Indispensable?

The things, you say,

Your purple prose just gives you away,

The things, you say,

You're unbelievable!

One hit wonder EMF's 1991 song Unbelievable reverberates through my mind as I sit down to contemplate an aspect of rugby league and professional sport in general that, for my mind at least, requires serious consideration. It is an issue that is always prevalent, but seems to rear its head more powerfully at this time of the year than at any other. And with the June 30th anti-tampering deadline having only recently passed us by, this seems as opportune a moment as any to address the question of nothing other than player dispensability.

The things, you say,

Your purple prose just gives you away,

The things, you say,

You're unbelievable!

The lyrics of the background music blur, morphing into my own thoughts surrounding the issue, as I contemplate the so-called "must have" players. These are the individuals who coaches select before anyone else, with reputation taking a higher precedence than form on some occasions. After all, with long term one club performers such as Andrew Johns of the Newcastle Knights and Darren Lockyer of the Brisbane Broncos, does the old adage "no player is bigger than the team" still hold true?

The way, you play,

It really takes my breath away,

The way, you play,

You're incomparable!

As a Warriors fan, I have followed with a keen interest the situation regarding fullback Brent Webb, whose contract expires at the end of the 2006 season. His situation is anything but a simple one: most recently contracted at the height of the previous management's overpriced wage upgrades, in which money was not an issue and the limits Webb has become one of the most consistent performers for both his club and his adopted country. He was heavily involved in the Kiwis' Tri-Nations campaign last year, and is currently the team's top try scorer for his club with nine touchdowns in seventeen matches, including a brace against the South Sydney Rabbitohs on the weekend. His attacking play has also been impressive, ranking second in the NRL for line breaks with nineteen, and sixth for try assists with eleven. He has been one of the essential links in the chain of many of the Warriors' offensive raids, as well as impressively strong on defense. His ability and dependability are both a far cry from when he was first signed by the club as an unknown five-eighth playing in the Queensland Cup - the very same player who was famously told by Brisbane Broncos coach Wayne Bennett that he was "not good enough to play first grade".

The way, you play,

It makes me wish that you could stay,

The way, you play,

You're just incredible!

While that has made him a joy to behold for fans of the Warriors and Kiwis alike, it has also meant that his market value has dramatically increased - an unfortunate twist of fate for a club that has already been penalised for breaching the salary cap. I shift uncomfortably in my seat as I ponder the end result: a player whose inspirational form has made him unaffordable to the very club he plays for. Ironically, Brent Webb is, in this regard, effectively an unfortunate victim of his own success.

The club, they say,

They can't afford to pay your way,

The club, they say,

You're not affordable!

But at the end of the day, business is business. The salary cap was designed to level the playing field for each NRL club, and the salaries of all players must fit within that limit, or the team roster needs to be shuffled in order to accommodate the financial restraints that are enforced by the league’s governing body. No club can afford to keep hold of their most expensive players forever. And that can’t be too much to complain about, because this newly created level playing field has resulted in a different Grand Final winner in each of the last six seasons.

With a quietly resigned sigh, I get up from my seat and turn off the radio, the familiar tune echoing inside my head as I leave the room.

You're on, your way,

In the ESL you'll play,

You're on, your way,

You were dispensable!

Transparency At The Top

"They called me Mister Glass."

So says American actor Samuel L Jackson in the movie Unbreakable, a suspense thriller in which he stars as comic book style villain Elijah Price opposite unlikely superhero Bruce Willis. But Price's nickname isn't confined to fiction alone. The National Rugby League has its very own Mister Glass, and this is an evaluation of what happened when I was fortunate enough to meet him.

It is 5:30pm on Saturday the 20th of May, 2006. I'm sitting in a boardroom along with four likeminded Warriors fans, a complimentary bottle of Coke Zero in front of each of us. A whiteboard sits at one end of the room, and a large picture of Steve Price holding up the NRL Premiership trophy - a part of the National Rugby League's "That's My Dream" advertising campaign - hangs on one of the otherwise plain white walls.

