Kane Linnett is the Graeme Bradley of his generation. Like the Dragons centre of the early 1990s, Linnett is the tall, unfashionable type with the odd, angular movements, the direct running lines and, to the layman’s naked eye, the lack of discernible skill. Unlike “The Penguin”, however, Linnett isn’t even a cult figure. He’s just Kane Linnett – straight man. And he’s in another grand final.
Bradley was in a grand final in 1993 and was sent out to test the fractured jaw-bone of Steve Renouf, the super-fast helmet-headed centre from those brilliant Brisbane Broncos. That was effectively Bradley’s job – get Renouf. On Saturday night, Linnett was given the task of “handling” the Roosters’ Latrell Mitchell, the 20-year-old Taree tyro praise-cursed as the next Greg Inglis.
Line up Linnett and Mitchell head-to-head and odds-makers and experts will be pointing to the pup. Mitchell moves like liquid metal. But Linnett gets things done. And in the preliminary final, Mitchell twice kicked the ball out on the full from the kick-off, which weren’t the two biggest howlers in the Roosters’ sorry end to 2017, but were in the top three.
And thus the North Queensland Cowboys continue their impossible run into the NRL’s great denouement, baffling pundits and punters, and delighting rusted-on Cow pokes and romantics with their propensity to just keep on truckin’.
While poor Mitchell and his team-mates had the hint of headless chooks about them (and have learned a lesson they’ll suck on all summer), the Cowboys just played footy. The Cows let the result work itself out, they just play, safe in the knowledge that should they just keep playing and doing what they do, they’ll at worst give a bloody good account of themselves. And at best they’ll up and win the game.
Consider Jake Granville at the base of the ruck dishing simple, sympathetic pill. Simple stuff, done well, time after time. Consider Ethan Lowe, the shaggy edge runner and workhorse whose goal-kicking has reached a level perhaps only he himself knew there was to reach. And consider Kyle Feldt, who could slam the Steeden into the in-goal while in a bar fight with a crack squad of Kabaddi players.
And who gave Feldt the ball with enough time and space to complete his 65th minute touchdown? A certain Kane Linnett.
So yes, the Cows have “solid” types across the park. And that’s all to the good. But when they need someone to stand up and be counted in the clutch moments of a fixture, they turn to Michael Morgan. It used to be Johnathan Thurston. Now it’s Morgan, who’s the Terminator; nothing going on in the eyes except angles.
Linnett’s try came because Morgan watched Mitchell tackle Jason Taumalolo. It meant he wouldn’t be in the line. Lowe ran a convincing angle before Morgan fired a pass to Linnett, who ran a line, hit the hole and crashed over. As someone tweeted, Morgan is in Winx-like form.
Can they win the whole thing? Yes, they can. Have you watched rugby league? They’ve knocked over Sydney tough guys the Sharks, Eels and Roosters, all of whom beat or ran close the mighty, imperial Storm machine.
And that’s what the Storm are: a machine. And the story of the 2017 grand final is the imperial Death Star versus a rag-tag bunch of feisty rebels. It’s Darth Vader versus Luke Skywalker. And most of the estimated three million-odd folks who’ll watch on the box will be willing them on like Yoda using the force to lift an X-wing out of a swamp. In a popularity contest between Chewbacca and a bunch of Stormtroopers, the gorilla-thing wins every time, even if there is fear and grudging respect for the power of the Dark Side.
Simple, effective rugby league: Melbourne Storm’s play-book is titled thus. They don’t do flashy, but their work is super-flash. It’s simple and excellent, executed at high speed. And they wrestle better than everyone. Melbourne are like a boa constrictor: they’ll strangle the life out of you, crush your ribs, and kill you at the other end with a spike in the tail, the game’s fastest men.
Now, everyone wrestles. Coaches call it “the ground”, and you have to win that battleground. The pace of play-the-ball is key, a crucial building block in the great Meccano set that is modern day rugby league.
The Storm just do it better than everyone else. And the closer they are to their own line, the better they do it. Tug a leg, turn a chin, move a lever just so. The closer they are to the line, the sweeter they are at being penalised. Their line is their Alamo. Rules are bent like bad cops. The Storm game the rules, and play the refs. They are expert.
But the Cowboys cometh. And will cometh again. And it should be a beauty.
