- Video
-
Club Roar
Captured a great grassroots sporting moment? We want to see it!Content Collections
The Roar Community
- Join
- Login
With recent media reports detailing allegations of match fixing, rugby league has been quick to point the finger of blame at the usual suspects. But perhaps the real culprit is a little closer to home.
Could the NRL’s role in the rise and rapid spread of online betting be the underlying issue?
Match fixing. It’s such an ugly term. It conjures up images of a shifty looking character from the sub-continent offering Mark Waugh a sack full of rupees to influence the outcome of a match.
Such unscrupulous behaviour would seem tailor-made for rugby league, but despite a few brushes with this issue in the past, it’s one of the few black eyes the game has successfully dodged. But all that could be about to change.
In June of this year, it was reported that the NSW Crime Squad was investigating two suspicious games from the 2015 season, both involving the Manly Sea Eagles. The first was a Round 16 clash against South Sydney which the Sea Eagles lost 20-8, and the second was a Round 24 defeat at the hands of the Parramatta Eels (20-16).
And just the other day, Channel Seven reported that a further game was under scrutiny, again involving Manly and Parramatta.
These reports were deeply troubling and moving. In fact, I heard the stories moved Channel Seven reporter Josh Massoud into a bigger house. The idea that matching fixing had infiltrated rugby league throws the very integrity of the game into question. And a sport without integrity is, well, cycling.
The rugby league community reacted to these vicious allegations with the usual degree of mock shock and well-staged outrage. High horses were mounted at such an alarming rate that you could have been forgiven for thinking the NRL were leading a division of cavalry into battle.
Todd Greenberg spoke out to defend the integrity of the game, and vowed to punish the offenders to the full extent of the law. But really, what did we expect?
Gambling is everywhere in the modern game. From television commercials, to signage at the ground, discussion of odds by those in commentary, advertisements on social media and live crosses to affiliated betting agencies during the broadcast. It’s practically inescapable.
Players can pretend that they take no notice, but in reality, it’s near on impossible to be exposed to any form of rugby league media without encountering a reference to gambling.
Picture yourself as a modern day footballer, sitting down at home to watch NRL 360. Paul Kent is prattling on about some minor issue that no one cares about, when suddenly Jamie Rogers appears on the screen.
Almost as though she is speaking directly to you, she gives you the odds of your team losing their upcoming match, an event within your control. While it’s not quite Biff Tannen walking in the front door and handing you a Grays Sports Almanac, it’s not that far off.
Most would quickly eradicate any such thoughts from their minds, if they even had them in the first place.
However, I’d be shocked if there weren’t at least a few players who might give the concept of match fixing more than a passing fancy. These guys are human beings after all. But how did we get here? How did betting and rugby league become as inseparable as Danny Weidler and Sonny Bill Williams’ agent?
Growing up as a rugby league fan in the 90s, betting on football simply wasn’t all that common. Discussion of odds was isolated to the stuttering syllables of Ken Callander, and the only exposure I had to exotic markets was through my Nana’s holiday snaps of the Grand Bazaar. While I’m sure it still took place, those looking to have a punt were forced to brave the unwashed and unemployed at the local TAB, which more closely resembled an abandoned ice den than a licensed gambling agency.
But it wasn’t just the TAB’s peculiar stench of stale nicotine and back sweat which deterred punters. It was just too much bloody effort. If the urge to have a flutter suddenly struck, you needed to come up with an excuse to placate the wife, get in the car, drive to the TAB, find a park and then subject yourself to the horrors within.
The advent of the smartphone changed this forever. With constant access to the internet and apps tailored to make the betting process as simple as possible, it has never been easier and faster to lose your money. The release and refinement of this mobile technology served as chum in the water for betting agencies, and a feeding frenzy soon developed.
It started with a couple of commercials on Channel Nine for the TAB. Annoying, but harmless. Then the commentators started discussing the odds, which was a bit strange, but we let it slide.
All of a sudden, Ray Warren and Sterlo were reading out a poorly written segue for Glenn Munsie to provide a live update of the betting markets. At this point, alarm bells are ringing. Kids are watching. It just doesn’t feel right.
And then Tom Waterhouse happened. The young colt with impeccable pedigree hit rugby league viewers like a slap in the face with an Italian leather driving glove. His smarmy appearance and shiraz-drinking persona were completely incongruous with rugby league, and fans objected to his involvement in the Channel Nine commentary panel.
Such was the public’s distaste that Waterhouse received a reprimand from the Gillard government and eventually issued a public apology, before sidling out of the live broadcast.
This experience served as a line in the sand. Betting agencies knew how far they could push before facing a public backlash, and they’ve been camped on this line ever since.
So here we are in 2016. There are a generation of young players coming through the ranks who have grown up thinking gambling is just part of the furniture when it comes to rugby league.
The NRL educates them about the perils gambling and informs them that as professional rugby league players, they are no longer permitted to place bets on the game. The players get it.
But at the same time, they are still just 18-year-old kids. Many have come from low-income households and have limited secondary education. They are living out of home for the first time in their lives, often away from their existing support structures and any form of supervision.
To top things off, they suddenly have more money than they know what to do with, and their six-figure salaries attract more clingons than the Starship Enterprise.
Are we expecting these kids to be making sound, reasoned choices when questionable situations arise? Of course not. The current environment is more conducive than ever for footballers to make poor choices. It happened in 2010 with Ryan Tandy, and again in 2014 when five players were caught placing bets on NRL games involving the club they played for. We created this problem, and now it’s time to do something about it.
So what’s the solution? Unfortunately, there will be no quick fix. Rooting out the slimy characters that coordinate this illegal activity is harder than deciphering the legitimacy of a Thai massage parlour.
Police investigations move at glacial pace, so findings and subsequent sanctions are not expected anytime soon.
One thing the NRL can do right now is to officially divorce itself from betting agencies. Remove all gambling advertising and sponsorship from the television broadcast. Those wanting to have a bet can still easily access the unlimited betting options via their phones, but the content is not forced down the throats of an impressionable generation.
We know that the NRL has a lucrative partnership with betting agencies, as reports suggest the league pockets around $30 million a year from such agreements. But with a billion dollars in the bank, surely the integrity of the game which Todd Greenberg cares so much about is worth the price.