The People's Choice Post of the Year - POLL

[Anonymous]

Posts are below. Please cast your vote.
This poll will close at midnight on Friday 22nd October 2004.
Cheers.

 

[Anonymous]

Maps and Legends
by Rex (Bluebags)

I see the shapes, I remember from maps and things.

An old block of units, backing onto a railway line. The smell of stew in the hall – and oversteamed fish if it’s Friday nights.

Out the back, an external shared laundry and a row of 8 garages, one for each unit, each one painted a different colour.

Inside the laundry is a teetering bundle of yellowing newspapers, stacked half way to the roof. A fraying piece of twine precariously, almost impossibly, holds the them together.

A nip here, a tuck there and the string is cut by a small set of hands, armed with a pair of round-edge scissors.

Once liberated, the newspapers almost spring open, eager to be read one more time before they meet their ultimate fate in the incinerator or the bottom of the budgie cage. With so much energy, passion and dare we say love in each page, little wonder they revel in being read one more time.

One by one, each paper is flipped from front to back by the small hands. Past the pages with headlines about the Vietnam War, past the countless ads for Holden cars and Mark Foys Stores. 75 dollars will buy a Krielser record player that plays Beatles and Val Doonican records , 10 cents will get you into a movie. Once you wade through ephemera and classifieds your reward is the sport.

Now the real work begins. Slowly methodically the eyes scan for photos. Big muscular faces without smiles. Often without teeth. Names like Pittard, Wittenberg, Smith and Coote. Langlands, Branson, Sims and Beath. These are not pictures of men, but snapsots of heroes. Mortals who climbed the mountain and became gods.

All captured at the moment they pass the ball, or pull off a copybook around the bootlace tackle, or place kick a ball so hard between the posts, both legs seem off the ground.

The eyes then scourge the pages for the real prize. Articles introduced with large black headlines. The Dennis Tutt y case, test matches played on frozen cities far away, match reports from match the SCG. The scissors get busy.

The scissors slowly do their job, cutting out articles. As the names of the players are important, so to are the names attached to the stories.

Different stories but always the same names. Geoff Prenter, Bill Mordey, Peter Frillingos. They are the big three, jostling for the attention of the reader.

Each story as fresh as if the ink had only just dried. Maybe it old just had. Stories about maverick players, and epic games. Of mugs and mug lairs. Who will be picked for City Country, who will be picked to tour.

As each article is carefully traced by the scissors, the ceremony is carefully concluded with a ritual even coating of white Perkins Paste on the back and positioned neatly on starch pages of a scrapbook.

Job done, the small hands rest. The scrapbook page is closed for another week and the papers carefully rebundled and tied so the caretaker will never know.

All over , until the ceremony starts again a week later, when more Suns and Mirrors are added to the pile.

In memory of Peter Frillingos and Bill Mordey

http://forums.leagueunlimited.com/viewtopic.php?t=20905

 

[Anonymous]

Reverse Evolution.
by frank (Bluebags)

A funny thing happened the other day. An old friend stopped by to talk footy. He stops by every week. This particular day, I could tell he was upset. More upset than usual (he's a Dragons fan).
As he moped in the door, I wondered what could be wrong? The Saints are going OK, Laurie Daley's not on the coaching staff anymore.

"Has somebody died?", I asked.
"Yep" he said
"Someone we know?" I was starting to get worried
"We grew up with him, he was the source of great joy, terrible despair and we loved him so"

I was stunned, speechless.

"Who?" I asked again with a warble in my voice and a lump in my thoat.

It was then that my friend looked up at me with tear-filled eyes, his palms turned upwards.
"The Rugby League player as we know him is dead"
Then he collapsed on my carpet, sobbing like a schoolgirl.

I could see he needed me to tell him everything was OK, the Rugby League player isn't dead, just look at the papers and the TV. But I knew he was right.
Where are those wonderful Rugby League characters of yesteryear, the players of the late 70s, 80s and early 90s that we grew up with?
Have Rugby League players evolved? If so, has the evolution been for the better?

I collapsed on the carpet and cried.

