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“Anybody who dares suggest that rugby league is not a culture to despise, then they are just as stupid and boorish as the offending players” – Patrick Smith, writing in The Australian newspaper.
Greg Inglis, a country boy, would have known days like these. Everyone would turn up from the town mayor to the town drunk. You see, the local footy team was in the finals.
It could have been any community, from Cairns to Cowra, from Port Stephens to Port Headland. But for the record, it was the Cooma Stallions playing a sudden death semi final against the reigning premiers, the Eden Tigers, last weekend,.
The highways to Cooma, the gateway to the mighty Snowies, wind through barren paddocks. Recent teasing rain had produced a cruel green pick that fooled none of the locals, especially the scrawny sheep.
The drought meant there wasn’t much money around.
“One’ll do ya, it’s not the bloody NRL grand final,” growled the gatekeeper at the Showground, refusing to take money for a young passenger in the car.
The ground was ringed by big-engined four wheel drives, the muddy kind, and utes. There wasn’t a Toyota Prius to be seen.
Thin lipped country blokes with ruddy cheeks and forearms like ships’ hawsers stood quietly, sipping on cans of beer despite the bitter westerly. Some of them coached the juniors earlier that day. Others helped set up the field or supported the club’s fundraisers when there wasn’t much to go around.
They looked at an announcement in the program and made a mental note to attend a benefit night for a family whose breadwinner had fallen ill.
“…a catalogue of incidents which indict rugby league as a sport infested by a culture of booze-fueled infatuation with manhood, manifest in the cowardly mistreatment of defenceless women” – Les Murray, writing on SBS World Game website
Wind-chapped women with more responsibilities than hours in the day gave up their Sunday afternoon to run the canteen. They refused to hand over a meat pie until it was warmed to perfection, and served with a smile and a “Thanks, luv.”
The Cooma fullback was a skinny blond kid who looked as if he should have been playing in the juniors. By the end of the match, he had saved two certain tries by standing his ground between rampaging Tigers’ forwards and the Stallions’ try line.
And yes, there was a bit of biff. The ref gave a penalty and quickly got the game going again, issuing stern warnings on the run. There was no wringing of hands, and the sky did not fall in.
As the day wore on, the graceful old grandstand was taken over by a riot of children chasing footballs and dreams Among them perhaps was an Aboriginal boy with a look of the happy, joyous kind.
Another Aboriginal boy had earlier that week stood outside a big city courthouse among a riot of media.
Greg Inglis had a look of the haunted, hunted kind. Commentators with thinly veiled agendas had already rendered their judgements. Guilty of all charges, your honour, especially the accusation that the dark culture of rugby league could produce no other outcome.
“There is a major cultural problem there, that can’t be disputed now” – The Roar forums.
Of course, someone could have asked the good folk on the wild Monaro about the culture of rugby league. But you see, they haven’t given it much thought.
They’re too busy living it.
POSTSCRIPT: The Cooma Stallions overcame a twelve point deficit to defeat the Eden Tigers and live to fight another day.
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