Almanac Rugby League: The Dolphins Cry

 

The plan was always to follow a Brisbane-based NRL team.

I had reasonably surmised, following my move north in 1997, that a successful integration would require that I embrace Queensland culture, study them and learn their foreign ways.

Seamless assimilation through shared interest, and I did everything I was supposed to do.

I ordered Potato…Scallops, through gritted teeth. I no longer made my overpriced purchases at a Milk Bar, and I continue to regularly traumatise beachgoers in my togs instead of bathers.

(I draw the line however at calling a school bag a port. I do have my dignity.)

You’ll even catch me facing the long, challenging fortnight of winter that descends upon the city most years by wearing a jumper with shorts and thongs, no matter how non-sensical this combination might seem to other logically thinking, upright mammals.

All for naught of course.

Despite all my very finest efforts, it was made known to me early on, and every day since that, if you aren’t born here, you can never actually call yourself a Queenslander.

The one caveat to this is that you are encouraged, nay…expected to bray your support for the state team come Origin time.

That’s fine.

However, from my formative days here it was strongly suggested I also follow the Broncos, if acceptance is what my heart desired most.

Nope. Request denied. Question this ungainly rube’s turn of phrase all you like, but that is a bridge too far.

Partially because, given my unfulfilled affections for Fitzroy, it felt counter intuitive to follow a rich, powerful club, but mostly because of my first social outing in Brisbane with new work colleagues.

A high-profile Broncos winger of the time, unknown to me, introduced himself by repeatedly bumping me into the bar as I patiently waited to be served, unprovoked and much to the squealing delight of the bevy of barely dressed academics, who adorned him.

Turning slowly, the State of Origin legend offered to attempt the impossible, in making me less attractive by reconstructing my face for daring to meet his gaze.

(I offer no further clues to his identity here, other than to say he’s back in the news again for remarkably similar disservices to the community.)

To contextualise his bravery, I would have tipped the scales at around 54 kilos at the time. That would’ve been less than several of his giggling entourage of perfumed parasites.

Heading back to my group, the celebrity aggressor was made known to me by my oddly impressed colleagues.

From that day forth I vowed two things in my relationship to the Brisbane Broncos:

I would never allow myself to support any of their endeavours. They could be playing a team comprising Nickelback and The Manson Family and I still wouldn’t cheer for them;

and

I would pledge my unconditional support to the next Brisbane-based team birthed into the NRL.

“Five years at the most”, in-the-know fans assured me at the time.

So, here we are, two and a half decades later, with my “Phin” well and truly in the upright position.

 

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No man is ever quite good enough for another man’s daughter.

I suspect this is universal. It makes the search for common ground no less important, though oddly familiar in the ultimately forlorn search for complete acceptance.

Reading the gaunt, open-mouthed expressions on their faces, I could only guess at the enquiries formulating in the minds of Mel’s parents, the first time she ushered me into their home.

Had she lost a bet?

Were the homeless shelters closed for the night?

Were they occupying front row seats to a hostage situation?

Impossible to say.

We did what people do in those early, awkward silences and looked for common ground.

Naturally, Greg and I settled on sport.

My tales of high school tunnel ball garnered light reaction and the man seemed genuinely surprised, if not a little impressed, when I picked up cutlery.

All I really know is they offered me stoic hospitality in return, even avoiding the temptation to insist I turn out my pockets before leaving.

They waved enthusiastically as we left, though I suspect before our back tyres hit the main road, Greg had already retired to sit and consider whether he should be calling a locksmith in the morning.

A decade later, I accompany my Bronco supporting father-in-law Greg to Suncorp for their Round 4 clash with my Dolphins.

It’s a new tradition I am keen to loan patronage to, and one half of a cultural exchange between a father-in-law and the son he never wanted.

How strange it is then that it should be the Brisbane Broncos to share a role in playing mediator and helping lay a platform for our burgeoning relationship.

Greg is rigorous in his planning of the day and public transport is a vital cog in the mechanics of its success.

This might be the first time I’ve caught public transport since my high school days in Broadmeadows: wrestling on seats, sticking our heads out of windows and taking it in turns to get robbed at knifepoint.

I feel slightly uneasy and intimidated on the journey in.

It’s a Broncos home game, so I am desperately outnumbered here. Maybe one to every 100.

There is many an interested, sideways glance. Some more bold in their approaches, offering barbs. None of them clever.

Stay calm.