When I recovered, my mate had gone, obviously far too upset to carry on our conversation. So I picked myself up and hit the streets (pub) to verify my mate's theory.
I managed to round up a couple of imaginary players and hit 'em with the hard questions.

One a modern-day superstar , the other a warhorse from yester-year. Here's what they had to say.


Q. - Occupation
Player A - Slaughterman. Sometimes I help me Dad out with his milk run.
Player B - Professional Rugby League Player. Once a year I give out t-shirts to sick kids at the hospital.

Q. - Martial Status
Player A - Married to wife, Kerry. 3 kids, Craig, Christine and Player A Jr.
Player B - Life Partner, Taliyshaa and my designer spaniel, Ferdinand.

Q. - Favourite Food/Drink
Player A - Pie & Chips/Stones Green Ginger Wine.
Player B - Steamed Pistachio with Duck Beak Jus/Cherry Macchiato.

Q. - Pre-Game Ritual
Player A - Smoke, Unpack kit-bag from last week, Spew, Smoke, Conjugal Visit from missus in the dressing room shower, Watch reserve grade game, Pie, Smoke, Spew, Pie, Deep Heat rub-down, Smoke, Tape up head, Pie, Nervous poo with smoke and pie, Run on.
Player B - Collect pressed uniform, Zen meditation with club-appointed Maharishi, Fruit compote, Weigh-In, Bio-Energy analysis, Psychological exam, Team discussion, Kiss Mum, Run on.

Q. - Car
Player A - HQ Panel Van. We found some school chairs and bolted 'em in the back for the kids.
Player B - Celica.

Q. - Preferred Haircut
Player A - The missus likes it short in front, long at the back. If I'm goin' down the pub, she'll spike up the top for me.
Player B - The coach's daughter runs a nice salon, I've been asking her for one of those nice quasi-mohawks like David Beckham. He's awesome.

Q. - Favourite Music
Player A - Jimmy Barnes, Cold Chisel & Ian Moss.
Player B - Yeah, I'm really into Jack Johnson, Pete Murray & Ben Harper. I love those guys.


How did this happen? How did Player A evolve into Player B?
How did the rugged and charming Player A lose his footing, triggering the downward evolutionary spiral into the simpering, metrosexual Player B?
God help us all.

And so, to the point.

They say that millions of years ago, microscopic aquatic organisms body-surfed their way onto dry land with nary a backbone to keep them upright. From these humble beginnings, mankind evolved into what we are today.
Most would say this was a good thing, we all appreciate the fact that we're no longer bits of shapeless jelly with all that work in front of us.

But my reverse evolution theory states that at some stage, the human race will eventually slip into a state of decline and, like the dinosaur, we'll evolve up our own arses.

The question is poised. Did Rugby League and it's players reach it's peak in the golden years of the 70s and 80s?
Has Rugby League evolved up it's own arse?

Me and my disillusioned friend think so.

http://forums.leagueunlimited.com/viewtopic.php?t=20905

 

[Anonymous]

One 'Momo' In Time
by El Coconuto (Sharks)

I have a dream.

Many, many years from now -- I'm talking way down the road, like when Cronulla has finally won a premiership and Anthony Minichiello is the Vodafone pinup boy -- a young kid will recognise my face, tug me by my side and say "hey, aren't you that sports writing guy?"

Sure, it's a C-Grade dream that really lacks of fame and fortune, but you can't blame me for carrying such simple hopes. Sports journalists rarely attain fair credit. It takes a good start and a sizeable fan base to have a portrait accompany your articles in the papers.

But for that one moment in time, I'll know I made it.

There should be an easier way to define these moments that completely render people speechless, purely because they only happen every so often in life. We'll call them 'Momos' from now on (my new sluggish way of saying 'special moments').

I'm telling you this because last weekend I witnessed a 'Momo' - the completion of a young child's dream. Like mine, a simple dream.

Grand finals are complicated endeavours.

On the one hand, they're a thing of routine. Do what you've been doing all year, and you're likely to go okay. On the other hand they're games of the moment, the kind of things that are won by bizarre phases of luck and determination.

