Barring being caught in another immorally dry training camp that forces him to flee to the safe refuge of a nightclub at midnight, there is nothing that will stop Anthony Milford from being crowned MVP of rugby league in 2016.
If you’ve seen anything from his bulging file of treats this year, I know you won’t need convincing. It’s a batch of orgasmic visuals so titillating it should only be seen on deep German cable, and frankly, I need a gherkin just thinking about it.
When Ricky Stuart first described Milford in his days at Canberra as a ‘backyard’ talent, I just assumed he was running a meth lab. But now I totally get what the supercoach is on about.
The slippery Bronco is offence distilled, tapped straight from the artesian basin of playmaking, with no artificial colours or flavours, bar a few small traces of Alf.
To borrow a flogged cliche, it’s as if the Steeden is a graceful extension of his body, like a really, really nice prosthetic or an artistic goiter.
From when he hit the scene, we all knew Milford had it in him to demolish us all. But after experimenting in a myriad of positions over the years, it appears he has finally found his happy place: being away from Canberra.
Moving to Brisbane to work with a licence to YOLO behind a laborious pack, he’s become the posterboy for a new wave of freedom football that’s de-cluttering the defensive pap plaguing recent years.
Better still, you can tell that Milford simply enjoys his ball.
One look at his face and you’ll see the sheer enjoyment he gains from making a tired forward look silly, or simply just kicking a critical field goal to provide his side a safe 53-point buffer.
Frankly, this attitude is a breath of fresh air.
In this era where the modern player can be weighed down by the 25 hour weeks of professional sport, it is endearing to see the pure love he has for playing the game in exchange for $20,000 per fortnight.
So like I’ve so confidently stated, unless Johnathan Thurston wants to get greedy, Milford will pocket the Dally M this year in a canter, and will rival some of his more electric predecessors in the process.
With no disrespect to traumatically boring, pre-programmed winners like Matt Orford, I prefer when my MVPs have left a trail of hot mess like Jarryd Hayne’s 2009, Ben Barba’s 2012 and Preston Campbell’s 2001.
These blokes were some of my favourite winners, mainly because they were covered in so many spiders that even the tarantulas were registering line breaks.
Do you remember the times?
Campbell was written off as an afterthought in the pre-season of 2001, but he smoked all dem fools with a season of utter cheek at halfback for Cronulla.
Man, he was so much fun that in the end, he was too much fun for some.
Unfortunately, he was eventually shuffled out the following year under orders from Sergeant Chris Anderson and Lieutenant Brett Kimmorley of the Fun Police, because that’s how the Sharks have won all of their premierships.
Then there was the wonderment from Hayne that overhauled Parramatta’s chinless offence in 2009, single-handedly carrying them to glorious silver.
I never thought I would see the day a newspaper repeatedly wet itself with over-arousal, but the Slippery Eel had The Telegraph in rapturous papier mache during those ten-odd rounds of fury.
And finally, there was the creamy feet of Barba’s 2012, a year of box-office plays that put his career on the map before he took up a loan deal with the EBC.
Where will Milford’s highlight reel rank among these greats? And will he kick on, or follow their pathways into a temporary lull to become unwanted, porky and/or a punt returner?
Whatever your opinion, you must agree: all four have approached the game the way it should always be by ballplayers – instinctively, reactively and hidden away in defence, all while the forwards squirrel away thanklessly on a quarter of the wage.
And why wouldn’t you? It wins the prestigious awards.
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