“Up, up Cronulla, the boys in the black, white and blue. Up, up Cronulla, we are still waiting for you …”
As the team anthems blared out over the stadium the capacity crowd of 412,722 joined in their respective songs; Manly fans in their corporate boxes, Cronulla fans in the caged southern stand.
The old man seated next to me croaked along with them. We looked at each other and smiled.
“This is some grand final, eh?”, he said, “a hundred years since the Sharkies joined the comp.”
“Yep”, I said. “Here’s hoping.”
“Hope’s got nothing to do with it, son”, he growled, “it’s all about faith.”
“I’ve been a Sharks supporter for all of those hundred years – started when I was 14 years old – and I’ve never stopped believing.”
“What, even when they lost to the Hobart Hobbits?” I chuckled.
The old man winced. It was true: that one really hurt. The Hobbits had only transferred to the NRL from the football league the year before.
I wondered if I should remind him about the year the Sharkies went down 11-10 in extra time to the Warriors. A foreign team, for God’s sake.
I felt so sorry for the Cronulla captain that day, Kialoa Matanui. I noticed the old bloke looked a bit gloomy so I didn’t mention it. And I certainly wasn’t game to bring up Manly’s seven-tackle try back in ‘78.
We watched the game ebb and flow, but with more ebb than flow given the introduction of the three-tackle rule in 2034, to fit more ads into the telecasts. Then Cronulla scored two converted tries and two penalty goals in quick succession, making it 16-zip at half-time.
“16-nil’s a nice number to take to the break,” I said cheerily.
The old man exploded. “You bastard! I knew you’d bring up ’78.”
Damn, I’d forgotten that was the score. He maintained a frosty silence throughout half-time.
As the Manly team ran onto the field for the second half a Cronulla player could be seen kneeling, presumably tying his bootlaces. It was Cliff Watson Jnr the Third.
As a Manly player ran past him, Watson stretched out his hand and tapped his opponent’s ankle. He crashed to the ground with a thud.
The other Manly players saw what happened and an all-in brawl ensued. When the eight referees had restored the peace, six Manly players were marched, and Watson Jnr the Third was given ten minutes in the sin-bin, time enough for a cup of tea and a sticky date bun.
Things were looking good for the Sharkies, and I was going to say as much to the old man but he looked pale and was rubbing his chest.
“Are you okay, mate?” I asked.
“Yeah, I’ll be right”, he said, his voice a strained whisper.
“It’s just the old ticker giving me bit of gyp.”
It transpired that the next eight minutes were going to give the poor old geezer even more pain, as Manly ran in three unanswered tries and converted them to leading 18-16.
All three were scored and converted by Cliffy Lyons, who had run down to the bench out of the stands to offer his services to the beleaguered Manly team.
The last try, however, had to go to the “man upstairs,” the Reverend Bill Harrigan Jnr.
There was doubt as to whether Lyons had stubbed his cigarette out over the touchline before putting the ball down. After a brief prayer, the Reverend referee awarded the try.
Then Cronulla managed to level the scores with a penalty when one of the Manly trainers, Greg Hartley Jnr the Second, ran interference. It was all tied up again: 18-all.
The clock showed 32 seconds remaining when Cronulla found themselves 24 metres out from the Manly line on the last tackle.
From a sloppy play-the-ball it went to Paul Gallen, the oldest player in the league. He’d managed to keep playing with numerous body-part replacements; in fact, the only original part left was his head.
As Gallen lined up for a drop-goal, I heard a choking sound coming from next to me. I tried to ignore it; after all, the old-timer had said he was okay.
Then Gallen dropped the ball onto his boot and it – the ball, not his boot – went sailing towards the left upright.
It hit the post, then bounced back into the arms of Cliff Watson Jnr the Third but with the line wide open all seven remaining Manly players were busy with late hits on Gallen.
Watson Jnr fumbled and the ball fell… onto his boot. Then it trickled over the line.
Gavin Miller Jnr the Second was walking off because he thought they’d lost. He saw the ball lying in the Manly in-goal and he placed his hand on it to pick it up, thinking it might be worth something on eBay.
All eight refs pointed at the spot and blew their whistles. It was a try!
The crowd in the cages went wild. So did the crowd in the corporate boxes, but only because they’d run out of chardonnay.
I grabbed the old man’s arm and began shaking him and shouting.
“We did it! We finally did it!”
When I let go he slumped into my lap.
I felt his pulse: there wasn’t one.
On his face was a slight grin.
And as I raised my head a drop of what felt like rain fell on my face. I looked up into the clear blue sky and another drop hit me, this one landing on my lip.
As I licked it away I noticed it tasted salty… like tears. The tears of a long, hard-fought victory.
“… finally we’ve seen good football.”
For the Sharks were here.
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