And yet through all this complicated mish-mash, one constant remains untouched: grand finals bring out the best in people.

I had just completed my regular training session early Saturday morning when I entered the change room the gymnasium provided. As I sat to contemplate my weekend ahead, I heard a meek, mild melody from behind an opposing divider.

"If you need to find a way back, feel you're on the wrong track. Give it time, Learn to Fly."

Confused, I sat in silence a little longer.

"Tomorrow is a new day; you will find your own way. You'll be stronger with each day that you cry, and then you'll learn to fly."

Identifying the Shannon Noll lyrics, I broke my silence...

"Is everything okay back there?" I politely asked.

For the space of two good minutes, deep thought-provoking silence graced the change room. The once near-mute droplets of leaking water from the showers now mirrored hail stones crashing to the Earth. The clattering of boot studs echoing from outside the cold, dark change room quickly reminisced firework explosions of New Years Eve proportions.

Eventually, a reply came...

"I sing it before every game" said the voice.

"Why is that?" I asked.

Again, deafening silence returned to the room.

"Because it reminds me of my Dad" echoed the long-delayed reply.

I knew exactly what that response met.

"Sorry" I chokingly replied through the divider before collecting my bag to leave the young voice that I had seemingly disturbed.

"My grand final is today, and coach said I'm going to play. If I'm lucky, I'll touch the ball. If I'm lucky, I'll score the final try. If I'm lucky, I'll learn to fly" said the voice.

Completely swept away, I slowly approached the once separating divider.

As I turned the corner, there on the bench sat a young nine-year old boy. As he turned to stare back at me, I noticed this boy was not like others. This young lad was born with a deformity; his arms failing to extend beyond his elbows.

I stood there, stunned, but cautious not to alert the boy to my surprise.

He soon picked himself up, and exited the change room.

I returned to the field adjacent the gymnasium that day, and saw the young boy standing on the sidelines, cheering on his team-mates with every breath he had. You wouldn't have known his team were losing 32-0.

With time running out, coach turned to him and said "Son, get out there!" Three plays later, he received the ball in his shortened arms.

Unafraid, he looked up and headed down field where the opposition had deliberately cleared the way for a run.

As the boy approached the try line, I glanced to the sidelines where the crowd chanted "Go Russell, Go!" Across the field, I noticed the opposition crowd similarly willing him on. As he crashed over the line, his team-mates embraced him in full swoop.

His dream had been realised and for that one 'Momo' in time, I was taken to a better place.

Rugby League truly is the greatest game on Earth.

http://forums.leagueunlimited.com/viewtopic.php?t=40461

 

[Anonymous]

The Ultimate Rugby League Poem
By Genius Freak (Sharks)

Poet Jim Simmerman’s short essay entitled, Twenty Little Poetry Projects claims to provide the reader with ample tools to write the ‘ultimate’ poem. Simmerman’s ‘tools’ come in the form of twenty short rules and guidelines, each of which outline how each line of your ‘ultimate’ poem should be written. Having read Simmerman’s essay, I was immediately intrigued, and thought I should give it a go. So here goes. The ‘ultimate’ rugby league poem. With all the blame to go to Simmerman if it fails to turn out. (BTW, if at first you don’t understand it, don’t worry. You’ll catch on.)

(Rules always first, and in Bold)

1. Begin the poem with a metaphor.

Good refereeing is the cornerstone of rugby league

2. Say something specific but utterly preposterous.

An example of good refereeing can be seen on any replay of the Sharks vs. Storm game from round 25 this year.

3. Use at least one image for each of the five senses, either in succession or scattered
randomly throughout the poem.

It was on this night that we witnessed a travesty of justice.
We heard the jeers and snipes from the Storm supporters.
We felt our chances of making the eight slipping away.
We smelt the fetid stench of corruption in the air,
And we tasted bitter defeat.

4. Use one example of synesthesia (mixing the senses).

Defeat smells like slippery mud, and freshly cut grass.

5. Use the proper name of a person and the proper name of a place.

It sounds like Tim Mander’s laughter ringing in your ears on the long drive back over the bridge and out of the Shire.

