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He’d long forsworn all weighting of consequence and allowing as he did that men’s destinies are given yet he usurped to contain within him all that he would ever be in the world and all that the world would be to him and be his charter written in the urstone itself he claimed agency and said so and he’d drive the remorseless sun on to its final endarkenment as if he’d ordered it all ages since, before there were paths anywhere, before there were men or suns to go upon them.
-Narrator on John Joel Glanton (Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian)
The North Queensland Cowboys’ emphatic charge through the 2017 Premiership Finals Series has broken both record and narrative as they prepare for a final daring assault on destiny.
The story begins when Paul Green and his men were first brought to the finals series by circumstances most fortuitous; the Canterbury Bankstown Bulldogs and Michael Lichaa having put in a timeless performance to deny the Saint George Illawarra Dragons a tilt at the crown.
Providence was ignored for the first time and the combat weary Cowboys would battle on. Foremost came the mighty premiers Cronulla, who welcomed back both Bird and Graham. They would annihilate the men from the North who rode down meet them.
After 90 minutes of dogged engagements the trophy holders were slain. The Cronulla-Sutherland Sharks had surrendered their own shot at destiny as their hopes of a second trophy sunk like a shark full of bullet holes, the murder weapon being the big iron on Paul Green’s hip. Fate had been warded off for the second time.
The next in line to send the Cowboys packing were the Parramatta Eels, the legendary blue and golds being left as Sydney’s heir apparent after Cronulla abdicated the throne. They won nine of their previous ten encounters leading into the finals, including a 52-34 humiliation of Wayne Bennett’s Brisbane Broncos and a humbling of that most meticulous and calculated of teams, the Melbourne Storm at AAMI Park no less.
The Eels would win and they would win well. Once again the men from the North rode down to do battle. The Cowboys played with the calmness and composure that saw them inch past the Sharks, but they also tackled with venom and ran with impetuous.
The Eels were hung drawn and quartered by Paul Green’s posse that night. Of the three tries Parramatta scored, one came in the form of a freak effort from Radradra off a Cowboy kick and proceeded to run one hundred metres to score. The second was a fortuitous kick deflection which Will Smith picked up and ran eighty metres to score.
The final try was a consolation effort by Jennings from a rare Cowboy error where winger Kyle Feldt failed to clean up the ball in the backfield. In sum, two were against the run of play and the third flattered the Eels.
Parramatta were not in the game that night, but something beyond the realm of mortal men took favour on them that evening, gifting them sixteen points from nowhere. Fate was once again evaded, Paul Green spat in its eye and tweaked its nose, the Cowboys would live on another week.
In the third week of the Finals it came to the Sydney Roosters and Trent Robinson to give those overachieving, fate evading, Sydney scalping S.O.B’s a good thumping and send them on their merry way.
There was good reason to believe they would. The Roosters laid claim to a mammoth forward pack, each man of which was as mean as he was ugly. As it turns, the Northern posse was also in the presence of rugby league royalty, for at the helm of the mountainous pack stood Mitchell Pearce, the King of New South Wales rugby league.
(Photo by Matt King/Getty Images)
Pearce had had a busy week fronting the media: “No chance”, “We’ll avenge our Sydney brethren”, “I’ll personally put the Cowboys title aspirations to the rope and watch it go purple”, all quotes from Mitchell Pearce leading up to the encounter.
It was as if Robinson and his Roosters were chosen as the divine vessel of the rugby league Gods to take the celestial warrant for arrest to Paul Green and his men. The charge? Publicly assaulting fate a week earlier.
The teams arrived at Allianz, the red carpet rolled out for Mitchell Pearce and his holy warriors. The Cowboys, on the other hand had to enter through the back of the stadium, an indignity not many teams are subjected to.
From out of the change rooms in the bowels of the Stadium and through the tunnel appeared the King, Mitchell Pearce himself complete with a regal cape and sceptre, he led his troops out to a rapturous applause from the sold out venue, the masses baying for Northern blood.
After a quick candid in his attire with the Provan-Summons trophy, flown in by Todd Greenberg himself at the behest of the King, he shed his regal attire which was carefully carried off by his assistants and took to the field.
The Northerners then ran on, spat on and belittled all the way, a rouge can of VB even thumping Ethan Lowe above the right cheek producing a black eye. The game was then on. Despite a solid if unspectacular performance from Pearce, the Roosters found themselves on the wrong side of the scoreboard after eighty minutes.
By rights they shouldn’t have even been close, Latrell Mitchell sneaking over for a most improbable try and a Justin O’Neil calamity gift wrapping a try for Blake Ferguson. The entire Rooster’s vaunted front row rotation had been outrun by one individual, Jason Taumalolo. The chooks had run foul of frau fate. Paul Green visited destiny later that night and broke both of it’s kneecaps.
(AAP Image/Michael Chambers)
At the end of the night the Cowboys rode back north with another Sydney scalp. They were welcomed as heroes, the physical representation of the true grit and determination that spiritually encapsulates every North Queenslander.
They had openly defied chance and returned to share their exploits with their countrymen, the southern savages had been crushed without mercy.
As if Paul Green himself had deftly re-woven the delicate omniscient tapestry of time, he and he alone had given his posse the chance to settle it in the big dance.
“All that matters is what we believe.”, Paul Green has stated as much in several public appearances since his latest stunning victory.
The Northerners will then meet their Southern most counterparts on the first of October. What lies ahead is a true David and Goliath scenario. First versus eight. This is however not an entirely accurate indication of what lays ahead, as team ‘David’ will be spearheaded by the twenty stone behemoth in Jason Taumalolo, who has conquered all before him this finals series.
There have also been rumours, sightings of a gigantic fit prop forward looming out of the gloom and shade at 1300 Smiles. The Cowboys have taken all comers and simply refused to lose, each and every member of the team has an unshakable belief in their coach and their ability to win even if history says they shouldn’t.
“All that matters is what we believe”
“…”
“Any questions?”
“…”
“Good”
Paul Green headed towards his car, he got in and he drove. He stopped only once to buy a bouquet of flowers. He was on his way again. He drove until he arrived at Townsville General Hospital, he strode through the halls and reached a reception desk, he inquired as to the presence of a friend.
He found the room that he was looking for, there he found fate whom he had crippled some nights before.
“We’re going to do this, I need you to know that.”
Paul Green put the flowers down and produced a handgun.
“If you’re not singing a different tune by Saturday I’m coming back. I’m not leaving fate to chance.”
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