Some years ago, in the guise of Rugby League Week’s “Man On The Hill”, I headed down to Remondis Stadium, the home ground of Cronulla Sharks. There on the hill I laughed along with the Sharks fans as their centre-three-quarter Ben Pomeroy dropped the ball, time and again. We laughed like fiends.
Such was the lot of your average Sharks fan – you just laughed. What else could you do? It was like you owned the players and their errors. They were the fans’ errors. And it was all a big gag, a bit like the Barmy Army celebrating their terrible team by singing songs of their badness. It was the height of good humour.
But they’re laughing long and loud for a different reason now, Sharks fans, because their improbable rugby league team has made off with the Provan-Summons trophy. In a hard-boned and willing grand final at Sydney’s ANZ Stadium in front of a near capacity 83,625 people, a heaving, pulsating, roiling sky-blue sea, with occasional algal blooms of two-tone purple, saw a great game of rugby league.
There was intent early. Brutish intent. As Knights enforcer Paul Harragon said before the 1997 decider, “You can’t get sent off in a grand final”. And it’s probably true. You’d have to be really bad. Early on, the players set out to test it. Mick Ennis threw a high shot in the first twenty seconds. Marika Koroibete swung a forearm at Chad Townsend’s Rick Astley-looking head and was put on report. He’s off to rugby, though, Koroibete and thus had license to kill. Maybe not kill. But he was put on report and won’t serve a sentence on the Wallabies’ spring tour.
Giant Cronulla prop Andrew Fifita was a factor early, and throughout. Luke Lewis would win the Clive Churchill Medal, and had a great game, his head finishing like a very bad boxer’s, his cheeks like Cro-Magnon man’s. But Fifita was huge, a real factor. “The Fifita Factor”: ordinary airport novel, but the man was up there with the best on ground.
Storm lock Dale Finucane’s defence was staunch, this chunky jack-hammer of a man. Dean Lance redux. Lewis almost scored a try from a James Maloney burst, slid towards the try-line but couldn’t reach out and score because the double-movement law’s an ass. It’s not the worst law in rugby league. But it’s one of them.
Bouncing Ben Barba scored the first try from a scrum move that referees sent to the bunker because referees couldn’t believe someone had ripped it off. Can you do that? Is that allowed? The move went like this: halfback fed under the lock’s feet, the lock took off with it, turned it back inside to the second-rower – Barba – who scooted over the line. And up went “TRY” and up went the Shark people, happy as Leisure Suit Larry.
And from there the Sharks’ bombed in. All the momentum. It was the same momentum they’ve had all year. They just kept on coming, playing footy, and rucking their way down field – equal parts hot potato Raiders and staunch-wall Storm. A heady combination.
Jack Bird hurt his arm, it hung limp like a deadweight. “Bird has one wing,” said commentator Ray Warren. Someone had to say it. And Our Rabbi did, God bless him for it.
On field the Sharks ran fast and with intensity, all hard bodies, footwork and endeavour. Storm couldn’t hold them, couldn’t slow things down. Normally they do. That’s their thing – brutalise their opponents, kill the ruck with the moves of judo. Cop a penalty. Do it again.
Not this game. And referees Matt Cecchin and Ben Cummins, it seems, have adjudicated a clean one. The Sharks, freed up, broke free of the human net and won the ruck. Won the first half. Only 8-nil. But they owned it.
Yet the Storm were good. Their completions were “perfect”. They played “Stormball”. But the Sharks played footy. And monstered the Storm.
On field Ennis continued to menace. It’s what he does. He rubbed it in, he annoyed, he pushed people. He’s probably the game’s most disliked opponent. And fair enough, he’s not out there to be nice. “He’s in their heads,” reckoned Phil Gould of the latest Ennis-inspired push-n-shove. And say what you will about Ennis, love him or hate, agree or disagree, one thing is clear: he’s a grub.
In the second half it was more of the same; Sharks just hammering away, bludgeoning the Storm line. Yet Storm, again, held firm. They love that stuff. Love copping it and throwing it back. And back they came. It’s what they do. They stay cool and play their Stormball. “Cool” will be on Cam Smith’s tombstone. His resting heart-rate is just above dead.
The Sharks were bashed. Head bin here. Bad knee there. “He’s still on one wing, the Bird man,” said Warren again, warming to the theme. And from nothing Jesse Bromwhich, the indomitable giant of New Zealand, rumbled over for a try. It had been all Sharks. But they only led by two. It was in their heads. How could it not be? They knew Storm would not go away, would not panic. But hell! They’d smashed them for 55 minutes. Still couldn’t shake ‘em. Who are these people?
Koroibete ran on one wing. Will Chambers ran on the other. Channel Nine threw up a statistic: Storm had completed 28 of 30 sets; Sharks 22 of 24. There was 22 minutes to go. It was a close to “perfect” game. And still anyone’s.
Chambers stepped Ennis and scored a try that took his team into the lead. Gallen’s head went into his hands. Oh the humanity! How could this be? Had we not thrown our everything at them? They are like a piece of iron. They are not human. And it was true. No human could weather such a Shark attack and survive. But Storm had beaten it, eaten it, owned it. And now led by four points.
Fifteen to go and you couldn’t pick a standout player. Willing replacement punk Christian Welch threw an ill-advised swinging arm at Townsend’s very bad haircut. Fifita rock-and-rolled over through a phalanx of judo-trained bodyguards to somehow plant the ball under the posts. Try-time. A marvel of human movement.
Sharks by two. Sweet Jesus and DK Lillee it was tense. Cronk stabbed for the line and Bird fielded at second-slip. Maloney kicked out on the full trying to kill off a set. And the Storm came again and again. Chambers kicked and chased and nearly won it for his team. The Sharks kicked long, and out.
One minute left. The Storm threw everything. Time up on the clock. And still they came, these horrible automatons. What a team. What a club. They can never be killed. But the Sharks made a desperate late tackle on Koroibete. Time off. Ennis hugged some ball-boys. And the Shire went up as one.
Now Cronulla are premiers of the National Rugby League. First time in their 49-year existence. How about it? It’s magnificent. And in Cronulla, they’re laughing.
