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With New South Wales carrying one remaining shot at relevance in 2015, I’m enamoured by those neutrals who have tried to rally this impoverished state behind the last-standing Roosters. Sadly, their attempts are as futile as they are adorable.
So please allow me to embrace the naïve souls of these wonderful dreamers and teach them the ways of the universe like I’m some kind of budget Mr Miyagi.
Before I start, let me make assurances that despite their utter failures, they have brought no shame upon themselves. This is preliminary final weekend, a time of pandemic hormonal behaviour. Code be trippin’.
This period of the season transforms the game and its people to a hot mess under a duress that demands the precision under pressure usually required on your last square of toilet paper. It’s totally natural that some will err.
We’ve seen it all before. Referees hallucinating, coaches going radioactive, The Daily Telegraph adding another 10 per cent, and pie-in-the-sky ideas seeming like good ideas at the time. It just happens.
This is where this crazy campaign has spawned. Sure, in theory, pushing to enlist temporary para-Roosters for state pride is workable. The joint is hankering for a winner and the geographical box is ticked. But there’s only one problem.
Unfortunately, the common rugby league fan will gladly dip themselves in brine and swim nude with the piranha before sparing the club one single breath of support, unless that single breath is being used to propel a loogie towards their team bus. State crisis or not.
Put simply, there’s always plenty of clubs clamouring for the title of Sydney’s most hated club, but one thing’s for sure: the Roosters can be counted upon like Russians in the gymnastics – they’re always definitely in the top three.
It could be their history laden with dollar bills. Or winning. Or perhaps it’s because the coach speaks French, the chairman sold you a lemon, or maybe because one of their front-rowers wants to be known as ‘Le Dylan’?
Whatever the reason, they will always remain perceived as the team of the people, if the people you refer to fraternise with Malcolm Turnbull.
So again, to those who gave it a shot, it was a nice try, guys, but the state will not side with the Chooks under any circumstances. Unless our government is drawn in to negotiations with a terrorist group that makes the most evil of demands.
This is not to say that New South Wales spares won’t side with someone, though.
In fact, I’ve dipped my toe into the pool of public opinion, and this is what I’ve learned; this state has adopted North Queensland. Big time.
That’s right, the provincial arse cheek has been branded as Cowboys property for now and the rest of these finals, or at least until they begin wrestling.
I can’t provide a precise psychoanalysis of NSW’s Average Joe, but the way I see it, Brisbane’s won their fair share, everyone’s got the shits with Melbourne and the Roosters are the Roosters.
In addition to these irrefutable facts, the neutral supporter wants to cheer North Queensland on to losing its virginity. Somewhat because the one-time laughing stock deserves to shake it off, and mainly because it will be funny to see them beat Cronulla to the post despite giving up a 28-year head-start.
Funnily enough, there is also a footballing dimension to this connection. Paul Green’s side is in the most kaleidoscopic form of all remaining teams, and Johnathan Thurston thoroughly deserves to win another premiership ring so he can finally stop screening calls from Steve Folkes.
And besides the team’s irresistible luminosity and the congenital hatred for the Roosters, can you blame the non-partisan sect for being invigorated and inspired by a rock-solid man like Matt Scott?
Saturday’s final is dotted with mouthwatering contests, but the Scott versus Jesse Bromwich showdown is the Big Mac Value Meal of the lot. Yeah baby, I do want fries with that. (Fries being fights.)
Scott’s ferocity last Saturday night caused infants to bawl and dogs to howl. I had to sleep with the light on afterwards. He owned the highway like a corrupt cop in the Arizona desert.
The boofy bookend charmed rugby league with a performance that was humble, no-nonsense and blue-collar – just the type of qualities that resonate with a modest city like Sydney, New South Wales.
Just ask your mate who’s picketing at the empty Tigers offices. Or ask that girl over there igniting her Knights jersey. Ask anyone without a $560 plain white v-neck and an ironic tea-cosy.
You’ll find that here in New South Wales, we’re now in Little Townsville. You can feel it in the streets and you can hear it in the saloons. The signs are there.
There’s stallions overrunning Randwick, gun-slinging in the Western Suburbs, and Oxford Street is awash with leather chaps. New South Wales’ second team is the Cowboys, legit!