It was a true testament to Sam Burgess’ authenticity that he remained as popular and respected in the game amongst both players and fans as he did considering how much time he spent in front of the judiciary and how much time he spent engaging in the dark arts of rugby league. But no matter how high the tackle, how ferocious the hit, how close to the line he travelled, Burgess was beloved by nearly all and sundry.
Perhaps it was his Englishness. Australians have long held a fascination with the great Brits who have come out and tried their wares in the premiership. From the likes of Dave Bolton and Tommy Bishop in the 1960s through to Mal Reilly in the 1970s, Ellery Hanley and Garry Schofield in the 1980s to Burgess, James Graham and the plethora now in Canberra, Australian league fans have long respected and admired the Brits for both their skill and their character.
Perhaps it was his story. Sam lost his father when he was young. He grew up in league-mad Dewsbury and was playing Super League at the tender age of 17. Russell Crowe saw him and wanted him and soon brought out an entire clan, including his mother, to be both the face and heart of South Sydney.
Perhaps it was his charm. Burgess became a media darling. He was equal parts loveable rogue and smooth operator, quick with a one-liner but always wearing his heart on his sleeve. He was not afraid to be himself, an increasingly rare quality in modern athletes.
Most likely though, the game loved Sam because of his unrelenting toughness. He played rugby league the way it should be played: hard. He asked no favours and he certainly didn’t go about dishing them out. He was fearless in everything he did on the field, an enforcer from what seems like a bygone era. He would find the biggest, toughest bloke in a different jersey and he would make it his mission to alpha dog him until victory was attained and the final siren sounded. He wasn’t averse to picking out a halfback either and making their life hell for 80 minutes, spotting them up and hitting them at every opportunity.
In what is the most physical and aggressive collision sport on earth, Burgess stood tall throughout his entire career as the most aggressive and most physical. He really was the ultimate warrior.
While his ferocious hits will long be his legacy, arguably the finest demonstration of his toughness was his performance in the 2014 grand final, a showing that etched his name into the most revered annals of rugby league lore. In the early stages of the decider against Canterbury, Burgess collided with fellow Englishman James Graham. It resulted in a fractured cheekbone and fractured eye socket that would have ended the evening for nearly every competitor. Burgess refused to come off. He went on to play a grand final for the ages, winning the Clive Churchill medal and guiding South Sydney to their first premiership in 43 years.
There was not a Canterbury fan who took the Burgess injury to be anything but a terrible omen. Not a single one thought Burgess would succumb to the pain. If anything, there was a gut-wrenching feat it would inspire. It did.
Much like John Sattler over four decades before, Burgess playing through blood and pain and a busted face to guide the “Pride of the League” to a premiership has stood tall for all that is great about the game. A warrior became human. And a mere man achieved extraordinary things in the most dire of circumstances. It will endure as long as rugby league endures.
Good players retire every year. Great ones often do too. A select few get the glorious fairytale farewell of a grand final victory. Some, If they are lucky, get the farewell season tour. Others are just happy to go out on their own terms.
For the likes of Burgess though, a player who left it all on the field, the body just cannot take anymore, forcing a sudden and sharp departure that sends shockwaves through the game, a poignant reminder that even the most imposing of gladiators will fight their last battle.
Sam Burgess is now gone. He did not go gently into that good night though. He blistered and blasted and burned like Guy Fawkes night, a true force of nature who imposed his will on the game until he could give no more.
The game, of course, will roll on. It always does. But it has lost just a little bit of its character, a little bit of its charm and a little bit of its individuality with the departure of a player that will rightly be remembered as arguably the greatest British player in premiership history.
