Almanac Rugby League: Time’s up, Ground Announcer

 

 

I’m sitting in the wooden seats a few rows back from the eastern try line, waiting for the Wests Tigers – Penrith match to begin. It’s the middle of August, the end of a Sydney day where it’s warm enough to wear a shirt and shorts even while the night cools. The sun is fading over the Norm Robinson stand opposite me, and a bright glow shines from the tower lights above.

The rugby league carnival stretches from Auckland to Perth and from Melbourne to Darwin, but there’s no finer venue than Leichhardt Oval. The century-old wooden Keith Barnes stand, the Wayne Pearce hill, the fig trees and the rooftops of inner-city houses poking over the ground from the nearby streets add to the charm and atmosphere of the ground. Leichhardt Oval has been labelled the eighth wonder of the world by Tigers fans, and it’s hard to disagree with their claims.

The Panthers are on top of the ladder while the Wests Tigers are in their familiar position on the bottom of the table. But even with the home team’s poor form, there’s still a healthy crowd flocking into the game.

I don’t really follow any team in rugby league. I don’t have that tribal loyalty, that dedication required to pick a club and stick with them. I like watching players from different teams. The white-line fever of Roosters enforcer Jared Waerea-Hargreaves; the socks-down athleticism of Melbourne Storm full-back Ryan Papenhuyzen; the speed of Titans winger Alofiana Khan-Pereira – these are the players that get me out of the house to matches. And I’ve always found Leichhardt Oval hypnotising. Especially at night. The blackness of the sky, the fluorescent white glow from the light towers, the lush green clipped grass is a pull that’s hard to avoid. There isn’t much suburban footy across Australia anymore, and I feel like I’ve stepped back in time.

‘LET’S MAKE A NOISE FOR THE MIGHTY WESTS TIGERS!’ the ground announcer shouts to the crowd, his voice booming through portable speakers that are spread around the oval.

‘I CAN’T HEAR YOU, TIGERS FANS,’ he continues, ‘I SAID MAKE A NOISE!’

Why Australian sporting administrators feel the need to fill breaks in the game with pumping music or high-pitched screeching of ground announcers is beyond me. Can you imagine an Ashes game at Lords, thousands of the Barmy Army singing, trumpets playing ‘Jerusalem’, and all of it drowned out by ‘We Will Rock You’ or ‘Hells Bells?’ Can you imagine decades-old home-grown supporters’ chants of an old firm clash between Rangers and Celtic interrupted by the shrieks of a ground announcer, or the cheery drunken chaos of the Bay 13 crowd of a Boxing Day Test match drowned out by rock music? They just can’t let us enjoy the natural noise of the game. I read that some AFL clubs have appointed ‘chant champions’ at their home games: fans who are positioned at various points around the ground to rev up the supporters around them. The groans of despair at a last-second loss, the jubilation of an unexpected come-from-behind win are sounds that add to the atmosphere of the game, not the loud music and cliched slogans of chant champions and ground announcers. Why can’t we just enjoy the unscripted barracking of the game?

‘AND NOW,’ the ground announcer’s voice blasts through the speakers again, ‘HERE COMES YOUR WESTS TIGERS.’

The Tigers players run out onto the field, the crowd rise and flags and banners wave in the breeze of the night air. The Panthers follow them onto the oval, they line up in their positions, the ref blows his whistle and the game starts.

The pro-Tigers crowd is subdued as Penrith dominates the early passages of play, and with tries to Dylan Edwards, Liam Martin and Izack Tago, they race to a 16-0 lead, and the prospect of another heavy Tigers loss looms.

The ground announcer never shuts up. He plays a recorded growl of a tiger; he plays pre-recorded drumming; he plays ‘Welcome to the Jungle’, over and over.

‘WHERE ARE ALL THE TIGERS FANS?

LET’S GO TIGERS, LET’S GO TIGERS!’

Is my anger being funnelled into something as trivial as a ground announcer trying to rev up the crowd unreasonable? When I’m out drinking with my mates, I tell them that ground announcers, with their semi-authoritarianism, their self-importance, their unceasing interruptions and the way they force themselves on you, are an early symptom of the decline of the modern era.

‘Turn it up,’ one mate says.

‘Why don’t you do something about it?’ another friend challenges me, sick of hearing me carp on about it.

So I am.

From my bag, I pull an iPad-sized device that I ordered online and had shipped from America. I unwrap it from its packaging and press the button on its side; it powers on and a message appears on the screen:

Welcome to the Sherrington All-In-One Mega-Noise Reducer, the answer to all your noise problems. Are you sick and tired of the intrusion from others? People playing their devices next to you without wearing headphones? Loud music from your neighbours? Are you ready for the peace you crave and deserve? The Sherrington All-In-One Mega-Noise Reducer has noise extinguishing qualities that allows you to take back control of your life.

I wait to find a wi-fi connection, then create an account and, once I confirm my password, waves of red-coloured frequencies run across the screen in waves and another message appears.