The door opens and two clean cut men dressed in suit pants and buttoned shirts enter the room. They make their way around the table, offering handshakes and introducing themselves as they do so. The first is Wayne Scurrah, Chief Executive Officer of the New Zealand Warriors. The other is Richard Howarth, their Sales and Marketing Manager. Each man carries a pen and some paper. That alone makes it clear that they have come, not only to talk, but to listen. And who have they come to listen to?

Us. The fans. They want to know what our views are about the club, and how the general game day experience can be improved. They take notes, not afraid to float their own ideas to find out our take on them.

Time flies by, and before long the somewhat impromptu meeting, which was supposed to take only half an hour but has lasted twice as long as that in a very relaxed manner, is at an end. We thank both men for their time, shake their hands again, and make our way out of the building, safe in the knowledge that we had been heard – a direct product of us being considered valuable.

Or, rather, invaluable.

Wayne Scurrah leaves a lasting impression on anyone and everyone who meets him. And in the modern era of management addressing the media with well rehearsed clichéd sound bites, as well as the ever-present reality of privatisation, the Warriors’ CEO is a breath of desperately needed fresh air amidst a background of asphyxiation. There is no ‘management speak’ with him; no smoke and mirrors - just the plain and honest truth. He’s never too busy to hear a fan’s views or concerns or take on board a suggestion from one of the punters. In short, he is the quintessential gentleman of rugby league management.

For most Warriors fans, this is nothing short of a revelation – or, perhaps, a revolution – and is a far cry from what the club’s management has been in the past. The standoffish approach to both the media and the fans that was the order of the day for a number of years has finally gone. In its place is approachability, something not seen to this degree for quite some time. Cryptic and downright misleading comments have been replaced by honesty and openness. Questions by the common fan are no longer ignored, but answered with frankness and sincerity.

If our short meeting with Wayne Scurrah is anything to go by, the New Zealand Warriors are in very safe and capable hands, and the club is heading in a direction that promises greater inclusion and consultation of the fan base, as well as the mending of relationships with lower grade league clubs and the rebuilding of some of the long burnt bridges of the club’s past.

So what does this mean for the Warriors as a whole? If nothing else, it means the club is well on its way to working like a well oiled machine. The three main factions – the players, staff, and fans - are talking, and those with the most important ears are listening, and operating as a tight, cohesive unit. And that has to be a good thing for the club on the whole, as it means the likelihood of off field dramas, such as the salary cap breach that occurred under the previous management, prior to the arrival of people like Scurrah and Howarth, is greatly reduced.

Mister Glass is in town, and at least one Warriors fan is hoping he stays for a long, long time.

***Published in Issue Four of Super League Magazine, 2006***

The Veteran Debutant

For the last six months, and despite the recent Anzac test loss, New Zealand rugby league fans have been buoyed by the achievements of the Kiwis in the 2005 Tri-Nations series. But amidst the euphoria and amazement of the 24-0 score line in the final, a number of seemingly less important individual achievements appear to have gone unnoticed, such as the number of players who had the honour of making their international debut.

For the Kiwis alone, half a dozen players represented the Land of the Long White Cloud for the first time at some point throughout the series: David Faiumu, the promising young hooker for the North Queensland Cowboys who showed his craftiness on more than one occasion, such as when he scored a clever dummy half try against the Kangaroos in Auckland during the second test; Jake Webster, a prolific try scoring winger from the Melbourne Storm who had amassed an impressive six tries in seven matches by the end of the tournament; Manu Vatuvei, the giant winger from the New Zealand Warriors who made both Great Britain vice captain Brian Carney and Kangaroo Brent Tate looking for respective rocks to hide under; Wests Tigers hooker Bronson Harrison; Iafeta Palea'asina, the barnstorming prop bound for the British Isles.

