I must admit that I missed the real formative years of the Wests-Manly rivalry in the late 70s. I was only born in 1977, a year before it erupted in a flurry of face slapping, flying fists and class wars.
But as I grew up, my late father, a died in the wool Magpie, ensured that I received the black and white injection, and part of my initiation was a lesson on how to despise Manly Warringah.
As I grew up, I spent many weekends sitting on the hill at Lidcombe Oval, and a few shaking with anxiety in the grandstand of Brookvale Oval too, booing my little lungs out at anything in maroon and white, as my heroes in black and white V’s did me proud.
Sure, they lost most of the time, by the time I was old enough to realise, Manly had stolen most of our decent players, but what mattered was the Magpies showed heart, spirit, pride in their jumper, and perhaps most importantly, almost always won the fight(s).
History will show Manly go from strength to strength over the years, the Magpies went through one miserable season after another before finally succumbing to the financial pressure of a new look, post-Super League Premiership in the NRL, and subsequently merged with Balmain to become the Wests Tigers.
Manly, too, had their own merger issues, if you can call taking over and then burying alive the North Sydney Bears (that black and white injection was lethal!).
In recent times, the Tigers surprised all to take out their miracle maiden Premiership in 2005, while Manly is once again a Premiership powerhouse, running second in 2007 before breaking through for yet another title last season.
In 2009, the Tigers are once again a picture of inconsistency for the most part, although they had won three straight leading into Round 21, whilst Manly, after a turbulent start to their Premiership defence, have struck form and were looking the goods to go back to back.
Which leads us to the other night: Monday Night Football. Tigers Vs Eagles, but who were we kidding.
This was Fibros and Silvertails all over again.
The Tigers even wore their retro Western Suburbs strip for the occasion. The scene was set and I was sick (literally) with anticipation for the week leading up to the game (I wish I was exaggerating).
This was the Tigers’ season on the line, not to mention the nostalgia!
The Tigers started well.
Benji kicked a 40/20 in our first set to calm the nerves. Plenty of ball, the attack, although a little off centre, looked relatively sharp considering the quality of the opposition defence.
Once the Eagles weathered the storm early on, they seemed to be finding their groove and began to make frequent expeditions through gaping holes in the Tigers defensive line.
Only desperate Tigers scramble, and the odd misguided (actually, that should read, absolutely appalling) last pass and fifth tackle options, two of which lead directly to Tigers tries, kept the visitors scoreless.
Another Tigers try off a deflected Farah kick that fell into ‘Who Calls Their Kid Beau’ Ryan and the Fibros went to the break with a lead of 18-0 that left even its hardest core fan a little gobsmacked.
The second half was tight for 15-20 minutes before Tony ‘I wish my name was Taniela’ Williams beat every Tigers player and half the cheerleaders to score one of the strongest tries you will ever see.
A field goal from The Flying Falafel gave Wests a 19-6 lead, but that only spurred Manly up a gear, and the Anthony Watmough show reached full song.
Watmough’s performance was like nothing I have seen in a long time.
The Tigers could barely lay a hand on him, let alone tackle him, and, before I could make the plane down to Sydney with my sniper rifle, he had piled on two tries, the last five minutes from time to set up a heart stopping finish.
I am no fan of Watmough, whom I affectionately dubbed What Mouse? some time ago, but how he was not judged Man of the Match in a losing side is beyond my comprehension.
I spent the final minute of this game 20cm from my TV, head in hands, on my knees, pleading for the Tigers to hold on as the Eagles came for them.
When Orford (who else) threw the ball over the sideline to end Manly’s chances, I collapsed for a second, then raised my shaking body and gave my wife, who had come to check on my well-being moments earlier, a hug as she once again wondered why I do this to myself.
Then I took a moment to think what My Old Man, the old Magpie in the sky, would have thought of that one.
I’m pretty sure he would have loved the way that, despite playing against a superior opposition on paper, despite not putting their best attacking performance on the pitch, and despite a distinct lack of the sound of fist on jaw that was the soundtrack to those days at Lidcombe Oval, he would have been proud of the Tigers, erm, Magpies, erm, Fibros for hanging on against the odds.
Wests got one over Manly.
After all these years, it still feels good to say it!
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