The ‘frother’
James Graham is the most passionate man in this National Rugby League. Equal parts aggro and hyper-competition, spittle and skill. His mindset is to battle like an Irish Viking, all flaming red hair and total immersion, body and mind. Graham wants to win like he’s protecting his village against Roman legionaries with the last drop of Irish Viking blood. In olden times, such mad frothing “passion” would be widely admired. And in many circles, still is, this column included. As a player, he’s an ace, the best prop in the game, top half-dozen most effective men. In these sometimes cloistered times it’s nice to know there’s place for the mad frother. And there is, in the middle of a scrum of team-mates, spitting out the riot act. But as a captain he’s a liability. He can’t be allowed to front the referee. Captains need to be more Cameron Smith, respectful and in-turn respected, and less flaming-breath-crazy Viking. So what the Dogs probably should do, they probably won’t because it would hurt Graham’s feelings, is to take away the “C” next to his name, and give it to someone nice, like Sam Perrett, or one of those gentle Morris boys. Let the pinheads talk sweetly to the referee and call him “sir”. And let Graham lead his men about by roaring incoherent, highly-motivating obscenities at them like the flame-haired warrior that he is.
Injustice: that’s life
Fans, like Graham, have got to learn to cop it sweet. Railing so hard when decisions go against your team, know what? It’s immature. In old cousin rugby, players call the referee “sir” and (mostly) abide by decisions. The forwards might shake their heads and mutter. There are exasperated goggle-eyes. But the vast majority just trot back and get on with it. It’s the same in Australian rules. Fans go berko’ for a few seconds. But for players, given the flow of the game, there’s something else to focus on almost immediately. In every game, things will go against you. There will be injustice, as there is in the great game of life. Which makes it ironic that the penalty against Graham’s charge-down that took out Adam Reynolds’ knee was not actually unjust. It was the law. And that’s how you know rugby league is a basket case: when the captain’s going nuts and fans are throwing bottles because their team was quite justly penalised for contravening the laws of the game. And for (one opines from high upon one’s moral platform) all the arguments that fester over these things, the gnashing of teeth, all the “Oh, rugby league’s lost another fan”, all that crap on social media and talkback radio … please. If you’re still fretting over the result of a “game” more than half an hour after its conclusion, you’re in a state of arrested development. Rugby league people fret for weeks. Weeks! Oh, they’re “passionate”? Maybe. They’re also in a state of arrested development. To obsess over this stuff, to argue about rules to the point of madness, to label everything that doesn’t go your way “ridiculous”, it’s immature. It’s very rugby league.
Passion be buggered
One day, and if the rate of officials quitting the game continues at its present pace, one day soon, there’ll be nobody to referee rugby league because of idiots yelling from the sideline. Passion? Passion be buggered with a yabby pump. Rugby league (and other sports, yes, but, you know: rugby league) so often shows off the worst spectating traits. Even in junior sports. From the under 10s, people are yelling at teenage referees there for nothing more than to volunteer a few hours of their time. Are they fair dinkum? There should be a rule - and when the revolution comes, there will be, oh yes - that if you yell something at a junior referee, “advise” that official in any way, shape or form, then you must take the whistle yourself. Immediately. And then you will be yelled out. Because you are a muppet who has never refereed - probably never played - a game of rugby league. And thus there will be no referees. And who wants that? Nobody wants that. So stop it at once.
Manly see green
In happier news for, ahem, fans of the bad and mean ‘Green Machine’, the Canberra Raiders were so bad and mean on Saturday afternoon in Albury, and hit Manly so hard, that Manly might well have actually seen green. And Manly hasn’t seen a lot of green in recent times given Brookvale Oval looks like Dubai before development and Albury’s Lavington Sports Ground is a tight and tidy piece of sporting horticulture. And thus the bad and mean Green Machine, insulted by Manly’s decision to give up the advantage of Fortress Brookvale and the raucous wailing of fans who won’t cross Middle Harbour much less the Murray River, ran hard and fast and angry, and committed themselves to each task. And Manly, listless and ordinary, were plucked like mangy sea birds. And we learned? Blake Austin can really play. People call him a journeyman because he’s been at three clubs. But he’s only 24. And that’s about the age players blossom into the player they’re going to be. Austin’s time is here, his window is now. He is on, and in, and in himself, and something. And a few more games like Saturday’s and the Raiders will lament no more Terry Campese’s many bung knees. Because they’ll have found their No.6.
Everyone’s a winner
And thus we learn afresh that there are no “upsets” in this National Rugby League. Anybody can beat anybody. Storm beat the Warriors who beat the Raiders who beat the Sharks who beat the Roosters who beat the Raiders who beat Manly. The Tigers beat the Eels who beat Souths. The Cowboys beat the Panthers. And if you’re leading your tipping competition then one thing is clear: You care not for “form”. Special shout-out to Souths, however, who could be the exception to the rule. For what’s been lost the bottle-tossing maelstrom is that Souths beat the Bulldogs with Greg Inglis on one leg and Isaac Luke and Glenn Stewart in Disneyland. Without Adam Reynolds they’ll slide back closer to the panting pack. And lose Inglis they’re just another mob. It’s an open old race, this NRL.
