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Overture, curtains, lights! Roll out the red carpet, let down your top-knot and precariously apply the double-sided tape, because the NRL’s awards season is fast approaching.
Yes, you can smell it in the air. When finals are rolling around, and the pretenders begin falling by the wayside and persecuting their highly-paid stalwarts, it means it’s time to undercut footy’s team ethos with a gush for the game’s irreplaceable individuals.
Sure, this is a great time of year, but it’s not all Gucci gowns and Richard Wilkins. Let me give you the tip; despite having no involvement with any stage of the process whatsoever at any time in my life, I can tell you that shelling out these awards ain’t easy.
This is because the prototypical footballer is shy and selfless and hard-wired to be a team-first role-player. He is mostly reluctant to accept these accolades, unless of course, he is a wanker.
In fact, most recipients of an individual award in footy will only fully come to grips with the recognition once full credit is given to the boys because it couldn’t be done without them.
Personally, my favourite gong of distinction is the one handed out to the rookie of the year. This is because I believe the children are our future, and they should be praised and nurtured because they are the bus drivers and cabbies of tomorrow, and I drink a lot.
Not only this, I enjoy the symbolism of the rookie award. It is the first day of the rest of the winner’s footy life, a time to cherish before their previously-enjoyed camouflage is ripped away to leave them exposed like a client of Ashley Madison.
Just look at the photo taken on the presentation dais on the night. It is a special moment that sums it all up; the crisp, fresh, unviolated face of a precocious talent on it’s final day of youthfulness, the last moment captured of boyish charm before an 8-10 years of torture that will leave them with a melon like Martin Lang’s.
Not only does the rookie of the year have to deal with this intensified attention from his opposition, usually leading to the acute onset of Second Year Syndrome, it also spawns an increase in unfair expectations from a rugby league public that just won’t quit.
However, despite this extra weight and the scourge of the Syndrome, most top freshmen in the NRL have gone on to profitability at the top level, eventually navigating the roadblocks of their early years to carve out serviceable long-term careers.
Then there are those who have really thrived. Take 2007 winner Israel Folau, a man who treasured cub status so much he chose to endure it thrice. And don’t forget 2006 recipient Jarryd Hayne, a man who according to most news outlets has already gone on to capture two Superbowls.
On the other end of the spectrum, there are those who didn’t quite kick-on. Tasesa Lavea (2000) code-hopped, Tim Smith (2005) had his well-documented troubles, while Chris Sandow (2008) was last spotted booting meat pies off kicking tees in the UK.
But who of this year’s crop will follow this well-trodden path?
The smorgasbord from which to choose in 2015 is plentiful with brash bucks who have busted out like Lenny Kravitz. There’s too many to name, but I will anyway.
Could it be Kane Elgey, Jack Bird, Aaron Gray, Reagan Campbell-Gillard or Euan Aitken? Or perhaps Solomone Kata, Cameron Munster, Shaun Lane, Tuimoala Lolohea or Chris Grevsmuhl? And for good measure, can we throw a Trbojevic in there as well, purely because their name short-circuited my spellcheck?
If I had to choose someone to put the mockers on, then I would pick Cronulla’s Bird.
The big kid’s got brash game, and thus should be deservedly lumped with the kind of expectation that will see him marked as New South Wales’ halves saviour for next year’s Origin series. Congratulations, young fella, you’re in for a wonderful time.
However, what do the Roarers think? Who would you like to see cop a dirty big dose of the Second Year Syndrome in 2016?