 15 years earlier at Long Bay jail.
I was a teenager and he was a brutal king pin of the yard who terrorised anyone who threatened his supremacy. He was holding a bloodied shiv, having just stabbed another prisoner on the oval.
He didn't so much as see me witness the attack, he saw through me. I was terrified and refused to say a word, even when the cops offered me an early release to give him up.
I knew Dave appreciated my silence and now, a decade and a half later, he had found me. I saw his face and was transported back to the Bay. The sweat of the gym, the odour of the shower, the sterility of the detergent - these smells struck me at once as he looked down upon me one cold night in August 1994.
Moments earlier I was relaxed. So relaxed. Lee, my favourite masseur, had just started his weekly foot rub as I sipped on a glass of watermelon juice. Lee had incredibly strong hands that could elevate you to another level, a place that felt good the night after a game.
I visited him every Monday at Chequers in Chinatown, a massage joint that offered the full range of hands-on services.
My friends would often order from the other menu, but I always played it straight and opted for a simple foot massage followed by a spa.
I don't know how Dave found me. It didn't matter. You don't ask a man like him unnecessary questions.
The recognition was immediate. Dave smiled and said "Hello, John".
Dave had a presence. I could feel it as he sat on the couch next to me. He leaned low so Lee couldn't hear and whispered: "John, I've come to see if you are interested in making a very big earn. I've got 50 large for one afternoon's work."
Given Dave had taken the trouble of seeing me personally, I owed it to him to at least listen. But not here. Chequers was frequented by all sorts, including detectives. Its old walls sprouted ears a long time ago, so I suggested to Dave that we meet for dinner across the road at my favourite Chinese noshery, BBQ King.
"Whatever it is that you're offering ... I will only agree if it's a one-off job," I began.
Dave looked back at me with those eyes and stuck his right hand out. As we shook, he said: "I promise, John ... it will be a one-off." His word was good enough for me. "I'm involved with some boys who wanted me to visit you tonight," he continued. "Some of them are guys you once knew in prison and they are very proud of how far you've gone in rugby league."
I knew this spiel was a sugar-coated prelude to something that wouldn't sound so sweet, but I didn't utter a word.
He went on: "John, the thing is that you aren't getting younger. I'd say this is probably your last season and it's your final couple of games that I want to discuss with you."
At this stage I was playing for South Sydney, having secured a mid-season transfer from Balmain. There was no ill-will in the move. Alan Jones, who had switched to Redfern that season, sounded me out in May with a good offer for the remainder of the season.
I was playing well for the Tigers, but the team was running dead last. The Rabbitohs, on the other hand, were having their best season in five years. Not only had they won the pre-season competition, but they were also finals-bound on the back of a youthful team of potential superstars headed by halves Craig Field and Darrell Trindall.
Unfortunately, the team's form had dipped and the finals had disappeared from reach with three matches to play.
I still didn't put two and two together when Dave raised football. "My people want to offer you $50,000 to pull up against Wests in two weeks' time," Dave said. "And they are also offering to give you another $100,000 to buy whatever players you need to pull off the fix."
The fix. They were two words I had uttered plenty of times in trotting circles, but never in rugby league.
I told Dave to give me two days to think about it.
I thought hard about which Souths players to approach. I decided that I needed four to make it happen.
For months and years later the big question would always be: who were the players? No one said a word, but the media reported Craig Field, Darrell Trindall, Tyran Smith and Jacin Sinclair. They and I were the obvious ones because we were the knockabouts in the side. The four of them later sued for defamation and won.
So who were the players? I will not say. I get asked all the time but have never told a soul. What I will say is that people should never assume the obvious. Everyone has their price, including square heads.
I approached the first player before training began on Tuesday afternoon.. He was warming up alone in the middle of Redfern Oval when I made my way over. "Listen, I've been asked to approach you on behalf of some boys who want to pay you $25,000 to play poorly against Wests the game after next," I said. Naturally the player was surprised, but not as taken aback as I had expected.
The next player was told after training as he walked through the car park. Like the first player, he hesitated but I could see the pause was just the result of a natural reaction.