6. Contradict something you said earlier in the poem.

Not that I’ve ever heard Tim Mander laugh.

7. Change direction or digress from the last thing you said.

But 2004 will not be remembered for the laughter.

8. Use a word (slang?) you’ve never seen in a poem.

We will remember more the exploits of Noddy and Peach. Sully, Vags and Waltzing.

9. Use an example of false cause-effect logic.

They were our heroes. Because they wore blue.

10. Use a piece of talk you’ve actually heard (preferably in dialect and/or which you don’t understand).

Ka mate Ka mate Ka ora Ka ora, Tenei Te Tangata Puhuruhuru, Nana I tiki mai whakawhiti te ra. (Perhaps we should have signed Ali Lauititi to go with Lomu and Vagana)

11. Create a metaphor using the following construction: "The (adjective) (concrete noun) of (abstract noun) . . ."

The dark clouds of madness descend of fans of the Sharks.

12. Use an image in such a way as to reverse its usual associative qualities.

We search for darkness in our tunnel. We forget that there is light.

13. Make the persona or character in the poem do something he or she could not do in "real life."

Mander will be unbiased.

14. Refer to yourself by nickname and in the third person.

The Genius will lose faith.

15. Write in the future tense, such that part of the poem seems to be a prediction.

He will be mocked by those around him when he tips against the Sharks.

16. Modify a noun with an unlikely adjective.

Purple haze champagne will flow. Obliterate reminisced nights.

17. Make a declarative assertion that sounds convincing but that finally makes no sense.

The drinking is painful, we drink to dull the pain.

18. Use a phrase from a language other than English.

Encima de Cronulla ascendente, de los muchachos en el blanco negro y de azul.

19. Make a non-human object say or do something human (personification).

The porch light screams for darkness. Will our faith remain unmoved?

20. Close the poem with a vivid image that makes no statement, but that "echoes" an image from earlier in the poem.

Mud and grass escape our lives.


NB: Oh, and in case line you’ve read the poem through five or six times, and line 19 is still a little too obscure, it’s a reference to a famous Jack Gibson quote. “Waiting for Cronulla to win a premiership is like leaving the porch light on for Harold Holt.” Cheers.

http://forums.leagueunlimited.com/viewtopic.php?t=37103

 

[Anonymous]

A man walks into a bar…
by Captain Dread (Sharks)

The air stale with the smell of smoke and spilt beer, salted peanuts and stained oak. The dim lights cloak much of the scene in shadow – save for the fluorescent green of a pool table which stands out like a neon light towards the back of the room. A row of cubicles lines the wall to the left, each impenetrable with darkness, opposite the bar itself, where a lone bartender wipes down dirty schooner glasses with a greasy old rag. Occupying the cubicle furthest from the door, the man notices two shady figures seated side by side, smoking. Save for the bartender and the man himself, they are the only people inside the ragged, rickety old bar. Naturally, the man at the door – let’s call him X – lights himself a cigarette and moseys over and plants himself on the cushioned seat opposite the two shadowy gentlemen. No pleasantries are exchanged. Smoke wanders aimlessly from a cigarette butt left to burn in an ashtray.

“You’re game is dead,” says the man on the left.

The words crack through the silence like a rifle shot. Cold, spiteful, hating. X does not say anything.

“Where do we begin? What about the crowds?” probes the man on the right.

No response.

“Poor weather or not, the last round of football could not draw an average of more than nine thousand people. The corresponding round of AFL lured an average of more than thirty thousand in attendances.”

No response.

The man on the right raises his voice somewhat in frustration.

“The fact of the matter is that your inferior sport appears to have a paltry fan base. The Australian Football League consistently fills large scale stadiums – your game usually struggles to reach capacity at second rate suburban football ovals. Even in one team cities, attendance levels are measly. What reason could there be, other than that your sport is a dying code?”

Still no response. With a sly grin on his shadowy face, the man on the right lifts his cigarette to his lips and smirks.

“There is no room for your sport in this marketplace. Face it – it’s time to let rugby league die a natural death.”

