If they change the name of the SCG I will hunt them for meat

Apart from the beer garden at the Darwin Ski Club, the Members Enclosure at Moonee Valley on Cox Plate Day, and a pyjama party at Jessica Alba’s place, there is no better place in the world than the Sydney Cricket Ground.

Under lights or on a sunny Sunday afternoon, the Saints and Bunnies thundering about among the ghosts. Even at the inexpertly scheduled time of 6pm on a Friday, footy on the old girl … how good is that?

Answer: very good. And I would be buried there, eternally pleased with the thought that my blood-and-bone might help the Aussie quicks rout the Poms forever.

That good.

Yet you wouldn’t advocate playing more than a game or two a season there because it would dilute the wow factor of playing at the grand old dame.

Plus it’s not that great a place to watch footy anyway because it’s a big circle not a rectangle, the shape of the rugby league ground.

Now, as discussed in this space the other week, there is no better place in the whole entire world than the hill at dear little Leichhardt Oval on a sunny Sunday afternoon.

Air-conditioned canapés behind glass have their place and you won’t find me knocking back corporate invites, no sirree Bob Cooper.

But: sunny day, cold beer, few mates, fast footy on a purpose-built ground with more nostalgia than the London Museum of Natural History, that, people, is living large.

But if they try to rename it I will hunt them down and skin them and turn their hides into throw-rugs I will sell at Balmain Markets.

See if I don’t.

Anyone else tired of these grand old grounds being named after banks or bookmakers or dental franchises?

Yes. Of course. And whatever Suncorp and Allianz and AAMI sell – insurance? Short-term love? Darth Vader suits? – good luck to them.

But I will never head to Brookvale Oval or Lang Park or Shark Park and call them whatever they’re calling it this week.

Lottoland can burn in hell.

Consider Southern Cross Shark Endeavour Remondis Field Stadium Park, it’s had more names than the man once known as George Garratt of Glastonbury who changed his name to “Captain Fantastic Faster Than Superman Spiderman Batman Wolverine The Hulk And The Flash Combined”, the damned fool.

Similarly, sort of, I know a bloke changed his name to Winfield Blue. True story – changed his name. It’s on his license, credit card. Mr Winfield Blue. And he, too, is no ordinary eegit.

And they should all stop it at once.

And another thing: went off to a local Sydney rugby union game the other week, a Saturday afternoon derby, Manly versus Warringah, and it was a fine day out with mates drinking tinnies on the sideline.
For along with playing golf and gambling upon thoroughbred horse racing, watching footy with mates is what I do for man-fun.

Some people play parcheesi, others play nude parcheesi, others still dress up as Darth Vader and go to Darth Vader conventions, and go on dates with people dressed as Darth Vader, and make sweet, sweet love, dressed as Darth Vader.

They do. It’s a thing.

Asked my occasional golf mate Donny McKinnon would he care to join us on the sideline at Manly Oval and he, rusted-on old Mungo Man that he is, listed a dozen things he’d rather be doing, most involving driving nails into delicate parts of his body.

But he missed out, Big Donnie, for it was a top day of good footy and beer and banter, and all those man-fun things. And I’m here to tell a man, rugby league can learn from the rugger.

Hear me out.

For one, kids ran around on the field at half-time and full-time, and kicked footies, and tackled each other, and did whatever they wanted.

Take kids to the footy – or any game, cricket, whatever – and they want to impersonate the heroes on the field. Kids get antsy quickly.

So while bouncy castles are all good, you want to keep the kids entertained at the footy, give them somewhere to play footy.

And another thing: the game was on at 3pm, the perfect, tried-and-true time for playing footy in terms of vision, surface, handling, entertainment.

Yes, the Television God can get many more eyeballs on the box and sell advertising around it on a Friday night, and thus hurl one point blah-blah billion at rugby league.

And it’s hard to argue with one point blah-blah billion.

But the best rugby league is played in the golden hours before sunset, and that’s just stone fact.
And another other thing: there were about two (2) security guards in yellow bibs looking after the entire eastern side of Manly Oval, presumably there by law.

Yet rugby league has dozens of bibbed-up bouncers who spend the entire game looking at the crowd, looking for trouble.

Yet soon as there’s actually something to do – let’s say a 150-kilogram nudist covered in Vaseline bolting onto the field and into the middle of play during State of Origin – these crack security types are effectively useless.

A question: why don’t police provide these services? They once did. We pay taxes for police to protect and to serve. And given ticket prices are affected because stadiums out-source, it’d be cheaper – and better – to use the coppers, no?

An answer: I asked my mate Blacky who’s a copper and he said the hirers of the ground have to pay for security and if they want to use the cops they have to pay off-duty coppers an overtime rate.

And that’s why rugby league grounds are policed by yellow-bibbed bumbling boobies.

So there you go.

And here we are.