One man.
Peter Taylor. A remarkable man, and the person solely responsible for my discovery of rugby league, it was he who taught me the rules and educated me about the teams to watch. He let me stay up way past my bedtime to watch his beloved Easts taking on all and sundry. He pointed out the greats of the day: Andrew Ettinghausen; Allan Langer; Mal Meninga. We spent many evenings watching these legends as he taught me all I needed to know about rugby league.
In 1995, he took me to my first match. The date was March 10th, 1995, and for the previous week, I had been practicing my role in the Warriors’ opening ceremony. After the game had begun, I was rushed up to a corporate box to enjoy the spectacle. Dad was right behind me all the way.
One moment.
In the final home match of the 1999 season, the Warriors took on the Newcastle Knights. It was my first year as a season ticket holder, and I had taken my father along to the game in the hopes of convincing him to buy one for himself the following year. It was a tough ask. The opposition was class, led by the brilliant Andrew Johns. And to add to my poor chances of persuasion, it was raining heavily.
But after eighty minutes of dominant football, and with the Warriors securing an unprecedented 42-0 win, the seed had been sown and Dad bought a season ticket for every season from 2000 onwards. It was always a special time at the game. We bonded as a father and son should, discussing everything from team selections to politics, as our team either excited or embarrassed us with their performances on the field.
One heart.
We united in our support for our club. From the dizzying heights of our Grand Final appearance in 2002, to the dismaying depths of our fall from grace in 2004, we were at the ground every week, cheering from the sidelines. We were there when the club farewelled Ivan Cleary and Kevin Campion after their final home game in 2002, and we were there in the final round of the 2004 season when we waited with hesitation to find out if it was us who had won the wooden spoon, or if it belonged to the Rabbitohs.
And then, all of a sudden, that bond was shattered.
On the evening of Friday, March 23rd, 2007, just two days before the Warriors hosted the Brisbane Broncos, my father passed away after suffering a fatal heart attack. It was a sudden and unexpected death, but the slight smile that rested on his face assured us that there had been no suffering.
One empty seat.
I still attended the Warriors match that Sunday, and sat next to where Dad would have watched the game from. Prior to kickoff, the ground announcer spoke of his passing and of his support of the club. I proudly watched as 16,738 fans listened in silence, soaking it all in.
While it felt somewhat awkward to watch the match in my father’s absence, the 24-14 result was a fitting tribute to a league man who had seen his fair share of highs and lows, both on and off the field. I took pride in cheering and booing on his behalf, and called Warriors captain Steve Price to thank the team for earning what was for me a very sentimental victory.
One less voice to boo the ref; one less voice to cheer on the team.
Peter Taylor wasn’t a former international league player, nor was he a foundation club member. He didn’t coach a first grade side or train youngsters about proper tackling techniques. But he did raise a son and teach him to love the greatest game in the world.
Perhaps the legendary Liverpool manager Bill Shankly wasn’t so far from the truth when he spoke about life and death as they pertain to sport. Sometimes they can mean the one and the same.
One man, one moment, one heart. One empty seat. One less voice to boo the ref; one less voice to cheer on the team.
Peter Taylor
1946~2007
Father; fan; warrior; friend.
Until we meet again.
***Published in Issue Two of Super League Magazine, 2007***
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