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When the Melbourne Storm hung on in their own grinding, methodical boring way to edge past the Canberra Raiders last Saturday night, my worst fears were realised.
A Sharks-Storm grand final, to take place next Sunday. It’s like our own version of the U.S. Presidential race – the unpalatable versus the unthinkable.
While residents of the Sutherland Shire will be rightly working themselves into a pre-final lather of anticipation, and Storm fans will be rightly smug at another Storm appearance in the finale, the rest of us don’t know what to do.
A quick potted history doesn’t help. First, the Sharks entered the competition in 1967, made their first grand final in 1973. It is known as the most violent grand final of all time. Lost.
Made it again in 1978. Drew, and then lost. Spent most of the 1980s on the brink of oblivion, got hauled out of the financial mire by the governing body at least twice. Bit the hand that fed it (or, as Sharks, mauled it) by joining Super League and making the grand final no-one counts in 1997.
Lost. Became a heartbreak for their intensely loyal and long-suffering fans by becoming known as the side that “always loses their last game.” Spent more recent years once again peering down at the financial abyss.
Got tarnished with the label of systematic drug cheats in the infamous peptides scandal. Led by a threesome of pantomime villains in Paul Gallen, Mick Ennis and Andrew Fifita.
And then to the Storm. Entered the competition in 1998 as the compromise team after the Super League war tore the game apart. Won the premiership the following year with a last-minute penalty try.
Glen Lazarus did a cartwheel to celebrate. Became a competition heavyweight with the backing of owners News Limited, making four successive grand finals from 2006-2009. Lost two on the day, including being beaten by the biggest margin in GF history in 2008.
Lost the other two in 2010 when they were caught out massively rorting the salary cap. Still insist that they should be recognised as winners in ’07 and ’09 which is like Ben Johnson doing a speaking tour as the 1988 Olympic 100-metre gold medallist.
Won again in 2012, their first legal triumph since ’99. Led by the hard-to-like Cameron Smith who spent part of his post-match press conference last Saturday taking potshots at his beaten opponents, he spends most of the game talking to referees about decisions that don’t go his way.
Maybe there is one shining light in this dilemma. Cooper Cronk. Apart from having the best rugby league name since Ziggy Niszczot, Cronk is a bit of an ornament. A 300-game veteran, well-spoken, thorough professional, quick to commiserate with beaten foes or congratulate triumphant ones (unlike his captain). Perhaps he is the hook in which us neutrals can hang our caps.
All right, cancel Netflix, I just might tune in this Sunday after all.
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