What's your favourite version of the 'Random Souths Guy'?

A fraction over a decade ago – just outside number 9 Getreidegasse in the city of Salzburg, Austria – I saw a man who changed how I looked at other rugby league buffs.

Strolling towards me, hand-in-hand with his partner, was a rotund gentleman of around 50 years, wearing the unmistakable jersey of the Central Queensland Comets.

This was only months after the Comets (an intermediary rebranding of the Central Queensland Capras) had finished dead-last in the state league.

Even a change of name had not provided a change in fortune for the competition’s most unsuccessful outfit, a club which to this day has zero premierships and a record for wooden spoons in the league.

The significance of the Alpine setting was that we were both visiting a museum dedicated to one Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.

That’s right, the same prodigious and prolific Mozart who remains revered worldwide after composing more than 600 musical works, despite dying younger than Paul Gallen’s current age.

Anyhow, there we were, two league diehards who had sensed the presence of the other without saying a word, much like the immortal protagonists in Highlander.

I knew that he knew that I knew the significance of the livery he had elected to wear.

Both of us were at this location for a supposed pursuit of something classical and refined, but were now telepathically communicating about the same club strip that Pete Penaia had once worn when he chose to belt his own teammate across the bonce on the sideline.

This was in the years before Dave Taylor, Ben Hunt, PJ Marsh and Corey Oates wore the Comets badge.

Old Mate was flying a flag for some of the state league’s more obscure cult figures – the likes of Wayne Barnett, Nat Bowman, an entire forward pack that lived in the judiciary waiting room, and Odell Manuel, now Australia’s strongest man.

The reason this encounter was so memorable was partly due to its unexpected occurrence, partly because I was amazed his partner acquiesced to his fashion choice, and partly because it made me reflect on my own judgmental mindset.

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Back then, I definitely had cultural cringe when it came to the type of people who would wear football gear to things that weren’t in any way football related.

They were uncultured, unimaginative and one-dimensional. They were – dare I say it – bogans.

Even though I was a massive fan, wearing a guernsey to anything non-sporting was a massive black mark in my books.

But seeing this guy in a Central Comets uniform on the other side of the world made me admire his commitment and bravery.

Not many people like to admit they come from the vicinity of Rockhampton, let alone publicly signal that they wholeheartedly supported the region’s hapless league side at its nadir.

Maybe I would have felt differently about him had he been wearing the jersey of the NRL or Super League premiers. But this fella was no glory hunter. He was clearly his own man.

Conversely, I was wearing a designer orange-and-white long-sleeve – purchased weeks earlier in Sweden – had broken my own unwritten rule about men wearing scarves, was sporting a black spacer earring, and might have, perhaps, possibly used a hair straightener that morning.

I walked into Mozart’s birthplace feeling like a trend-setter from the future, and walked out realising I was a tool; a poor man’s Eurotrash.

The man in the Central Comets jersey had been unafraid to bare his soul (and perhaps a few centimetres of his paunch) by declaring his very personal league affiliation at one of Europe’s snootiest attractions.

There must have been something about the camaraderie he felt at their games, the sacrifices he respected from those involved in the club, nestled alongside a commitment to supporting them through thick and thin.

He had none of the ambivalence that has seeped through society from top to bottom; where it’s cooler to not overtly care about things, stand for little, remain quiet, look good and retain centre ground.

When you travel, it’s commonly a time for introspection and consideration of your place in the grander scheme of things.

But here was a guy that knew exactly who his tribe was, where he belonged, what he valued, and was unabashed to state his connection and devotion.

It was admirable.

A reminder of this chance encounter occurred last week, not solely because rugby league websites were highlighting the Cronulla fan in a Sharks jersey at a WWE Raw event, or the continued regular sightings of ‘Random Souths Guy’.

Climbing Mount Coolum on Queensland’s Sunshine Coast, I passed a few folks heading back the other way after they’d already scaled the summit.

Among the eager beavers were a few Brisbane Broncos jerseys and caps, a guy in a Sunshine Coast Falcons singlet, and another bloke a little far from his nest in Wynnum Manly Seagulls merchandise.

None were a huge surprise, and we exchanged subtle nods the way you do when you recognise another fella with a melon that looks like it may have packed into a few scrums, or who simply appreciates the great game.

From a supporter’s view, it was encouraging to see that much rugby league paraphernalia dotted among the seizure-inducing fluorescent activewear that proliferates these haunts.

But the greatest sense of being amidst the presence of a kindred spirit came when I crossed paths with a tall, wiry bloke with a sunbleached hat and skin like leather.

He was wearing an Aberdeen Tigers singlet.

The bronzed stork was well outside his natural habitat, but in his eyes you could see countless weekends of running the water, years of midweek meat raffles, giving young blokes lifts to training, probably filling in when the team was short well past his playing days.

His pupils told the story of Saturday and Sunday afternoons stood side-by-side with his closest mates in can bars, sharing 1000 tall tales, then helping to pack up when the show was done.

No doubt he whooped it up when Aberdeen won last year’s Group 21 premiership, scraping into the finals by a fingernail and then winning three sudden-death games in succession.

There was no cringing this time. There was nothing about him to look down upon. Instead, I felt like the guy deserved a fist bump.

All around us, wannabe Instagram models were trying to perfect their landscape selfies, taking in the sprawling coastline and the Pacific Ocean. But this guy wasn’t stopping for anybody, and striding on down the side of the mountain with a smile, he didn’t seem the kind of guy who would be too bothered by likes and followers.

All the fulfillment he needed was in the badge on his chest and the memories of loving and contributing to his community.

I wish more people, not fewer, were willing to fly their colours proudly.

Anyway I’ll throw it open to the floor. Name the most obscure place, craziest predicament or fondest story of bumping into an ‘out and proud’ rugby league fan.

(For the record, I’ve also seen a Pattaya (Thailand) rugby league jersey in southern Chile, but as a mate brought it with him, and it wasn’t a random encounter, I won’t count that one.)