“… Or have it merge into its bigger brother, rugby union,” retorts the man on the left.

No response. The bartender, rag in hand, has ceased cleaning the dishes. He leans over the counter, trying desperately to pick up wafts of conversation drifting from the cubicle at the back of the bar.

The man on the left pipes up again.

“You’ve been succeeded by rugby. Your international game is a tattered wreck – a disaster on the precipice of a thousand foot canyon. You can’t match our crowds and you can’t match our player payments. Accept it, give up. The game is over.”

No response.

“Our World Cup drew record breaking crowds and a television audience of millions… nay, billions! Players drawn from all corners of the globe! And what can rugby league muster up? A second rate Tri-Series featuring the best of Sydney, Auckland and Manchester? You call that an international game?”

Again, no response.

“We sign your best players, and then keep them. We have more money than you, and will continue to buy your code’s best players until there aren’t enough to fill up Premier League. We will buy the grassroots out from under your own football boots, we’ll buy out the international game and we’ll completely over-run the northern states with rugby union.”

Silence.

“The future is rugby union. Face it, your code is dead.”

The bartender is holding his breath. Smoke curls from the discarded butt still lying in the ashtray. Silence hangs about the bar like the smoky, sweaty, stale air. Both men are reclining, their faces again obscured by shadow, awaiting a response.

Finally, X speaks.

“Gentlemen, so long as somewhere, somehow a little kid pulls on his boots and runs out to play the greatest game of all – a game he loves and plays with a passion, rugby league will never die.”

With that, he grinds his cigarette into the ashtray and saunters out the door, leaving the two gentlemen sitting stunned amid the darkness.

The barman smiles and resumes polishing schooner glasses as those five words resonate through his mind.

Rugby league will never die.

http://forums.leagueunlimited.com/viewtopic.php?t=29551

 

[Anonymous]

The Spectator
by Captain Dread (City)

A worm takes time out from eating dirt and slides its slimy, bald head out from the soft soil of Stadium Australia.

He is confronted by a psychotic sensory overload.

Dew gathers and slides down blades of grass of immaculate green, dampening the soft soil below. The grass is dense, yet perfectly tended; a toe-high hedge of immense girth. Just above, the air is heavy and thickened by an acrid cocktail of smoke, mist and the electric buzz of artificial lights. The atmosphere is swollen; close to implosion from sheer mass of energy.

A wall of sound collapses upon the worm: an emotion charged tidal wave of cheering, jeering, laughing, screaming and amplified music. Beer gurgles as it slides down the throats of the collected thousands. Drums chant a repetitive beat, guitars wail and synthesisers groan with the tune. The gathered masses unknowingly sway to the rhythm of the beat. The worm sees nothing but senses it all.

He hears the click of studs on concrete and the blaring commentary of the speakers and the sudden increase in the rhythm of the crowd. He hears the coin get tossed and two distant giants reluctantly shake hands. He hears the glorious national anthem, and holds his slimy tail to his heart. And then, he hears the whistle blow.

State of Origin is upon him… again.

Bodies collide. Bones crunch. Tendons snap and ligaments twang. An earthquake rumbles its way back and forth up the pitch. Great chasms open in the dirt around him. Blood spurts from open wounds. A punch is landed with a sickening ‘thwock.’

The crowd demands blood and when blood is delivered, they scream for more like a pack of ravenous wolves. A player hits the turf with a thud. More punches fly and another bone snaps. Tackle after tackle after bloody, bruising tackle.

And then it stops and the air is still. Dew, trampled into the turf, begins beading again. The crowd is hushed… and then the whistle blows and the bloodbath begins anew.

The carnage is punctuated by rare moments of glory. A player ignores the pain searing through his body and slides over the chalky white line. The crowd erupts, the whistle blows and trumpets trumpet. And then another bone is broken.

Teeth tinkle as they are knocked loose from their holding. The crowd groans collectively as two behemoths collide and get knocked flying.

And then a siren screams in the distance and one team screams with delight.

And the worm, somehow a survivor amid the chaos, surveys his surroundings.