But nobody had to wait quite as long as Willie Poching. It wasn’t until November 6th, 2005, that the product of the Warriors' inaugural season in 1995, and now a regular in the starting lineup for the Leeds Rhinos in the English Super League made his international debut at the not-so-tender age of thirty-two. The part Samoan back-rower had previously represented and captained the Junior Kiwis, and the eleven season veteran had been so excited about being involved that when he received the news of his selection from Kiwis team manager Peter Leitch, and when asked how he would get to the team base, he had simply answered: “I’ll walk if you want me to”.

In the modern era of professionalism and large salaries, it is refreshing to see a player who so eagerly wants to play for his country. No amount of money could have persuaded Poching to back out on the chance of a lifetime, singing his national anthem with pride and performing the haka against an energetic and youthful England A side. And it was the evening beforehand that he got to share these feelings with his fellow players.

“We had the jersey presentation the night before the game,” he says in retrospect. “I had the opportunity to stand up in front of the boys, my best mate Joe (Vagana) and blokes like Nigel Vagana and especially Ruben (Wiki), to explain what it meant to me and how much I was looking forward to playing the next day.”

When many star players, it seems, are ‘in it for the money’, less recognised workhorses such as Willie Poching often take hold of each and every open door with both hands, refusing to let go of their own volition. It’s the sort of ‘if you want to take it from me, you’ll have to do so over my dead body’ attitude that a diehard fan of international rugby league such as myself has been craving for many years.

Poching didn’t embarrass the black jersey that day in November last year. He played well, though not to his usually high standard, similar to many of the Kiwi players in that match. His one opportunity to score international points came when Lance Hohaia, the first choice kicker for that match, was injured scoring a try in the final minute. Poching lined up the kick in his absence, and his nerves showed. His attempted conversion didn’t affect the scoreboard in any way whatsoever, and it was not long before his mobile phone was inundated with text messages from teammates ranging from the complimentary and encouraging to those exhibiting nothing more than jestful mockery.

Despite his less than exemplary goalkicking effort, however, Willie Poching had achieved his childhood dream of representing New Zealand as fellow 1973 baby Ruben Wiki became the most internationally capped player in the history of the sport. And that, more than anything, was what mattered to him the most.

And who better to assert that than the man himself?

“To play for the Kiwis was what I’d wanted since I started playing. I hadn’t really given up hope but I knew my chances were getting slimmer and slimmer with each year. Thankfully it came about.”

***Willie Poching's quotes sourced from "The Year The Kiwis Flew" by Peter C. Leitch and Richard Becht***

***Published in Issue Six of Super League Magazine, 2006***

We Are The Champions?

We are the champions, my friends

And we'll keep on fighting till the end

When Freddie Mercury, lead singer of iconic English rock band Queen, first penned the lyrics to this 1977 anthemic classic, the last thing on his mind would have been the then poor quality of international rugby league. But now, it seems, the message of his song is ringing loudly, if not so clearly.

There can be no denying that New Zealand’s victory in the Tri-Nations final in Leeds last year was an historic one. It broke records and set a new standard for international football. It was the first time Australia had been kept scoreless since they lost 18-0 to the Kiwis in Wellington in 1985; the first time Australia had lost a series since they were beaten 2-1 by France in 1978; the first time New Zealand had beaten Australia in a test series since 1953; and the equal largest winning margin by New Zealand over Australia in rugby league test history, after having previously beaten them 49-25 in Brisbane in 1952.

But to claim the Kiwis are now the team to beat is probably going one step too far. After all, they don’t hold the World Cup in their trophy cabinet, and they haven’t won the annual Anzac test match since 2003. So only those unfortunate enough to not be involved with rugby league on any level – be it coaching, playing, or supporting – would suggest New Zealand are the best rugby league nation in the world.

Unless, that is, you happen to listen to the words of a certain individual by the name of Andrew Johns.

