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“Born down in a dead man’s town/The first kick I took was when I hit the ground/End up like a dog that’s been beat too much/Till you spend half your life just coverin’ up”
So sang Bruce Springsteen in his memorable ode to geo-natal accuracy, “Born in the USA”. Was he singing about the New South Wales rugby league team? On balance, it seems unlikely. And yet it is eerily accurate when read that way, for we who have devoted our pathetic lives to supporting the unmighty Blues are just like that dog that’s been beat too much, and as another beating looms, we are indeed coverin’ up.
I’m coverin’ up because I know what’s coming. I’m coverin’ up because as I survey the team sheets for Game One, I see a NSW team with strength, speed, skill and a certain measure of youthful exuberance, and I see a Queensland side full of ageing, slowing champions surely grinding towards the end of magnificent careers. I’m coverin’ up because I see Blues primed for triumph, and Maroons ripe for the picking, and I know exactly what that means.
I’m coverin’ up because apart from one brief, Jarryd Hayne-inspired respite in 2014, the last decade has been a litany of pain and despair for me as a native New South Welshman, and I know from bitter and repetitive experience that the greatest pain comes just as hope reaches its zenith, and the deepest despair strikes just when a sunlit upland drifts into the line of sight.
This dog has been beat too much, and if State of Origin expects me to believe that this is the year when it scratches me behind the ear and gives me a Schmacko, it’ll need to be a lot more convincing.
And O! How I want to be wrong. But as they say, the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result: in this case “the same thing” is playing rugby league against Queensland, and if we expect a different result – without Hayne abruptly becoming disillusioned with the over-commercialisation of the modern Olympics and coming home in the next few days – we are every bit as mad as a man who keeps watching The Footy Show thinking it’ll become entertaining.
Because we know how this song goes. We know every line, every chord, every key change, every slinky strike of the hi-hat.
First, the Blue hype. A new side is announced by the Blues coach – the doomed quarry of Fate in this case being Laurie Daley – and said to be specially designed to take NSW rugby league into a new era. The injection of fresh blood is noted, the size and mobility of the forward pack is lauded, the new halves combination is assessed as both crafty and tough as nails, and everyone declares the utmost pride in the jumper and and irresistible urge to turn the tide of history. Many words are written about heroic Blues skipper Paul Gallen, most of them untrue.
Then, the downplaying of the northern marauders’ chances. It is observed that Cameron Smith is slowing down, that Greg Inglis is out of sorts, that the absence of Billy Slater will bite deep, and that once-imposing juggernauts like Sam Thaiday, Matt Scott and Nate Myles are old and sore and drained of impact.
Now comes the moment when Phil Gould stands on the field and talks some rubbish, preparatory to going upstairs to talk some rubbish. Gus will run through the list of qualities that win Origin matches, none of which will include “skill”, and assure us that New South Wales can definitely win as long as they trust each other implicitly and leave it all out on the field and are prepared to bleed or whatever. Once the game starts, Gould will alternate evenly between blatantly cheerleading for NSW and experiencing painful and loud orgasms over how great Queensland is.
The game will start. Whoever receives the kick-off will be buried in an avalanche of either blue or maroon. We will all assume this is an omen of something.
The series will proceed with dizzying speed. The first half of the first game will be over in the blink of an eye. The second half even quicker. The frenetic pace of Origin and the ineptitude of the commentators will create the impression that in each match the halftime break is twice as long as the game itself.
But at some point in the series, there will come a glorious, glittering moment of pure hope. Perhaps it will be in Game One, when the irrepressible enthusiasm of the fresh-legged southerners will wash over the Maroons in a joyous tide. Aaron Woods will crash through lines with Lynyrd Skynyrd hairdo flying in the breeze, Michael Jennings will most likely jink his way through for a try or two, and Matthew Moylan, Adam Reynolds or both will be lauded as the future of Blue football. Game One will see Queensland exposed for pace and power and a new dawn will be welcomed: surely, we will all say, coming back from this will be near-impossible.
Or perhaps it will be in Game Two, when the Blues, powered by Daley’s fiery preaching, will shrug off the disappointment of having busted a gut for no reward in Game One, and catch the cocky Queenslanders off guard. The northern champs having relaxed on the back of yet another victory will be ambushed, and with grit and indefatigable determination from tough unsung heroes like James Maloney or possibly Boyd Cordner, an unexpected victory will be won, and surely, we will all say, now that the momentum is with the men of the premier state, they cannot be stopped.
But whenever the moment comes, it will be as false as a shiny diamond found in the dirt that turns out to be the protruding tooth of a hidden crocodile. Because whether our hopes are dashed by a proud Queensland side lashing viciously back in Game Two against those who called it over the hill, or by a desperate Queensland hurling themselves into the fray like suicidal demons, dashed they will be, and the agony will be all the keener for the hope having seemed so plausible.
One way or another, the script will play out: Smith will rocket out of dummy half on those ageless legs, Cronk will start landing pinpoint kicks in corners and in-goals, Corey Parker, aged 57, will begin offloading from five-man tackles, that unfit has-been Sam Thaiday will once more rampage like the Hulk through feeble, clutching arms, and Thurston will throw a long bullet pass to an unmarked winger, and then dummy and fly through a gap, and then turn it inside for Matt Gillett to score untouched, and again and again the same old faces will do the same old tricks until the Blues are sitting blank-faced on the grass watching Greg Inglis do the goanna.
It’s going to happen. You know it, and I know it. Let’s not indulge once again in this annual festival of masochism. People of New South Wales, give up now, and free yourself from the pain of expectation.
And remember, there is always a silver lining: for when NSW loses, so does Paul Gallen.