The immaculate hedgework of the turf is devastated; a cyclone hit mess of divots and destruction. The heavy air is thinning, the pyrotechnic smoke has long faded and the lights flicked off. Darkness has descended on the war-torn arena and silence is all that can be heard.

There are no more drums and no more guitars. The groan of the synthesisers has disappeared and the crowds have dispersed into the cold winter’s night. The monsters that roamed the arena have gone back into hibernation, leaving only their blood, sweat, saliva and the devastation as a reminder of the battle that once raged here.

The clicks, the whistles, the groans and the national anthem: all long gone. That psychotic sensory overload has faded away.

The worm takes one last look around and slithers his way back into the ravaged soil. He knows that the grass will be re-laid, the soil turned and the pyrotechnics restocked. He knows that the crowds will return and the monsters will reawaken, ready to do battle on this bloody arena once more.

In seven weeks time he will poke his head up again to witness the finest spectacle rugby league has to offer.

But until then, he will do what worm do best: he will eat dirt.

http://forums.leagueunlimited.com/viewtopic.php?t=23748

 

[Anonymous]

Mitchell.
by Everlovin' Antichrist (Lions)

Many years ago in my youth, I was part of a circle of friends in Sydney’s Western Suburbs that included a young lad named Mitchell. Mitchell was a good-hearted kid with a bit of a mischievous streak, not uncommon in children from our area in the 1970’s. As part of our group he was involved on occasions in some of our boredom-breaking activities which ranged from Rugby League in the local park to just sitting around and chewing the fat.

At 12 years of age in 1972 Mitchell was a year younger than most of our group but he was cluey enough to hang with our crowd and accepted our good-natured ribbing about his age with a poise that belied his age. He had a shock of blond hair that wouldn’t have looked out of place at Bondi Beach and an infectious grin that had a habit of rubbing off on the rest of the bunch.

Mitchell had a difficult childhood from where I stood, the air in the Cul-de-sac where Mitchell lived with his family and where our group hung out after School would often be filled with the word “Mitchell!” being angrily shouted from his home. When that happened, Mitchell would roll his eyes and say a cheery “see you tomorrow”, then scarper off in the direction of his house to face the music. Often we would not see him for days on end, “punishment for his crimes” we often pondered. When Mitchell would return after his forced sabbatical from the group, he would explain the circumstances and we were usually right. But his spirit always shone through and his forced lay-offs from the group were quickly forgotten with a wry gin and a chuckle.

Mitchell played Rugby League and like most of the group, he loved Rugby League. When we were talking sport, as we almost always were, the conversation inevitably turned to Rugby League and his eyes would light up. He would regale us with tales of his and his team’s exploits from the previous weekend and how he wanted to be like Ken Irvine, his childhood hero.

One Friday afternoon, sometime in 1972, we were discussing the upcoming weekend and Mitchell, back after another forced leave from the group, had great delight in informing us that his team had made the Finals the previous weekend. His enthusiasm bubbled to the point where it became contagious and the rest of the group became excited about Mitchell’s prospects in the upcoming match. We wished him well that night and went, as usual, our separate ways until we got together again at the Cul-de-sac on Monday.

Monday came and Mitchell proudly told us how his Rugby League team had won their semi final and had qualified for the Grand Final. He went into detail about the game and his part in it and he obviously enjoyed the attention that being in a Grand Final brought from his mates, Mitchell was in his element. We decided as a group to go to the Grand final and cheer Mitchell on because that’s what mates did.

I didn’t see Mitchell again that week, but late in the week we found out that his Father had caught him smoking. The news didn’t improve; for his crime Mitchell was barred from playing in the Grand Final due to be played that weekend.

I thought at the time of my own introduction to smoking. How, on being caught by my Father, I was given a big fat cigar to smoke to atone for my impropriety, and how I’d been sick for three days afterwards, later vowing never to touch the damn things again. “Make him smoke a Cigar” I thought to myself, “it’ll cure him of that problem”. But no such luck, Mitchell’s Father’s mind was apparently made up, the penance would be served and the Grand Final would be played without Mitchell.

