It’s the rugby league story of 2016. How does one man extinguish the shadow of Peter Sterling while dealing with an administration who still uses dim sims as a form of currency?
Kieran Foran is a young man with the world at his feet and a million dollars. Unfortunately, the trade-off for this is association with Parramatta.
How does he deal with the expectation? How does he deal with all those zeroes? And worst of all, how does he deal with Parramatta?
Thanks to a fertile imagination and too much Daily Telegraph, I’ve managed to blow Foran’s diary wide open to provide you – the rugby league voyeur – with a fabricated insight in to a typical day as Parramatta’s latest saviour.
Kieran’s diary
Following our stirring victory against the Cowboys, I’m excited about getting straight back to work on securing another two competition points that we can refund to the NRL.
I kick off the day with breakfast and a quick shower, and after almost rupturing a hamstring drying myself, it’s time to head off to training.
Just to help him feel useful, I phone my peninsular pal Anthony Watmough for a lift, because really, he’s an old man with a fat wallet and plenty of spare time. Seriously, what else would he be doing? Another knee?
Even though he’s taken on the appearance of a bruised pear in his twilight years, Choc is looking classy as he pulls into my driveway in another brand new Rav4 from Terry Shields Toyota – his tenth new purchase in the last six months. The rego transfers and repayments must be killing him.
As I open the door, I also notice he’s wearing his club-issued suit. It’s a resplendent piece of attire, but that’s expected considering they each cost the club $25,000 a pop from the local suit shop. Considering they top-up Michael Jennings, surely they could give the club a discount?
On the way, we break the ice on Parramatta’s administrative troubles. Because we don’t read the papers, we were totally unaware of the turmoil until the topic is momentarily mentioned seven times on the radio.
We were gobsmacked to learn of the board’s troubles. Not only was I totally blindsided by allegations of systematic cap rorting, I never noticed Will Hopoate providing a service to the club that warranted payment. I guess you learn something new every day.
But despite enduring his fair share of controversy at the club, Choc claims their current humiliating predicament doesn’t concern him. But I’m not totally convinced.
Even though he reckons he has no regrets about signing with the Eels, every time we car-pool he insists on taking his favourite route to Parramatta Stadium via a short-cut through Narrabeen.
Every trip without fail, he slows to a near halt as we approach Manly’s training base. There’s not a car in sight, but he always blames the “horrendous traffic” for holding us up. Then we usually become “gridlocked” inside the parking lot.
I never argue with him; not only can he bench-press a submarine, he’s usually in some odd trance anyway as he stares longingly inside the building, quietly humming ‘Eagle Rock’ as his bottom lip shakes.
Choc eventually snaps out of it once Bob Fulton starts waving a shotgun around, and even though he tries valiantly to get lost on the way, we finally make it to Parramatta.
Despite its humidity and escalating crime, I have a soft spot for the Golden West.
While the area doesn’t pack the picturesque punch of the Northern Beaches, it does have a familiar sea breeze like the one at Dee Why beach, except this one blows off the Eastern Creek Tip.
Heck, the place even has it’s own version of The Corso! Just replace the pumping bars of glamorous trendoids with a Peter Wynn’s Score and a heap of job seekers, and you can’t tell the difference.
When we walk through the gate, the first bloke to greet us is coach Brad Arthur. He’s a great bloke and a close friend whom I will forever hold responsible for introducing me to Parramatta life.
I have immense respect for what he’s doing at the club; it can’t be easy melding together a team with a curious abundance of talent, especially when it’s been compiled using laundered funds and blackmail by corporate box finger food.
We get down to a serious ballwork session. My chalk-like hamstrings feel fantastic, but that’s because the doc pumped them with painkillers like he was filling a petrol tank at the bowser.
After a willing hit-out, I run into the club CEO. I can’t remember his name, and frankly I don’t want to. There’s no use getting too attached to these blokes.
He tells me about an upcoming reunion he’d like me to attend that celebrates the season of 2010 – the last time the club was under the cap. While it sounds like a special evening full of mind-numbing conversation, I decide to refuse the offer.
I’m not sure why, there’s just something about functions at this club that make me uncomfortable. The last one I attended was the work Christmas party. I drew one of the board members in Secret Santa and he tried to give me a hedge fund.
Before I head home, I touch base with the CEO regarding some of the finer details of my contract. I’m supposed to receive a car allowance, but they are denying it exists despite documenting that they would deny it exists even though it doesn’t. He also denies the documented denial exists.
When I point out the small error, I’m offered a briefcase of 50s or legal action.
Sensing I’d draw more sense out of discussing matters with a car tyre, I decide to let the issue rest. I’ll just follow it up with the next ticket that takes control of the club.
After this, I head home with Choc – through Narrabeen again – and settle in at home for a relaxing evening.
Being at home is the best part of my day. I love nothing more than spending time with my young family and neurotically reviewing my contract to ensure it still holds a get-out clause.
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