Dear Gus, Rabs and Sterlo: Just show us the game

My thoughts on Origin 2? I am glad you asked. First of all, an overwhelming sense of tear-stained relief that indeed, beauty and joy are still possible in the world.

Secondly, such great admiration for the heroes of NSW. They had to overcome so many hardships, as Queensland resorted to all sorts of underhanded tactics – time-wasting, forearms to the face, kicking so-called ‘penalty goals’, etc.

And yet, even when Johnathan Thurston attempted to draw them into a good old-fashioned schoolgirl slap fight, they held their nerve.

So many heroes – from Paul Gallen, who overcame the brain injury that caused him to spend the entire second half under the impression that he was playing halfback, to Anthony Watmough, continuing an amazing career as a professional sportsman despite having been born with no limbs, to Aaron Woods, who is now an Origin winner after already becoming the first player to be picked for NSW directly from the cast of Puberty Blues.

It was a great game, in the sense of ‘a game that ended the way I wanted’, and there’s much to say about it. But I’d like to say a few words about the unsung heroes – the TV commentators. And the few words I’d like to say are: shut the hell up.

Not during the game, of course.

Well, maybe during the game. I mean, eventually you start wishing Ray Warren would spend more time learning about the game of rugby league and less time calling the players by their first names to convince us he’s a personal friend. It might be nice if the commentators would admit that State of Origin rules are actually the same as regular rugby league rules. And I did start hacking at my own ears when Phil Gould said, “They have to start playing football” for the six hundredth time.

But look, I get it. If you televise sport, you need commentators and it’s a bit unfair to expect them to stay silent while the match is on, no matter how fervently you wish they were all Terry Wogan.

But I want to make a revolutionary suggestion here. How about, when a football game is on TV, the telecast starts, say, five minutes before the game does? Enough time to say, “Welcome to State of Origin Game 2”, ask each of the assembled experts who they think will win, and cut to the freaking action.

Once, back in the 1990s, a State of Origin game was preceded by a skit where Paul Vautin pretended to read fairytales. That night has since become known worldwide as western civilisation’s lowest ebb, but every Origin since, Channel Nine has made a brave stab at exceeding it.

It took 50 minutes for Wednesday’s game to start. 50 minutes from the “welcome to Origin 2” to the point at which Origin 2 began. It gives the welcome a cruel irony. Like being welcomed to a dinner party and made to sit in the bath for an hour before being offered a drink.

Because here’s a tip, TV tastemakers – nobody wants to see your pre-match rubbish. I mean nobody. If the commentators were at home watching themselves, they’d be screaming “Start the cocking game!” with the rest of us.

Nobody, I tell you. Nobody.

Nobody wants to know what you think about how tough Origin is, and how it’s the supreme test, and how it’s all about heart and passion and pride and pineapples.

Nobody wants to hear your thoughts on who will or will not be focusing their attack on the left edge – if they focus their attack on the left edge, we’ll see it when it happens. Do these people think that if we’re not already on the lookout for footballers playing football, it’ll escape our notice during the game? Are there production meetings where producers say, “Make sure you tell people to look out for Reynolds running off Gallen’s offloads, because it’ll be pretty hard to spot otherwise”?

Nobody wants to hear Gorden Tallis trying to form sentences. Nobody wants to hear Darren Lockyer trying to dislodge the live frogcatcher from his trachea. Nobody wants to see Andrew Johns standing in front of that goddamn TV screen and talking as if he’s under the impression that being made a rugby league Immortal means he died some time ago. The man played rugby league like he was created by angels. He reads an autocue like he was made by a box factory.

And no, we don’t want to go down to the rooms. When we go down to the dressing rooms we see what happens in dressing rooms: large men in a confined space awkwardly wandering around and occasionally tossing a ball to each other. There is no insight gained by change-room access that could not be made more entertaining by playing an episode of Cheers instead.

But even if the preamble wasn’t so dire and clichéd and irritating and dull; even if Gorden was articulate; even if Darren sounded like George Clooney; even if Joey had any insight to offer; even if Phil Gould wasn’t the sort of person you’d take out an AVO to avoid having a conversation with; even if Ray Warren was younger than many palaeolithic cave paintings…

Guess what?

We turned on the television to watch a frigging game of football! Show. It. To. Us.

For the love of Artie, show us the game.