The Newcastle halfback commented on the Anzac test in his regular column in the Sunday Telegraph newspaper at a time when he was nursing an ankle injury from a previous match: “If I miss that [Souths] game, I’ve just got to hope the selectors will consider me for the test.” He then went on to say: “I’m really passionate about the clash with the Kiwis and not just because it will be my final representative game. In my eyes, the Kiwis are the number one league nation after they won the Tri-Nations series in England last year.”

We are the champions, my friends

And we'll keep on fighting till the end

We are the champions

We are the champions

Johns’ comments reflect a shift in the perception of international rugby league that has caught the attention of both fans and players alike. This resurgence – or rebirth, some might call it – of popularity has been a breath of fresh air for the sport on an international level not seen since New Zealand last dominated Australia in the mid-1950s. The amount of interest in the upcoming Anzac test among the fans, but in the media particularly, has surpassed that of any rugby league even in recent history. In New Zealand, a nation dominated by rugby union, newspapers and television news programs have been focusing on the test match on their front pages and first articles respectively.

In short, the buildup has caught the attention of even the most disinterested rugby league armchair critic. The so-called ‘bandwagon’ fans are actually sitting up and taking notice.

And the Kiwis are showing prematch confidence for the first time in a long time.

No longer is the attitude in the New Zealand camp one of trying to concede as few points as possible, and hopefully not get beaten by too large a margin, but one of actually going out there to win. And, truth be told, the result of the Anzac test almost doesn’t matter.

Not at all, you insist? Perish the thought, you cry? Certainly. But first, recognise that international rugby league is back, regardless of the result on Friday night. Competitiveness at the highest level – something that has been lacking in the sport for so many excruciating years – has finally returned and is hopefully here to stay.

It has been six months since the Kiwis and Kangaroos have done battle, but if Andrew Johns’ comments regarding the Kiwis are to be taken seriously, the upcoming Anzac test, intended to be the last for both him and lock Ben Kennedy, should be well worth the wait.

We are the champions, my friends

And we'll keep on fighting till the end

We are the champions

We are the champions

No time for losers

'Cause we are the champions

Of the world!

The Working Man’s Game

I can still remember it as clearly as though it were yesterday. My father, a serious and stern expression on his face, was sitting me down on one of the much loved and ageing living room sofas in our home. It was clear by the man’s focused gaze and his intense but monotone voice that this was no ordinary conversation. No, this was real father to son material – the passing down of wisdom from one generation to another. In a manner similar to one relay runner passing the baton to his fellow team member, my father had something very important to explain.

And it had absolutely nothing to do with either birds or bees. No, puberty and the dropping of voices associated with it were pushed to the side for a much more important aspect of life - social classes.

Suffice to say, at eleven years of age this wasn’t the sort of conversation I had expected to share with my father, particularly considering I was of the opinion that social classes were both distant and irrelevant. I had no idea just how wrong I was.

My father had emigrated from England to New Zealand a little more than twenty years earlier. His background was not one of wealth – his mother had been a cook for a wealthy land owner in the area, and his father had ridden a bicycle to get to work each day because the family lacked the money to own a motor vehicle. For that reason, if anyone knew about social classes, it was my dad. And he wanted to explain to me that classes existed in New Zealand, albeit with less impact than in his place of birth, and that they were evident everywhere, even on the football field.

As I listened on in silence, my father pointed out to me that in contrast to rugby union, where a referee will address a player by their surname, a rugby league official, (or a soccer referee, as was my father’s original train of thought), will use the player’s first name when speaking to them, in a similar manner to the way teachers get the attention of students at private and public schools respectively. In fact, it seems that it is from this educational background that such habits are born and fostered. It is a trait that stretches to the fans of both codes, whether they are passionately cheering on their team, or just discussing the topics of team selection and player form in civil conversation.

The use of a surname or a first name might seem like little more than semantics, but I believe there is something defining about it. Knowing someone on a first name basis indicates a closeness that a title or a surname cannot provide - a primitive form of intimacy and the most basic of relational connections. Perhaps this is why it seems to hurt so much when our rugby league teams lose, no matter the opposition. An emotional investment has been made, and it doesn’t always pay out with the profits we crave.