What is it that incenses them so much about the Dolphin’s presence? Is it the antagonistic red of my polo? The idea of sharing a city, once exclusively theirs alone, or just my use of deodorant?

Still, if The Battle of Agincourt taught us anything, it’s that numbers alone do not determine the outcome. That, and the value of a rousing pre-game address. Oh, and make sure to check the BOM the day before a contest.

The Expressway is a welcomely efficient part of the game day experience.

Smoothly surging in and out of the tunnel’s lengthy tendrils, just long enough to see tired and broken motorists motionless on the Pacific Motorway.

Look at me. Gliding unimpeded through a stagnant city.

I smile inwardly: this must be what it feels like to be a King, just as the Broncos supporter leaning on me, digs at his crotch and clears his throat.

 

*********************************

 

Both sides run out, take their introductions and we’re away inside a minute.

I’ve scarcely had time to misdirect my condiments away from my food and onto the row before me and the ball climbing skyward.

I love that. There is no fat on this game. Ruthlessly efficient, when it comes to the use of time.

I have warmed to Izzy Katoa. He might be my guy. He has that rare quality in any team sport of creating the illusion of extra time that few others are granted.

As such, I look forward to seeing him peak just in time to be poached mid-season by another team.

Herbie Farnworth dances and steps with grace. Always moving. Always looking to create something in the presence of nothing. He might be my second favourite.

It’s also a great name.

Herbie Farnworth and Hugh McCluggage could be brandishing pistols at dawn in competition for the hand of a Jane Austen heroine.

I try not to extend my little finger as I sip passively at my plastic beaker of XXXX mid-strength. The local man’s mead.

Greg elbows me in the ribs every time the Broncos threaten the line.

I’m fitting in. Damn it, this might just work.

A bell rings. “Six again – Infringement in the Ruck!”

The Broncos are pressing. “Six again!” Another bell.

The bell rings once more. Why?

Is there a hanging in the public square? A hunchback in residence? What is happening?

I look to Greg for guidance. He’s as confused as everybody else. Nobody really seems to know why.

Oh, thank goodness. It’s refreshing to know that Aussie Rules isn’t the only sport hellbent upon alienating its fans through confusing officialdom.

The Broncos score and Suncorp is heaving.

Both sides throw the ball around, keeping it alive, probing for weakness. I really enjoy this version of the game, though purists would almost certainly disagree.

It’s high-intensity keepings-off, with moustaches and tattooed sleeves.

The moustache is back! Across sport in general. It crept back largely unannounced but I for one am happy about it.

It used to be reserved for AFL Goal Umpires and the occasional military strongman, but it’s well and truly back in vogue.

Greg elbows me every time the Broncos look like scoring. I’m in for some bruising. Tunnel Ball never prepared me for this kind of physicality.

There are plenty of ex-Broncos to incense the 45,000 strong home crowd. The vitriol is palpable.

Another try and Buck, the live team mascot, trots around at a leisurely gallop. The young gents behind us (with fledgling moustaches of their own) are making Fine Cotton styled accusations about Buck’s identity. It seems he doesn’t cover the ground like he used to.

A late Dolphins try to Isaako keeps us in the game going into the break.

There is half-time entertainment. Last week it was Spiderbait apparently. Nice to know they’re still around. I can’t remember what the Gabba rolls out at half-time. Morris Dancing probably.

Tonight, it’s a DJ. Not my thing to be honest. I’d rather see an entertainer plug in a guitar than a USB but to each their own. It will, no doubt, surprise people that I can be out of touch with modern cultural flourishes.

There are some tired boys out there and a win looks beyond us.

At least a loss will guarantee me safe passage home.

Wait, a wayward Ezra Mam pass has Averillo over the line and us back in the game. A bus station mugging is still on the cards for me.

Too little, too late I’m afraid as sheer desperation holds open the door for a final, demoralising try from the Broncos.

Oh well, I still haven’t seen them beat the Broncos live yet, but my day will come.

I’ve had a wonderful time, and this is merely part one of our cultural exchange.

We look on to Thursday night where I will host Greg at Brisbane v Collingwood.That’s right. I think we’ve reached the stage where I introduce my father-in-law to Collingwood fans.

 

Looking splendid in the new merch.

 

To read more by Jamie Simmons click here.

 

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Our writers are independent contributors. The opinions expressed in their articles are their own. They are not the views, nor do they reflect the views, of Malarkey Publications.

 

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