Michael Maguire is slowly killing Greg Inglis

Environmental footy news: the rare species known as the Greg Inglis (aka Goanna Electricus), that southern-born, southern-raised, southern-dwelling but somehow northern-originated rugby league genius, is sadly dying from exploitation.

Okay, so that might be a touch off the mark. Inglis is more god-like than genius, and thankfully, he’s definitely not dying.

However, there’s no doubt the bloke is in need of a tremendous dose of sleep-related recreation, and I’m not talking about a night on the tiles with the Warriors.

We mere mortals have come to know the land-faring creature of Inglis as almost a celestial being, one who possesses immense speed and power and even the ability to take flight, provided weather is not inclement.

When discussing the Rabbitohs captain, we do not speak of “career-best form”, mainly because he’s been in career-best form for his entire career.

To put it in basic terms, he has dominated across a spectrum of positions, throughout all levels of the game, in the process collecting piles of individual and team accolades while remaining sumptuously entertaining from the day he hit the scene. He’s fairly bloody handy.

However, this season has shown an Inglis in imperilment. The once immortal superhuman is but a shadow of his former self, his rampages dissipating and his prone spells on the turf growing more and more like a man who’s woken up on the footpath after his buck’s party.

I tuned in to the Rabbitohs versus Tigers match in the hope of catching a glimpse of the champion specimen last Thursday night, but again what I saw was something that looked like Inglis, but far from the original.

Sure, the bloke in the No.1 jersey for Souths did run for a lot of metres, but it was all toil and little silk. The poor thing was proppy and wrapped up in so much tape he could’ve been used for a game of pass the parcel.

This was no future immortal footballer. This was not the Inglis I’ve grown to love. This was a man who would happily give a limb for a blissful smoko break in a Radox bath on a Sealy.

Deciding I’d had enough of this ongoing saga, I frantically searched for answers by delving deep into Inglis’s recent numbers. What I found wasn’t complimentary.

Stats show the Kempsey Queenslander down 66 per cent on freakish human acts and up 35 per cent on light training sessions. There have been no reported sightings of him in a gap for some time. His only meaningful carry is a gangster limp.

It’s a horrendously callous thing to say, but I’m starting to feel he can’t even be relied upon to produce some Harlem shit on cue for us anymore. Is this the same guy who made Steve Turner talk to the hand and Dean Young to the fairies? Who is this guy?

The hard question must be asked. Is this the beginning of the extinction of Inglis? Playing out so graphically, right in front of our innocent eyes?

Whatever is happening to the champion fullback, I’m not here to make wild accusations. But I am going to point the finger of blame for his demise squarely at Michael Maguire.

Surely the Rabbitohs coach can see the obvious – that Inglis is not carrying injury, he’s carrying multiple injuries.

Whether it’s his concentration camp-like task-mastering, or Inglis’ insistence on helping the club in their hour of pitiful funk, the coach must have the autonomy to order the fullback into the nearest day spa until further notice, lest he turn gangrenous.

Mal Meninga and the Australian selectors have hardly been Care Bears themselves.

You could make a strong case for Inglis’s exclusion from the upcoming Test based on welfare and manifest lethargy. Sure, he has enough credits in the bank to guarantee posthumous selection, but if they are fair dinkum about considering form, he shouldn’t even be running the water.

However, barring a miracle remediation or the return of Ice Chips, there is a good chance of this torturous treatment of Inglis continuing indefinitely. Souths need him in whatever capacity he’s available, because right now they have more issues than New Idea.

Their one-time insurmountable defence looks like a toll-free toll-gate and their power game has dulled into listlessness. Even the Burgii battery pack – the Baldwins of rugby league – have slowly declined to become much like the Hollywood brothers. As in, one is good and the rest are ordinary.

In footballing parlance, it’s all gone to crap at Souths. Unfortunately, it’s what tends to happen after you win a competition. Achieving one is so detrimental, they’re nearly worth giving a miss.

Nevertheless, let us hope that Inglis has a second wind, at least for the good of us, the paying judgemental spectator. But I won’t be holding my breath, because I doubt he’ll find one running up the guts to support his tiring forward pack.

I’m praying we can remember Inglis as the one with the magic ability to wrong-foot defenders, just like the time he walked on Jamie Soward’s face. Because at the moment, he appears like someone who eats dinner at 4:30pm in front of game shows.

My reliable medical expertise – sourced from study at a dental college in my wonderful home state of New South Wales – recommends that he be spelled immediately, with no return permitted any time before the end of the Origin series.