Valium for the Soul

Filed in Other by on December 6, 2010

“The king-times are fast finishing,
There will be blood shed like water, and tears like mist”
– Lord Byron

Oh the king-times, Lord Byron, aren’t finishing. They are finished. As dead as the soul of a forty year old stripper. At least in terms of rugby in this country and its acceptance as a major sport by the general populace. The utter ineptitude of the Wallabies saw to that. And now the blood will flow like Evian and the tears will rise like a July morning in Melbourne. It was the Massacre of Marseilles and it will long be remembered by The Old Boy Network and those born to privilege and no sense. It will cause nightmares at the darkest hour and uprisings at the yacht club luncheon. The death blow has been landed and the champions of tweed and leather are suffering through the realization that money, social status and private schooling won’t be enough to save their sport now. Not that they care about the sport as a sport. It is more the thought of defeat and the loss of a society tribute that upsets them.

The Wallabies, most certainly, provided the good news I needed. October is never easy for a rugby league tragic with a penchant for high anxiety and vicious mood swings. Wallaby defeat was thirty milligrams of valium for the soul. Like an excuse on Valentine’s Day, it hit the spot to perfection. Hell, it hit the spot a lot more than the Kentucky Colonel, which was consumed at too great a rate on Sunday afternoon as myself and a strange array of lost gamblers with not much to do, sat, perplexed and slightly disinterested, watching the Bathurst 1000.

Smart punters would also have felt a rush of excitement when the fulltime siren blew loud and hard across not only Marseilles but the rugby world. All the clever bettors were on England and the points and we were all given a tension free ride to success and collect.  

As regular readers of this column would no doubt be aware, your steadfast author is not particularly fond of rugby. As a sport and as an institution. It would be fair to say that I am no rugby aficionado. Not this century anyway. Back in the day I was a tragically slow winger cum wily yet somewhat sluggish-footed fly half for the Orange City Lions. These were David Knox days and I took far greater pride in my flick pass than my defence. I was young and naïve, the bitter cynicism of life still a few years off but I knew a bit about the union code. These days I couldn’t give a damn. It is dull and confusing and full of prissiness and stupidity. It is a game for fools and Nancy Boys.

Nevertheless, I will be offering comment. Full and unrestrained comment uncompromised by social grace or personal inhibitions. Somebody needs to tell these jokers to call the funeral parlour and organise the burial. It is only fair and fairness is, of course, a trait held dear by most involved in rugby league.

But fairness does not mean we won’t lay the slipper in. We will. Hard and often.

It was certainly a catatonic moment for all those hovering in the plentitude of “Wallaby warrens” was that final whistle on Saturday evening. Blinded by their dreams dissipating before their eyes, the Wallabies panicked like pigeons in a whirlwind and those donning gold sat dumbfounded and full of something. Angst, maybe. Slight discomfort perhaps. I’m not really sure to be honest as I’ve never seen anyone get too emotional about the sport. Tears are not shed, blood pressure does not rise, frustration does not bend the mind into a cacophony of piercing sounds and fearful numbness. There are no noses split over rugby and no cowbells rung. It is all “go you good thing” and “up you Wallabies” and various mild-mannered, emotionless cheers. Rugby is not a game to be seen for so-called followers. It is a game to be seen at. That is the standard behaviour on the bandwagon, where there is no genuineness in the fan base, only the love of the status and fad. But one has to figure there was at least some nauseating moments for Wallaby fans on Saturday night. Some feeling that led to something in the field of anger and hate and disaffection. The same feeling they feel in their jawbone and finger tips when Desperate Housewives fails to begin at the designated hour.

As the lead-up played out in the newspapers with petulant private school boy taunts back-and-forth, Australia had seemingly decided to take the low road. They were talking an arrogant game, jacking out screeds of revenge and pride and strength. They threw mud but they didn’t want to get dirty. They talked up trench warfare and then showed up looking like they had prepared for some frolicking along the French countryside. They taunted the English because they thought they could not lose and what they got was utter humiliation. They underestimated their conqueror of only four years ago and they lost in exactly the same manner. No lessons learnt and no progress made. Four years burned in futility.

Like all big games in all sports, it is usually the will to win that will triumph. Not always but more often than not it narrows the talent gap and thus the playing advantage. The English took their motif from The Tortoise and played it slow and steady. Showy wasn’t what was needed. Dennis Franz gritty was the order of the day. England knew this. They had learned it four years ago. The English were as steeled as St. George. Australia were as meek as Mr. Mole, he of Ratty and Toad and Mr. Badger fame.

England played to plan. Australia attempted to. England played rugby the way it was intended…boring, grinding, inch-by-inch, kick first rugby. They played rugby the horrifyingly painful way the completely fucked rules of the game meant the game to be played. Australia tried something and failed miserably at whatever they were attempting to do. They played dumb and they paid the ultimate price. They are not only out of the most prestigious rugby tournament in the world, a tournament that is seemingly so important that others such as the Tri Nations and Super 14 are undermined to the extent of rendering each almost worthless, they have laid the fatal blow on Australian rugby.

Not even the farewell of two apparent heroes of the game could inspire the Wallabies into anything above the level of mediocrity. In real sports, retirements and farewells lift teammates to their best and crowds to their limits. Not in rugby. The retirement of George Gregan and Stephen Larkham seemingly meant nothing. Not that this worries me all that much. There was an incident on a plane between Mrs. Gregan and a certain hungover author a number of years back and the general consensus seems to be that Nick Tedeschi is not her favourite author and thus, George Gregan holds no place in my heart. Awake for approximately sixty-six hours, drunk and delirious, having traveled on delayed and full flights from the fine city of Tokyo, Mrs. Gregan and her wildly loud traveling companions, most likely her children, were seated in adjacent rows to your frazzled and weary author on the last leg of the tour. The noise of howling combined with the insanity of the previous three days led to some unpleasantness and high tension. So a fond farewell to George Gregan was not at the top of my Christmas wish-list or any other list for that matter. I am not one to forget easily, particularly terrifying moments like mid-air confrontations with the wife of the Australian rugby captain after some wild Tokyo nights and crazed travel.  

The blood is sure to flow now and panic will ensue. It is the safest bet you will ever find. The coach will be strung up, swinging like the brainless fool he is. Scape goats will be named and chased from the game by the same administrators who only days ago held them up as saviours and sporting idols. John O’Neill, the man who okayed everything and is as culpable as anybody, will wave his sword wildly in an attempt to cut the hands of the lepers from his freshly pressed gold-buttoned coat. There will be talk of restructure and review and clean-outs and change. Limbs will be chopped off and only the strong and the rich and the politically savvy will survive. That is how rugby works in these parts. And nobody will care. Nobody will care because nobody cares about rugby. There is no genuine attachment. The sport, declining rapidly in popularity since the so-called halcyon days of Rod Macqueen, will not fade from the sporting horizon but abruptly crash from the cliff.

And we will all sleep well. Rugby is dead and will be forgotten by the time this article is finished printing. Count on it.

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