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This flawed and broken tournament has begun, again.
An arc of brutal beauty sweeping from the southern
Rugby Raw
Ring of fire, up to the volcanic rocks adorned by ferns,
And on to golden coastlines, jutting opera houses,
Empty western stadia, and rebel heartlands in mists,
Up, up to hot wet eastern rugby frontiers, embraced
Cautiously by two of the world’s densest great cities,
And down again, through the wildest continent, into
The big smoke on the high veld, up on the escarpment,
A subtropical beach town, a mother city, grim redoubts,
And then one long voyage, to the pampas grasses,
And the very edge of the code we call our own.
Ripping, snorting, blood-specked southern marauders,
With whirling dervish surfer coach exhorting mayhem,
Cavalry charges into malleable hordes in opposition,
The red and black, watched by hard men in the dark,
As if light were a heathen idea, and comfort, a foe.
Do the Brothers Franks ever utter modern verbs?
Or is it merely monosyllabic Otagoan grunts about
Pushing and growling and frying a rare steak?
Across a few peaks, lie the quicksilver highlanders
Interjecting rapier thrust parries and incisive salients
In a cauldronlike arena, full of mead-sodden youth.
The songs they sing, the kicks they make, the flat
Spiraled wide and exact spin of the nuggety ball;
Who visits this place and expects an easy ride?
Jump over the choppy strait, and past pleasant bays
Where the wind whips and a blend of brothers bend
Balls where they will, imbued with some sort of footy
Faustian bargain; when will this pact end, and how?
When will it stop, this unending procession of speed
And uncanny sixth sense for how the ball will bounce?
In the sodden green interior, while cattle low and moan,
A hard pack of menace drills win gravel pits, the only fun
In town, a meat pie, a cave to explore, and a haircut.
Every man a chieftain; every warrior has a full rip and a go.
At the tip, at the top, in the cool city, where ten thousand
Play as boys, but only a few take to the park of Eden,
Yesteryear’s glory shines dimly, as line breaks and tries
Rain easily; just as easily they are conceded, and lost.
Queensland is not just a place; it’s a mood, a resolve, a cry.
A lament, a heat, an anti-everything except sun and sex and surf.
Fast-breaking, good-vibrating, sleek-sliding rugby is the ticket
On Brisbane’s smooth pitch; rugby union posing as a triathlon.
( AAP Image/Dave Hunt)
Up in that struggling little city with a diabolical web of roundabouts,
Underground video, and extreme politicians with extreme net worth,
We find a little rugby team in the midst of sprawl, with mauled malls, but no bars,
And the best bogan radio station in the boganosphere.
Nothing comes easy in Canberra except goonsacks and paid copulation;
The rugby is mulish and successful, and bears a resemblance to both.
Down where the light blue champions play, near the only bridge in the world,
In what is thought of as the only city in the country; populated by people of taste,
Or as locals think: not vulgar Queenslanders,
Fans come from vast suburbs full of houses so large they have their own currency,
And mix seamlessly with melanomic hipsters in Mardi Gras regalia.
Once, and not so far in the past, a mythical creature named jay-pot,
Strode insentiently like a colossus of retroactivity, and won a trophy.
Those days seem long ago, now, with the winning strategy now being:
Play against teams who cannot complete a lineout throw or tackle.
Just over the polluted river in a concrete land known as Victoria,
Is the sports capital of Melbourne; no other city can claim that.
It has never snowed in Melbourne, but in post-match conferences,
Coaches do try to snow local dental journalists and top authors.
Greyhound races draw more spectators than union, for now,
But after the Herald Sun discovers rugby, that might change.
(AAP Image/Julian Smith)
Sail across the green-hued Indian Ocean from robbed Perth
And you will bump into Brisbane West; if the sharks don’t get you.
One more outpost of this superb competition: known as Durbs.
Surrounded by GTIs with sick rims, the smell of bunny chow,
A city of killers with the occasional surfer, and the only city
In South Africa founded by Englishmen, rather than Dutch,
This African Miami plays a brand of football that is heavy on the foot,
And disregards the ball, but you will be led in cheers by femme fatales.
Float down like flotsam to the bum of Africa, to the Cape of Good Dope,
And there on the backside of a very flat mountain, near the hospital
Where a doctor first took a heart from one person and put it into another,
Is an ancient leaning tower of Newlands, slowly collapsing into a dry river.
Nobody has learned to transplant brains yet; if they did, this hooped team
Might win a playoff match, but also they would if the new new rules
Rewarded mugging skills, carjacking, and meth lab design.
Super Rugby left the middle of the country, where all players originate,
And has found a home in the largest city in Africa,
Where Eighties Hair Metal band chic is still the ethos,
And everyone has a few flecks of gold in their backyard.
Nobody can breathe at this altitude except Mayans and criminals,
But the police have joined forces with the criminals,
And built wall to keep the crime in, not out.
So, it’s safer than the one trillion volt electrical fences would suggest.
There’s another town in Africa that is part of this tournament.
It’s a short drive in your Range Rover up the highway,
And you can run into a lot of life as you drive.
But if you take a taxi, your driver can sell you weaponry.
So it’s a one-stop shop on wheels; they’ll throw in some lamb samosas.
The team is legendary; but the results lately are not.
Empty seats, players gone even more north, and everyone looking for an offer
From Wasps or Bath or La Rochelle, except Lood and his pals.
[latest_videos_strip category=“rugby” name=“Rugby”]
From one anarchy to another, we jet to Argentina.
Half of Argentina lives in the real Miami,
And half of Argentina drives on the wrong side of the road.
South African fullback Zane Kirchner is the love child
Of the former president.
The jungle is far from the capital, but panthers, jaguars and pumas
Are in every bar on the River Plate, so this is how rugby is played.
The team speak Argentine, not Spanish, and the fans are a hundred
Million times more civilised than their futbol fan compatriots.
Super Rugby is all about long haul flights between continents.
The flight from Buenos Aires to Tokyo takes between one and three days.
It’s best if you land in Tokyo, instead of its sister city, Kyoto.
Taxi drivers insist on being paid, and are the fastest, strongest people in Japan.
Half of the Sunwolves team are cabbies.
(Photo by Matt Roberts/Getty Images for Sunwolves)
Never has a contest
Been this incoherently beautiful.
No real rivalries outside borders,
Television schedules befitting night watchmen
And deep sea fishermen.
Zombie flights, and no-go zones,
Cards given for tackles that would be considered a tender embrace in Canberra
And a season longer than human gestation.
All hail Super Rugby.
Join The Roar rugby editor Christy Doran, former Wallaby Matt Toomua and a cast of regular and special guests as they look at the biggest issues in the game on The Roar Rugby Podcast. If you’re looking for great odds on the next game check out Aussie bookmaker PlayUp. Chances are you’re about to lose. Set a deposit limit.