Such is the nature of sport in general – each fan has his or her favourite player for one reason or another, and pretending to know them in an innate manner simply adds to the agony and ecstasy of supporting a rugby league team. Calling players by their first name is just one way of doing that.

I remember sitting in that sofa, refusing to make a sound as this information – something I considered to be nothing short of revolutionary – was gifted to me. It was as if a buried treasure chest had just had its lock broken, but it was several years before I was able to properly open it and discover the treasures inside; something I continue to do to this day.

The professional arena has changed a lot of things. Players can now be seen driving Holden Commodores and sporting the latest clothing labels; television sponsorship deals bring in millions of dollars each year to the sport’s governing body; professionally trained staff organise training sessions for teams; players are paid high wages and stay in five star hotels when touring other countries, and they are made into celebrities, holding autograph signing sessions for their many adoring fans.

But one thing remains. It is the ability, and even the invitation, to do as the referee does each and every week: to call each player by his first name.

From The Circles Of My Family History To The Ovals Of My Future

I splash cold tap water onto my face and watch as minute streams form down my cheeks, the clear liquid dropping into the bathroom sink below. An exhausted face looks back at me from the mirror, complete with reddened cheeks and sweaty hair. What is it that has caught me so short of breath? I haven’t just been playing rugby league, which may well be to the disappointment of many people reading this. No, I have in fact been partaking in a social yet fiercely competitive game of soccer.

Why on earth am I mentioning the sport of my forefathers in Britain, as opposed to the game which I have followed for the last twelve years of my life? Comparisons, of course! Why else?

I grew up playing soccer. My father, originally from England, knew that it is the one sport where anyone can play, regardless of size or ability, and, seeing as I was a skinny, slight young lad who lacked both, soccer and I seemed like a perfect match. But, as it is often wont to do, my curiosity sought out other sports, and one day I stumbled across rugby league.

Ever since then, I have been intrigued by one aspect in particular of the thirteen man game. It is the singular most unpredictable and unreliable part of the sport. It can be a best friend one moment, and the worst of enemies the next. It can make or break an attacking play, a match, or even a season. Players are subject to its will, attempting to pre-empt its next whimsical manoeuvre. It is the 'X' factor of the game, and it can be a coach killer in every sense of the word.

It is, of course, the bounce of the ball.

Coming from a bloodline that finds its origins in the British working class, where soccer, (or football, for those still in the mother country), is king, my curiosity is hardly surprising - indeed, it is almost to be expected. A spherical ball, whilst still able to curve and spin in order to produce confusion amongst opposition defenders, is a far cry from the bobble and hop that can be found in rugby league which shreds defensive lines to pieces on an almost routinely basis.

This unusual shape presents itself as some kind of wild animal, potentially willing to be tamed, but only by the right player. And that's the key, I think: potentially. Even the greatest of playmakers - suitably otherwise known as 'ball tamers' for the purpose of this musing - can misjudge the next move of the ball, making for interesting and sometimes spectacular results. And like all wild animals, even the most cooperative of rugby league balls can turn on its master at any given moment.

But it is the few, (those happy few), maestros - nay, magicians - that can be relied on to have near flawless ball control in the most literal sense possible. They and they alone have the power and panache to define the bounce of the ball; to decide its momentum and direction, only to sit back and wait as the ball takes care of the opposition defensive line on his behalf.

Such players are very few, and even further between.

And it is here that the comparisons between rugby league and 'the beautiful game' stall. Despite the best efforts of Pele, Ronaldo, and the late George Best, their sport provided unpredictability only when forced to by the brilliance of an individual player. Rugby league, however, can provide that very notion of uncertainty simply due to the comparatively unusual shape of its ball alone, making a mockery of any team that isn't - excuse the pun - 'on the ball'.

