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Is there anything sexier in rugby league than a fat bloke putting it up the jumper and skittling the world on his way to a bellicose four-pointer?
No doubt about it, the rush generated when witnessing an overfed giant make a beeline for the try-line is unrivalled for thrills.
That’s right, nothing beats it. And that’s saying something, as the game has been party to a good number of Andrew Ettingshausen calendars over the years.
Seeing such carnage is why I put my life on hold for eight games a week – for tryscorers that rissole all-comers at 34/1 and anytime for $6, hopefully with a hint of muffin-top showing. It is why I haven’t learned to love another human, unless they exist in the middle third and work in 20-minute stints.
Unfortunately, the modern wank of footwork at the line has put paid to regular sightings of belligerent touchdowns powered by the Maori sidestep, and I for one decry this gradual disintegration of the scintillating manifestation of a prop’s anger issues.
Going through and not around is base-level rugby league. It’s the way the game should be played – without much thinking.
Seeing an opposition’s defensive prowess candidly examined not with detailed passing plays and wingers, but by using a dump truck with its brakes cut, brings a tear to the eye of traditionalists and monster truck enthusiasts alike.
This is why we all lost it on Saturday night when Jared Waerea-Hargreaves produced some x-rated prop erotica that had the masses reaching for a post-tingles cigarette.
With his side trailing, the debut dad sent a serious message to all future potential suitors of his newborn daughter with a frightening display of crude horsepower, barging over a number of Parramatta defenders for arguably the try of the century.
It was Beast Mode of the highest order, and unlike a front-rower, it got me thinking.
What have been some of league’s most memorable barnstorming meat pies of recent memory?
Those up-front may not split the atom anytime soon, but that doesn’t mean they don’t possess a great sense of occasion. This is why many of these mad memories have occurred on the biggest stage, just like Steve Jackson’s effort from the 1989 grand final.
Who could forget this oft-replayed beauty? If you have, just ask the Tigers fan in the straight jacket.
In the tension of extra time, it was classic forwards logic that won the day. After finding himself lost inside the Tigers’ 20 metre zone, Jackson suddenly remembered his role in the second half; run south until something stops you.
And what about Carl Webb’s try for Queensland on debut?
Pre-hair, post-boxing and relatively unknown at the time, the Mt Isa product ran wide towards the delicacies of the outside backs and treated them like possums on the motorway. From here, a mythical pugilistic ball-carrying creature was born, and a fist was never to be cocked in his direction on a footy field until the end of time.
Then there was George Burgess in the 2014 grand final.
Fed up with living in the shadow of his brother and his own anatomy, Bro Burge decided to don a pair of pants, aim up at a tiring Bulldogs defence and proceed to bulldoze.
And it wouldn’t be a piece about pilons playing direct if it didn’t include some Fui Fui Moi Moi.
In the 2009 grand final, he fanned the flames of an ultimately unfulfilled Eels comeback with a belligerent carry that came to a stop in the unfamiliar surrounds of the in-goal area on the wing, a trail of twice-paid defenders left in his wake.
What do you think Roarers?
Quite frankly, this distinct lack of lateral side-stepping and dummies is getting me a little steamy, so I’m going to douse myself with an ice bucket via an instructional video on how to play on the wing.