I was truly shocked by both players' reactions. I was fully expecting them to knock me back, because what I was suggesting went against everything we stood for.
I spoke to Dave on the phone on Tuesday night and from that moment I believe he thought he had me. It was then he introduced a new element to our scheme. "I'm also going to give you $50,000 to pay the Wests players to have the game of their lives," he said. Approaching them would be a lot easier, because it didn't carry the stench of asking blokes to run dead on their team-mates.
I phoned a certain Wests player I considered critical to their chances of beating us. We knew each other and spoke every now and then. "Listen, mate, there's a group of guys who are planning to have a go at Wests next weekend and they've asked me to offer you $15,000 to have the game of your life," I told him. This little Magpie couldn't agree quickly enough.
I still had two Souths players left to speak with before the fix could be seriously contemplated.
Wednesday was our day off and I made arrangements to meet both for coffee during the morning. They both baulked, but then I said: "There's a lot of money involved." I was getting better at the routine. Interested, despite themselves, they replied: "How much?" When I mentioned the figure, their attitude changed. It was a stack of money and I've no doubt many players today would be swayed if they were in the same position.
The fix was starting to go from a possible to a probable.
Dave was willing to outlay $200,000 to ensure players from both sides did their job. If that was his investment, then how much money was his crew actually betting on Wests? It had to be considerably more - millions perhaps. I suddenly realised I was at the centre of the plunge of the century.
It was then that a very dangerous possibility emerged, more dangerous than even entertaining this idea in the first place.
Why should Dave be the only one to get a collect out of this? I was making all the arrangements, assuming a lot of risk and had intimate knowledge of who was involved. If everything went to plan and Dave was so confident, then surely I could have a bet with the same certainty. It suddenly ranked as a must-take opportunity to earn much more than $50,000. This was the chance of a lifetime to clean out the SP bookies and make more money than I could ever imagine.
Ken shine confronted the players about it.
Here's $50K to throw a game
By John Elias
YOU don't forget faces like the one that belongs to Dave. Mean and reckless faces with unforgiving eyes that give nothing away. The last time I had looked into those eyes was 15 years earlier at Long Bay jail.
I was a teenager and he was a brutal king pin of the yard who terrorised anyone who threatened his supremacy. He was holding a bloodied shiv, having just stabbed another prisoner on the oval.
He didn't so much as see me witness the attack, he saw through me. I was terrified and refused to say a word, even when the cops offered me an early release to give him up.
I knew Dave appreciated my silence and now, a decade and a half later, he had found me. I saw his face and was transported back to the Bay. The sweat of the gym, the odour of the shower, the sterility of the detergent - these smells struck me at once as he looked down upon me one cold night in August 1994.
Moments earlier I was relaxed. So relaxed. Lee, my favourite masseur, had just started his weekly foot rub as I sipped on a glass of watermelon juice. Lee had incredibly strong hands that could elevate you to another level, a place that felt good the night after a game.
I visited him every Monday at Chequers in Chinatown, a massage joint that offered the full range of hands-on services.
My friends would often order from the other menu, but I always played it straight and opted for a simple foot massage followed by a spa.
I don't know how Dave found me. It didn't matter. You don't ask a man like him unnecessary questions.
The recognition was immediate. Dave smiled and said "Hello, John".
Dave had a presence. I could feel it as he sat on the couch next to me. He leaned low so Lee couldn't hear and whispered: "John, I've come to see if you are interested in making a very big earn. I've got 50 large for one afternoon's work."
Given Dave had taken the trouble of seeing me personally, I owed it to him to at least listen. But not here. Chequers was frequented by all sorts, including detectives. Its old walls sprouted ears a long time ago, so I suggested to Dave that we meet for dinner across the road at my favourite Chinese noshery, BBQ King.
"Whatever it is that you're offering ... I will only agree if it's a one-off job," I began.
Dave looked back at me with those eyes and stuck his right hand out. As we shook, he said: "I promise, John ... it will be a one-off." His word was good enough for me. "I'm involved with some boys who wanted me to visit you tonight," he continued. "Some of them are guys you once knew in prison and they are very proud of how far you've gone in rugby league."
