NRL Almanac: Death to the Bunnies

On any given day, I quite like the Rabbitohs. Indeed, they are my second favourite team. I like that they are one of only two remaining ‘foundation clubs’ in the game.  I like that they have a working class history, and they are the perennial underdogs. The Rabbitohs have – for want of a better word – tradition behind them. Here is the weight of history that says, every time they play: this is a game for the ages.

But this isn’t any given day. This is the finals and I’m watching South Sydney play my beloved Raiders. It’s been a long time between Grand Final drinks for the men in Green, and I am filled with venomous fury against any team that would stand in their way. Oh – and the whole ‘South Sydney hasn’t won a finals game in 25 years’ thing? Don’t give a shit. Happy to see it become 26, you bastards. Haven’t won a premiership since 1971? Hmm, that’s a long time to suck at footy. The last time you won the minor premiership was 1989? Yeah, I recall that was the year you were smashed by the rampaging Raiders on the way to their first premiership.  

So the finals matchup between the Raiders and South Sydney unfolds and it isn’t an inspiring one. There were too many handling errors, especially early on. Souths do play some good passages of footy, I guess. Some say that the Bunnies have flashes of brilliance and moments of horrible play but the same could be said of the Raiders. And it was the Raiders who were furthest from their best in the final.

I think if we want to be objective here we can say this about the game: the Raiders were robbed. I was furious watching the match. The Rabbitohs were lying all over the Raiders in tackles and getting away with it; whereas the Raiders were penalised for the most minor infraction. Half the tries from the Bunnies came from shepherds, forward passes or blatantly offside players. And the penalty try to that lumbering mendicant Inglis was awarded was an outrage: nothing less than a diabolical smashing of both the scales of justice and the bell of liberty.

I hasten to add that Inglis – that hammock-warming ingrate – barely took a passing interest in the game until Souths were winning.  He is a prima donna of the sort only the deep pockets of Russell Crowe could fund.

In the last ten minutes when it became clear that the Raiders could not win the match, I switched to wishing for what I always wish for when the Raiders are getting beaten badly: for the other team to suffer serious injuries. I wanted to see Sam Burgess’ nose smashed to the other side of his face. I wanted Shillington to pile drive Ingles into the turf, and then hammer throw him into the stands (but who doesn’t?). I wanted carnage: the only red and green I wanted to see was blood on the grass. I wanted Ray Warren yelling, “good lord cut the broadcast; I believe that’s David Taylor’s head rolling over the sideline. Oh the humanity.”

But that didn’t happen. Souths, injury free, walk into the finals and while I weep the bitter tears of defeat all too well known to a Raiders supporter.

The remainder of the finals look bleak. Three teams I loathe remain. Those being Melbourne (the cheating cheaters who cheat); Canterbury (who protected the vile Willie Mason for too long) and Manly (a team historically about as popular as syphilis with the average league supporter).

So as Ray Warren gave his eulogy for the Canberra season (“came well at the end of the season,” and “have a lot of good young players from country NSW” and so on and so forth) I come to the only conclusion I may at this time: I want the Bunnies to take down the premiership. I want that great club of battlers, steeped in league tradition, to rise to grand final glory. Up with the Bunnies!

But I won’t complain if Dave Taylor’s head falls off.