We spent the Friday afternoon at our usual place in the Cul-de-sac and there was not a whimper from Mitchell’s house. We wondered how he was taking it and we all felt for him but we were powerless to help. We were going to send a messenger to his house to find out if Mitchell had been reprieved but thought better of it. Anyway, he would get over it, he always had in the past.

That Saturday morning, the morning of the Grand Final, Mitchell put his Father’s Shotgun to his chin and pulled the trigger.

In memory of Mitchell.

http://forums.leagueunlimited.com/viewtopic.php?t=19382

 

[Anonymous]

Oh when the Saints…
by Everlovin' Antichrist (Australia)

I am a Wests Tigers supporter and I used to be a Parramatta supporter. My allegiances changed when I had a few years of not following Rugby League due to having a young family. I moved with my family to the Campbelltown area the same year that the Wests Magpies moved to Campbelltown and my interest was re-ignited. Over a couple of years, I became a firm Wests supporter and have been ever since.

Not big news and hardly a secret, but I do have a secret regarding my allegiances, a deep, dark, foreboding secret that at times concerns me; it feels right but at the same time awkward. Fortunately, I have always kept it in check and I always will. But its time for me to out myself, metaphorically speaking.

I like Saints. I like to watch Saints and if they’re playing anyone but the Tigers, I cheer for Saints.

There, I said it. I feel better already.

The reason for the soft spot for Saints runs much deeper than just watching Football itself or enjoying the brand of Football offered up by the Saints.....

Many years ago when I first met my wife-to-be, the usual baggage i.e. “Her family”, came as part of the bargain. My wife’s sister was married to a gentleman named Peter. Peter was a great bloke but he had one particular failing; he was a rabid Saints supporter. I mean this guy was as mean and cantankerous when it came to talking about Saints as anyone you can imagine. Skull was a pussy Saints supporter compared to Peter.

Walking into his home at any time was akin to walking into Saints Leagues Club. Bloody red and white everywhere. The walls were painted white with a red border, posters and streamers hung from the roof and he had even painted a red V on all his household appliances. Christmas time was a nightmare for anyone that ventured into Peter’s abode around that time, twice the normal red and white and the tacky bastard even had a cheap-arsed white K-Mart Christmas tree adorned in nothing but red ornaments and red tinsel.

At that time, I was a Parramatta supporter and Parramatta were in their glory era of the early 1980’s. This was very difficult for Peter to accept. From day one, whenever we got together for a family barbecue and the discussions invariably ended up about Football, I would laud it over him like a complete prat. He hated it but took it with reasonable good humour and would chant repeatedly in answer to my taunting, “It doesn’t last forever”. And he was right, Parramatta faltered later in the 1980’s but Peter always knew that Saints would be back on top again soon. For Peter, it was always just a matter of time.

Over the years, Peter and I became best mates and Football galvanised that friendship. Even though were not supporters of the same team, we both loved Rugby League. We went to many matches together and a heap of Saints v Parramatta matches together. Saints won a few, Parramatta won a few and later on with Wests and Saints we kept the rivalry going. We had a standing bet that the loser would wear the other team’s colours out of the ground. I hated wearing his hat and scarf and I wore them a lot.

Saints time almost came again in 1992 and 1993, but they were bounced in the final match of the season, much to Peter’s chagrin and my relief. He was unbearable when Saints were losing; I couldn’t bear the thought of what he’d be like if they actually won the competition considering what I’d done to him when Parramatta won the comp. His revenge would be very uncomfortable.

But Peter never got to see Saints merge, and he never got to see them almost grab League’s Holy Grail again in 1999. Peter passed away in late 1994.

Which brings me back to my original point, my soft spot for Saints. Ever since Peter’s passing, I have missed him terribly. I miss the arguments, I miss Peter’s blind red and white worship, and I miss Peter like someone would miss their own brother. And although I could never dismiss my beloved Wests Tigers for Saints; watching, enjoying and even cheering for Saints dulls the pain of losing my best mate if only for a couple of hours each week of the season.

