Even after belting the Roosters around the inside of an esky on Saturday, this Dragons winning streak is still only causing a mild commotion in league circles rather than the wild premiership countdown with tequila shots that it deserves.
Nobody is quite prepared to brand them as fair dinkum top-four material quite yet, concerned that this six-week run is a freak incident ready to fizzle to an anti-climactic 10th place finish and a panicked kneejerk push to reinstate Brian Smith.
In light of this rational circumspection, I feel a responsibility to give St George Illawarra what they’ve earned: a deserved April premiership. So standby as I talk them up, hence sending their chances before a black cat and under a ladder.
In all seriousness, it must be acknowledged that the 2015 Saints are a new-look outfit that is nothing like the bunch of impotent pacifists of recent years, and I say good on ’em.
Their fresh makeover is built on a defence that is hungrier than a catwalk model, and it’s sending wild their hordes of unwavering, rusted-on, dyed-in-the-wool fans who’ve always kept the faith despite planning a revolt only weeks ago.
So who’s the catalyst for this unexpected revival in fortunes?
Many of their faithful have narrowed it down to three candidates: Paul McGregor, Benji Marshall and anyone else as long as it’s not Peter Doust.
Much has been documented about the chrome-dome coach and how he’s so loaded he doesn’t even need the job, so I’m here to make mention of the fine work of Marshall, rugby league’s latest recycled rugby reject reborn.
Painfully obvious scoop alert: Marshall 2.0 is totally unlike the mid-noughties garden variety Benji.
Gone is the wet-haired OzTag rake who’s idea of a safety-first pass was one that only cut-out three blokes, and in his place is a team-first percentage player who’s the boring and safe type you take home to meet mumma.
I know I’m going to be labelled a cardigan-wearer for saying this, but despite all of the jaw-dropping moments from his former self, the marketable highlight reel allure and that sensational fairytale premiership, I’ve got to say I like the new Marshall better than the old.
Now just before you launch, no, I am not a stiff who is completely devoid of life. Like the everyman, I receive thrills from an acrobatic side-step. A good chip and chase arouses me. After all, I do live and breathe.
I was enthralled by the Marshall flick passes, the trick shots and the no-look triple-pump passes to the bloke in the third row. I’ll never forget the day he lined up every Sharks player and beat them all one-on-one like Bruce Lee doing over a ninja convention, mainly because I stuck forks in my eyes out of pure disbelief and the pain afterwards was unspeakable.
Old Marshall was the original selfie-generation footballer; it never really happened unless there was flash. He was so slick, Weeties nearly became a thing in Australasia just so his face could be splashed across the packaging (possibly untrue).
He was ahead of his time in showtime, but he was also ahead in coach-killing. While always capable of pulling something out of his arse, he is also responsible for too many holes through fibro, and this is why his reincarnate shades him.
Rocks and diamonds gambling began dying in footy long ago. That’s why the chunkier, less whippy and more prudish bloke who came home from the Auckland Blues with his tail between his legs and humbly inserted himself in to a team-orientated game plan is what I’ll take 11 times out of 10.
While he won’t single-handedly win games and spike sales in jerseys and overpriced footy cards, he will play to orders, kick for touch and tackle. I don’t know about you, but that’s the way I like my ball-handlers – steady, gentle and reliable, and always prepared to implement instructions and share with Gareth Widdop.
The new Marshall guarantees a solid 6.5/10 performance every time, and that’s what the ultra-restrained environment of modern league demands.
Nothing selfish, nothing flashy, just meet those KPIs. Plus take a load off my vital signs. That’s the Benji I prefer.
Now turn down that music and pour me a Bex, it’s past 6pm.
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