I knew this spiel was a sugar-coated prelude to something that wouldn't sound so sweet, but I didn't utter a word.
He went on: "John, the thing is that you aren't getting younger. I'd say this is probably your last season and it's your final couple of games that I want to discuss with you."
At this stage I was playing for South Sydney, having secured a mid-season transfer from Balmain. There was no ill-will in the move. Alan Jones, who had switched to Redfern that season, sounded me out in May with a good offer for the remainder of the season.
I was playing well for the Tigers, but the team was running dead last. The Rabbitohs, on the other hand, were having their best season in five years. Not only had they won the pre-season competition, but they were also finals-bound on the back of a youthful team of potential superstars headed by halves Craig Field and Darrell Trindall.
Unfortunately, the team's form had dipped and the finals had disappeared from reach with three matches to play.
I still didn't put two and two together when Dave raised football. "My people want to offer you $50,000 to pull up against Wests in two weeks' time," Dave said. "And they are also offering to give you another $100,000 to buy whatever players you need to pull off the fix."
The fix. They were two words I had uttered plenty of times in trotting circles, but never in rugby league.
I told Dave to give me two days to think about it.
I thought hard about which Souths players to approach. I decided that I needed four to make it happen.
For months and years later the big question would always be: who were the players? No one said a word, but the media reported Craig Field, Darrell Trindall, Tyran Smith and Jacin Sinclair. They and I were the obvious ones because we were the knockabouts in the side. The four of them later sued for defamation and won.
So who were the players? I will not say. I get asked all the time but have never told a soul. What I will say is that people should never assume the obvious. Everyone has their price, including square heads.
I approached the first player before training began on Tuesday afternoon.. He was warming up alone in the middle of Redfern Oval when I made my way over. "Listen, I've been asked to approach you on behalf of some boys who want to pay you $25,000 to play poorly against Wests the game after next," I said. Naturally the player was surprised, but not as taken aback as I had expected.
The next player was told after training as he walked through the car park. Like the first player, he hesitated but I could see the pause was just the result of a natural reaction.
I was truly shocked by both players' reactions. I was fully expecting them to knock me back, because what I was suggesting went against everything we stood for.
I spoke to Dave on the phone on Tuesday night and from that moment I believe he thought he had me. It was then he introduced a new element to our scheme. "I'm also going to give you $50,000 to pay the Wests players to have the game of their lives," he said. Approaching them would be a lot easier, because it didn't carry the stench of asking blokes to run dead on their team-mates.
I phoned a certain Wests player I considered critical to their chances of beating us. We knew each other and spoke every now and then. "Listen, mate, there's a group of guys who are planning to have a go at Wests next weekend and they've asked me to offer you $15,000 to have the game of your life," I told him. This little Magpie couldn't agree quickly enough.
I still had two Souths players left to speak with before the fix could be seriously contemplated.
Wednesday was our day off and I made arrangements to meet both for coffee during the morning. They both baulked, but then I said: "There's a lot of money involved." I was getting better at the routine. Interested, despite themselves, they replied: "How much?" When I mentioned the figure, their attitude changed. It was a stack of money and I've no doubt many players today would be swayed if they were in the same position.
The fix was starting to go from a possible to a probable.
Dave was willing to outlay $200,000 to ensure players from both sides did their job. If that was his investment, then how much money was his crew actually betting on Wests? It had to be considerably more - millions perhaps. I suddenly realised I was at the centre of the plunge of the century.
It was then that a very dangerous possibility emerged, more dangerous than even entertaining this idea in the first place.
Why should Dave be the only one to get a collect out of this? I was making all the arrangements, assuming a lot of risk and had intimate knowledge of who was involved. If everything went to plan and Dave was so confident, then surely I could have a bet with the same certainty. It suddenly ranked as a must-take opportunity to earn much more than $50,000. This was the chance of a lifetime to clean out the SP bookies and make more money than I could ever imagine.
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