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Andrew Fifita should not be. He’s an anomaly; a giant, a roly-poly lump with a top half that’s tattooed, hefty and thick – a true Son of Tonga – and the skinny legs of his indigenous half.
He runs with an odd, top-heavy carriage, a curious sort of “rolling” locomotion. It doesn’t look fast but it eats up those metres.
He’s evasive, but only just enough to be different. There’s a feint, a slight of foot, a jink. It’s subtle.
And he can do it all day. Man that big can’t run all day. It shouldn’t be.
But then a lot of things shouldn’t be. President Trump shouldn’t be, for sweet baby Jesus’ sake.
And Fifita, with the soft hands of Chopin, wingspan of an eagle, a massive brute who feeds fast ones soft little pill, is an anomaly, a monster, a dangerous man. A dangerous monster – the best kind.
And we should admire and even love him, the giggling big lump. But on the whole we don’t, not really. Because as his two recent bits of dud press has detailed, again, Andrew’s got an image problem.
Andrew’s a bit of a nong.
It’s like he lives in the public eye but doesn’t care. It’s like he does stuff like no-one’s watching.
Which is in some ways admirable, except when it isn’t. Yelling at the junior ref would be one time. There’s been others.
Fifita’s been playing footy ten years and along with play that old boys have described as “Beetson-esque”, there’s been a litany of nong stuff that’s garnered dud headlines.
It’s like he doesn’t think. Or if he does then he doesn’t care.
He reminds of former Panthers firebrand and fellow Mt Druitt kid Mark Geyer. Geyer had the temper of an angry dragon. He was baited throughout his footy career as Fifita has been, and will be. Coaches murmur it to their hard heads – ‘Niggle Fifita, see if he does something stupid.’
Fifita is 29 years old and, like us all, has matured. Which is not to say he can’t grow further. His temper’s still there; his action and re-action. Might always be.
Walk in the man’s shoes. No excuses – but there are reasons. We are, all of us, part nature, part nurture.
Fifita didn’t really have a dad telling him what to do; he made it up as he went. There wasn’t a “No Dickheads policy” in Mt Druitt. There was a fight-any-bastard-was-looking-at-you-sideways policy.
It was about “loyalty” to your “brothers” against all others. Against the rest. And having a so-called “short wick” was a bonus. It got you cred. It was a defence mechanism. See, fear, act. There’s a threat – get it! Hard as you can. Stick by mates. One in all in.
When Fifita was 18 he was running about in a loose group of mates (that tabloid media would call a “gang”), on the slippery slope to Silverwater. A judge told him to get out of Sydney or he’d send him to jail.
He took off for Griffith in country NSW. He lived with some uncles. He finished his HSC. Played union and league. Drank beer, ate everything. And he busted on out. The 70-kilogram winger became a 6-foot-four, 123kg mountain gorilla.
(AAP Image/Joe Castro)
And the footy clubs of both codes looked at him, this giant fleshy pug with an engine and footwork, and thought, we’ll have a bit of that.
Brumbies wanted him. Wests Tigers signed him. Then Shane Flanagan signed him. Rest: history.
One of the man’s strengths is that he reacts so well to stimuli – confronted with a wall of defenders he’s fearless, and just plays.
But it’s also his Achilles heel. He needs to count to 10, though you wonder would ten be long enough.
Fifita tells a story of a junior game in which he was playing against his brother, David, and over-heard a team-mate say, “I’m going to get Fifita’s brother”.
Our man pretended he didn’t hear it. In to the game this fellah hit his brother with a swinging arm. Fifita tore off his shirt and rained punches upon the bloke, his team-mate. He was suspended for two weeks for the previously undocumented offence.
Years later David, some mates and a pair of policemen turned up on Andrew’s doorstep. Told him, it’s time, bro. You need help. Told him they wouldn’t be doing it if he didn’t need it. A suicide attempt was the catalyst – but things had been building. Their brother and mate had been drifting away.
And off to rehab he went.
Fifita was diagnosed with depression and “personality disorder”. He still takes meds today. He has two young kids. A good woman. Money in the bank and more to come. A future. Word is he’s at peace. Word is he’s loving it.
Can we learn to love him? Look at Johnathan Thurston 7-8 years ago. He was never disliked. But he was in the papers for the wrong reasons. He wasn’t the statesman or father figure he is today, picking up the kicking tee, patting kids on the head, giving away headgear.
Like Thurston, Fifita is a family man with young kids and a wife. He’s feared for his future, his kid’s future. He’s been at risk – probably still is – of having his contract torn up. His background you couldn’t call financially savvy. If he wasn’t a footy player he’d be battling away like everyone else, doing his best.
Men mature at different ages. Science says men’s brains don’ fully form until age 28. Fifita is now 29, a prime age for the collision sport athlete. Physically he won’t be better and mentally there’s still enough of warrior man-child to completely mute fears of concussive injury. And he knows footy. On the field he’s got game, street smarts. He says he has “no fear”. You believe him.
Is his talent not fully realised? There’s experts say with his head down he could become a 30 per cent better player.
Today the Sharks cheer squad (perhaps the best fun squadron of these people in the game) has a song that goes to the tune of “Tequila!” called “Fifita!” And they sing it loud and often, and get a wink and thumbs-up from their man.
Other footy fans would like to love the man as much. Everyone would like to see him become.