With a towel drying my face, and my ponderings subsiding for only a few brief moments, I reflect on the situation: a first generation New Zealander, still playing the most popular game of my ancestral origins, but choosing to vigorously support the underdog of my geographical home. It’s an act of pioneering, and one that I intend to make last.

From circles to ovals – it hasn’t really been that much of a leap, has it? After all, were it not for the elliptical shape of a pig’s bladder, I might have forever remained none the wiser.

***Published in Issue Five of Super League Magazine, 2006***

You Can't Always Get What You Want

The lyrics to the chorus of this classic song by The Rolling Stones were reverberating through my head as I sat down to write aboard a Qantas flight bound for Auckland. I had spent the past four days in Melbourne, attending the Australian Game Development Conference. This was the first time I had visited any Australian city for longer than a stopover period, and I felt it prudent to explore the home of so many of my transtasman cousins. In all, my time in the Victorian city left me with many positive experiences, and a desire to return at some time in the future.

A visit to the home of the Melbourne Storm, however, left a sour aftertaste in my mouth.

Melbourne has a plethora of stadia. The sports mad city is home to the legendary Melbourne Cricket Ground, as well as the Telstra Dome, the Rod Laver Arena, the Melbourne Sports And Entertainment Centre, and the Vodafone Arena, not to mention the many training grounds that accompany many of these facilities. But when I initially entered Olympic Park, I thought I was in the wrong place, simply because of the size and state of the stands.

Looking back in hindsight as an air stewardess assisted a nearby passenger with his carry-on luggage, what I had failed to remember was that Victoria is well and truly AFL country. Rugby league is a minority sport. I didn't manage to generate a single comment by wearing a New Zealand Warriors jersey during my brief stay. I doubt many people even recognised my article of clothing for what it was. The Telstra Dome had a giant AFL sign above the entrance. Olympic Park had a Melbourne Victory logo, representing the local A-League soccer team. There wasn't a Melbourne Storm sign in sight, unless one happened to notice a small two storey building behind a nearby Aussie rules practice ground.

Okay, so Olympic Park was less impressive than my expectations had allowed me to believe. But where am I going with this? I suppose I was provoked to comment on an NRL fan base less fortunate than my own. Back in New Zealand, many rugby league fans such as myself complain that we are in the minority - that in light of the All Blacks and their world dominating achievements, the Kiwis and the Warriors don't receive enough recognition, particularly in the media. And yet in contrast, many of the locals I spoke to in Melbourne were unable to follow my train of thought as soon as I started mentioning NRL teams, such as the Roosters, Bulldogs, and Rabbitohs.

In essence, this was a case of counting one's blessings and opening a second eye before complaining into the microphone.

With the airline captain introducing himself over the intercom system and me relaxing into my seat, I pondered my own bias towards the subject of Melbourne's minority sport. My home city of Auckland has a long history with rugby league, and, although the City of Sails is considered a rugby union stronghold, rugby league fans and parents still turn out in their hundreds each Saturday morning to watch their children attempting to emulate their rugby league heroes. And the home ground of the Vodafone Warriors, Ericsson Stadium, has just completed an upgrade, with the Eastern Stand now capable of seating many more people and with protective roofing and new training facilities. With that as my background and usual surroundings, it is hardly surprising that Olympic Park's comparatively smaller and less sophisticated stadium caught me somewhat offguard.

Such an experience has enabled me to observe the situation of rugby league in my own life and city with a warmer gaze. It isn’t the ignored sport we have claimed it to be – well, not as ignored as it is in Victoria. And that must be a good thing. With the captain speaking up again and requesting each passenger to turn off our electronic devices, I realised that it's times like these that allow us to remember how fortunate we are before jumping onto our own soap box. With my PDA about to be turned off and the aircraft beginning its journey down the runway, those lyrics continued to circulate through my mind...

You can't always get what you want,
You can't always get what you want,
You can't always get what you want,
But if you try sometimes well you just might find,
You get what you need!

***Published in Issue Six of Super League Magazine, 2006***