The Great Kidney Punch: The Death of Rugby in Australia

Ring the church bells. Put the horn rimmed glasses down. Bow your head. Howl to the wind. Drink yourself stupid and then do it all again. Write the obit and move on. Rugby is dead. At least in these parts.

There will be some who will sip their cognac, dust of their leather patches and deny their game is fatally diseased. They will drive off in their Beamer and visit the Old Boys and talk of The Joy of the Ruck. Mired in upper class snobbery, they will talk disparagingly of all things not noble or classy. Refusing to accept reality, snubbing the changing times. The Blue Bloods will still believe. But it doesn’t matter. Rugby is dead.

For the better part of a century, rugby held its upper class niche with the pretense of amateurism. The game attracted the well-to-do and those who played the game did it for the right reasons. You were bred into rugby or you bought your way in. The game was owned by power freaks from the upper classes and enjoyed by those who prefer a chardonnay. The game held no appeal to anybody else. League heads were treated like lepers and Old Boys who joined the dark side were ostracized for life. It was uncouth to play league. But rugby had a niche fanbase, some true believers.

Then they went professional. As a matter of necessity, it must be noted, because all real codes of football were stomping it to death. Rugby was bleeding like a knife victim and professionalism was the only bandage. Of course, the old guard were appalled. But a new sport appealed to a new audience. Rugby was open to the masses and they lapped it up. A diet of novelty and success. When Super League rolled around, rugby saw its chance. They opened up the game and the game opened up. The Bledisloe Cup was the most important event on the calendar, for many, and names like Eales, Burke and Gregan ruled the roost. It was David Knox and Manny Edmonds for me, but that is by the by. Rugby was big. It filled stadiums and backpages and thoughts.

Then the novelty wore off. And the punters realised what a dour, unimaginative, unexciting, unathletic game rugby is. It has reached the point where the game appears to be a poor parody of itself. Graham Lowe put it best in a recent article, describing rugby as a game “designed for mostly mediocre athletes and which is always played at about that skill level”. The game is about pettiness and officialdom. Not the contest.

The last few years, the game has stayed in the papers and the stands have been half filled only because of the league stars that defected. People tuned in to see how they would fair. More novelty.

But now that is over. And rugby is dead. Mat Rogers rejoining the sport he betrayed was the kidney punch. And he is doing it for half the money he was earning playing rah-rah. Tuiquri wants back in. So does Sailor. I won’t comment now on what league should be doing with these stars but suffice to say, it wouldn’t involve them earning much money or playing rugby league. But that is petty arrogance on my behalf. What Rogers’ return signals is that league is a better game, a clearly superior sport than rugby union.
Over the last year, there has been a grand total of zero publicity for rugby union. No attention was paid to the Bleidsloe Cup or the Tri-Nations or the Super 14. Very few could name the Wallabies squad or who they will be playing next. Frankly, nobody is interested. It has been finished by the fine game of rugby league, a victory for athleticism and the working class.

Compare that with rugby league, which is firmly entrenched in another halcyon period. We can all look back on those rebels who filtered into the George Hotel, in the heart of 1895 Huddersfield, and gave birth to the sport.

The fat is in the fire. And it is sizzling like a tasty sausage.

But in the end, none of this is important. As I write the final words to this now seemingly meaningless, heartless piece that will be forgotten as quickly as it is read, word has come down the wire that The Legend, Tony Grimaldi, has been forced out of rugby league for good. A neck injury has stopped him. The Great Bear has been taken down. He has washed out the mouth guard, shimmied up the boots and taped up the forehead for the last time. Goodbyes are never easy. They are harder when they are unexpected. I still find it hard to believe that I have seen Big T’s last tackle. And, in the throes of these sad moments, I’m not really sure where the good in goodbye comes from.

It is time to go. In the words of Shakespeare: “Adieu! I have too grieved a heart to take a tedious leave”.