Go marchin' in.....

http://forums.leagueunlimited.com/viewtopic.php?t=31685

 

[Anonymous]

A reflection of the beauty we often forget
by Azkatro (Panthers)

The symmetrical oval shape of the rubber ball rests on a modern plastic device designed to elevate it from the turf on which it sits. Carefully prepared and nurtured grass, sprouting from the hallowed earth below.

Expanding out in its vibrant green in all directions, interrupted only by the occasional advertisement or perfectly measured line. Offset beautifully by four plastic posts, evenly spaced and extending at a 90 degree angle. Only to be dwarfed by their big brothers, giant concrete posts which are held together by an infinitely meaningful crossbar.

Interrupted only by a scattering of figures in varying pose, anchored in the turf by metal spikes protruding from synthetics. Surrounding a foot which extends in muscular curves to a fine physique, protected and represented by coloured material distinguishing their cause.

Identified by the curves of their face, which shows concentration. Intensity. Fear. Aggression. Eyes that show hunger and determination, often glistened by the heartbreak of defeat or the agony of pain. A window into the warrior within that fights exhaustion and presses on, sometimes calling upon instinct, often expectations, and always belief.

Eyes which always return to the focal point, the rubber ball which never remains still for long. Often cradled by an equally determined individual, sharing the burden of some men, opposing the rest. Guided by a select few who control the complex dance, interrupting the groan and cuss with an occasional high-pitched whistle.

All beautifully framed by well decorated planes of metal on all sides, combining to create a remarkable composition of lines and colour. The benign, calm state offered by the posts and ground perfectly complemented by the flurry of activity stirred by the athletic figures within. Seemingly random, yet deeply crucial and well observed movements.

Observed by thousands of figures outside the frame, all returning their gaze back to that same oval ball. Each and every one enchanted by the scene before them, themselves unknowingly adding to the rich tapestry. Unburdened by the weight of expectation of those below, replaced instead by the immense emotion brought on by outcome. Figures which share little of the impressive strength and athleticism of their heroes, made up for in abundance by enthusiasm.

Their eyes telling a different story to the athletes, filled with unbridled passion and immeasurable hope for their cause. Their emotions filling the air with cheers of joy and jeers of hate. Heard clearly and importantly by those figures below, providing inspiration. Meaning. Fuel for their battle.

All of which unfolds over a predetermined period of time. A mere slice in their lives; filled with countless moments where a unique myriad of lines, colours and emotions all come together in what can only be described as one thing.

A magnificent work of art.

Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to introduce you to the finest art gallery in the world. Grander than the Louvre in Paris, finer than the National Gallery of London, more inspirational than the Uffizi Gallery of Florence.

This, folks, is Rugby League. The greatest and most prolific provider of endearing art that I have ever known. Formidable in its beauty, eternal in its provision.

Admired by tens of thousands on a weekly basis, our game is a thing of beauty which is appreciated far and wide. But it's easy to glaze over the fine details - with such an abundance of works for us to admire and drink in so regularly, it's almost impossible to admire each moment for its genuine beauty.

This author implores all of the like-minded art lovers across the land to take a moment to appreciate the finer things in our game. Every second of every match provides a snapshot as magnificent as the finest artwork across the globe. Impossible to capture with even the most cutting edge technology, brilliant artist or both combined; container of beauty and feelings which can be analysed and appreciated with unparalleled detail.

They might detail moments of heartbreak and victory; pain and determination, comradery and bravery; expectation and relief.

Over five thousand of these seconds occur every game. Thirty-five thousand seconds every weekend in our national game alone - perhaps a million in one season. Our national competition dates back almost one hundred years.

And there's thousands more works of art to come this very weekend. Head out to a game, and be sure to take a moment to admire what you see before you.

A true work of art.

http://forums.leagueunlimited.com/viewtopic.php?t=33585

 

[Anonymous]

This poll closed. None of the sudden vote bombing will count.

 

[Anonymous]

I wish to most humbley appologise both Rex and EA. Please forgive my over exuberence. It was not intended to harm or embarass anyone and was an unthinking, selfish act on my part.

 

[Anonymous]

Thanks Gene. The votes were being finalise today anyway and we had Rex out in front.
Good of you to come forward.