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“Mystery is a resource, like coal or gold, and its preservation is a fine thing.”
The NRL would be well-advised to latch onto that truism from author Tim Cahill (no, not that Tim Cahill).
In particular when it comes to halftime interviews.
It might seem like heresy for a journalist to advocate on behalf of press restrictions – but do we really get any value out of these short-breathed bore-fests?
Like a teenager on Instagram, the NRL and its broadcasters have taken the approach that the more you show, the more popular you’ll become.
There’s a chat with the coach before the game. Footage of players warming up in the shed. A chat with whomever they can lasso at halftime. Footage of the sheds. A chat with a player at fulltime. Footage of the sheds.
Surely I’m not the only one who thinks a little modesty, a little mystery, could go a long way?
When I support a sports team, the most important thing to me is that they are focused exclusively on the game.
They can win or they can lose. Both are acceptable. But if they play like their minds are elsewhere, then I wonder why I bother when they clearly do not.
Remember as a youngster being taught that once you step into the dressing sheds, the only voices that mattered for the next few hours were that of your coach and teammates?
You didn’t chat to friends on the sideline; didn’t get disparaged by boos or carried away by applause; possibly had time for a brief wave to Mum, but certainly not sustained eye contact.
Giving an interview to a journalist at halftime? What sort of lair would do that?
I‘ve always considered there to be a certain amount of prestige inherent in being a professional sportsperson that goes beyond a pay packet.
You’re admitted to a special group, privy to an inner sanctum, part of a brotherhood or sisterhood where the bonds are thicker than blood.
Even as a fan, on the other side of that divide, there’s a dignity, sanctity and value that can be attached to keeping a lid on what happens within a team between kick-off and fulltime.
Allow us plebs to gawk from the outside at this alternate universe of superhuman feats for 80 minutes without disrupting the characters or giving them the qualities of mere mortals.
Please don’t have Locky ask whether they “need to complete more sets” as they struggle to walk to the sideline without tripping over broadcast cables.
Let the players get hyped to their eyeballs and ascend to a level of physicality neither we nor they felt was previously possible.
Don’t have Freddy ask them whether they’re “blowing hard” as they swallow the sweat that’s dripped for 40 minutes from their brows.
If I wanted someone to ask the bleeding obvious and get bleeding obvious answers in return, I’d watch more Richard Wilkins.
If I wanted a TV experience where absolutely nothing was sacred, I’d watch Dating Naked or Married at First Sight or any one of those putridly soulless shows.
Way back in the early 1700s a French fella called Denis Diderot came up with the concept of ‘The Fourth Wall’, an invisible veneer separating performers from their audience.
It allowed the artist to be totally absorbed in their creative pursuit, while elevating the protagonists and their storyline to a mythical, reverential level.
The more I see of halftime interviews at the footy, I tend to think old Frenchy was on to something.
There’s something to be said for keeping your mystery.
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