The wind blows across the snows of the Brindabellas, sending its icy currents down into the heart of Canberra. Biting into the lungs and leaving numb the extremities of hardened Raiders fans. Here they sit, the faithful, shivers running down their spines as stoically they watch the boys in Green march out onto field to do battle.
Which is why I am at a mate’s place watching the Raiders v St George games on the huge plasma screen he has sitting in his living room. I mean, I love the boys in green, but good lord sitting there at Bruce Stadium for two hours on a Monday night will leave your balls shrunken into tiny nuggets of pure crystalline ice.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m willing to make sacrifices for the Raiders – but until they make that one, important sacrifice for the fans: sacking the well-connected but lamentably bad David Furner – I’m sticking with free beers and a giant plasma screen in the civilized warmth of a north Belconnen abode.
Frost-bitten testicles are probably one of the reasons St George hates playing at Bruce and haven’t won there in 12 years. It makes you wonder how many points the horrid conditions at Bruce Stadium have gifted the Raiders over the years. Seriously, I’d love to see a stats nerd conjure an algorithm to give us that little factoid.
Anyway, here we are two-thirds of the way through another season of disappointment and underachievement for the once-mighty Raiders. I’m watching Jamie Soward getting ready to convert another try. Preparing for a conversion like a strutting bantam cock searching the ground for a piece of corn. Ready to kick the Dragons to an 18 – 16 lead late in the second half. And I’m thinking: damn you Furner; damn you for coaching this team to nail-biting mediocrity yet again.
Speaking of kicking, I must express the teeth-gnashing despair the Canberra Raiders fan feels when watching Crocker kick. He is the ugliest kicker in the game, or to be precise, kicks the ugliest looking kicks. They wobble from the foot, tumbling end-on-end and off centre. They hook to the left, yet sometimes manage a remarkable reverse-swing to the right. They jag low at the cross-bar one time, then the next soar inexplicably the next, skying off at random angles into the stands.
It reminds you of the glorious Mal Meninga toe-kicking days, when even the simplest of conversations had the Canberra fan holding their breath, waiting for Mal to choke. Big Mal was so worried about his kicking at one point even started seeing a voodoo hypnotist (or sports psychologist, take your pick) to improve his focus. I remember him lining up conversions, standing there looking up at the uprights, mouthing “black dot black dot black dot black dot” over and over. I think every Raiders supporter in those days chanted along with the skipper, willing, urging his conversions through.
Of course, horrible kicking is one of the very few comparisons the Raiders of today have with the mighty green machine of the late 80s and early to mid-90s. The Raiders were true contenders back then. Today they are a faded bottle-green to the once-pungent lime-green of yore. We had a real coach in those days as well. Not this weird situation today with Furner who has apparently signed a billion-year contract with the Canberra board. Perhaps scientologists have taken over the management (if you weren’t aware, scientologists sign a billion-year contract when they join the inner circle of the cult).
Watching Reece Robinson score a last-gasp try to give himself a hat-trick – and the Raiders the game – reminded me how much more the Green Machine can be. Even an injury-ravaged Raiders showed they have enough players with talent and heart to make the finals – like Reece Robinson (3 tries, 28 runs for 279m) or Dane Tilse, (27 tackles, 23 runs for 164m). And let’s not forget half the team was wearing bloodied face-slings after a statistically unlikely number of broken noses during the game.
So come on Raiders, reprise the (non-kicking related) glory of Mal, and you’ll bring the fans back into the cold.
First published in The NRL Almanac 2012 and at Making the Nut. The version in the NRL Almanac had been edited to remove all references to testicles. Perfect metaphor for the decisions the lead editor at the Almanac usually makes.