Now, point to the noise that’s troubling you and let the Sherrington All-In-One Mega-Noise Reducer do its job.

I turn my attention back to the game. The ball goes into touch, and the voice of the ground announcer inevitably booms across the oval.

‘TTTTIIIIGGGGEEEERRRRSSSS!’

I stand from my seat, hold the Mega-Noise Reducer in front of me and aim it at the speaker to the left of me.

‘TTTTIIIIGGGGEEEERRRRSSSS!’ The ground announcer repeats.

I flip the device over and see an hourglass in the middle of the screen.

Loading incomplete, the device reads.

‘Fuck,’ I hiss as I sit back down.

‘What’s that, then?’

A Tigers fan is sitting next to me, a man my age, thin and fit looking, with a neat, trimmed moustache. He’s wearing a Tigers hat and a scarf and has been watching my performance, wondering what I’m up to.

I feel I’m justified in my actions because I can only explain to him what I’m up to when the game is playing, because when there’s a break in the game, and even though we’re only centimetres from each other, he can’t hear me for the ground announcer screaming or playing his music. Frustrated that the Mega Noise Reducer isn’t working, when there’s another break in the play and an unexpected pause between the ground announcer’s music and his bellowing nonsense, I stand from my seat, cup my hands and scream,

‘CAN’T YOU, JUST FOR ONE FUCKEN MINUTE, SHUT THE FUCK UP SO I CAN ENJOY THE GAME?! I’M SICK OF HEARING YOUR VOICE ALL THE FUCKEN TIME! I COME TO WATCH THE FOOTY, NOT FUCKEN LISTEN TO FUCKEN YOU!’

I sit back down, red-faced with spit dribbling down the sides of my mouth and hear chuckles from the crowd around me.

‘LET’S HEAR IT FOR YOUR WESTS TIGERS,’ the ground announcer’s voice booms through the speakers a few seconds later.

‘It’s not your day, is it?’ the man sitting next to me says.

‘I guess it isn’t. It felt good, though.’

As half-time nears, and against the run of play, the Tigers rally and hooker Api Koroisau runs under the posts to score their first try. When Heath Mason scores again for the Tigers two minutes later, and with the conversion that follows, within minutes the Tigers are back in the game.

‘TIGERS! TIGERS! TIGERS!’

When the hooter rings for half-time, the Panthers lead 16-12, but there’s an optimistic buzz around the ground from Tigers fans.

Around me, families laugh and dance and sing along to the music. A mother holds her toddler in front of her, swaying her child to the beat of one of the songs. I feel I’m in the minority for not wanting to put up with the sideshow of loud music and ground announcers at rugby league games.

‘I don’t like it either,’ the man sitting next to me confesses, leaning across and speaking directly in my ear. ‘My wife and I used to go to trivia every Wednesday night at our local pub. Then another group took over and the music they played during the breaks was enough for us to go somewhere else.’

Our conversation is ended by music thumping through the speakers as the teams run onto the ground for the second half.

‘TIGERS! TIGERS! TIGERS!’ the ground announcer’s voice blasts through the speakers.

In an upset for the ages, Penrith implode; they give away silly penalties, players are sent off and the Tigers rack up the points, but the game takes second stage as the man and I take turns trying to get the Mega-Noise Reducer to work, passing it back and forth between us.

‘I’m hopeless with technology.’

‘Stupid fucken thing.’

We shake the device, we turn it off and on again, swipe left and right, but the hourglass and the loading incomplete message remains.

‘The camera wants to know your location,’ the man yells to me. ‘We keep pressing no. It might be something as simple as pressing yes that makes it work.’

I allow the camera to know our location, the hourglass disappears and the screen is full of waves of moving green frequencies.

‘That didn’t happen before,’ the man remarks.

I stand and point the Mega-Noise Reducer at the speaker. The green frequency waves turn to red and a new message appears.

Source of excessive noise located. Would you like the disabling process to begin?

A yes and no box appears on the screen.

I press yes and a yellow QR code outline appears on the screen. I point the device back towards the speaker; the outline locks in just as the ground announcer screams,

 ‘WHO WANTS THE TIGERS…’

A message on the screen reads speaker now disabled.

The ground announcer’s voice cuts out. The speaker has gone dead.

‘I’ll be,’ the man says. ‘It worked.’

‘It did, didn’t it.’

I leave my seat, taking the Mega-Noise Reducer with me, and step along the concourse.

The same message appears on the screen when I point it at the next speaker. I repeat the process; the music stops and silence covers another part of the ground. I do a loop of the ground and each time, the voice of the ground announcer and his music dies away.

I reach the Norm Robinson stand, brush past the attendant and race up the steps towards the top of the grandstand. Between the radio and television commentators’ rooms is a small booth that houses the ground announcer. I see him wearing thick headphones over his shaved head through the glass of the door. He’s screaming into his microphone while pressing buttons on the mixing desk in front of him, completely unaware I’ve nullified all the speakers around the oval.

I open the door of his booth, and he looks at me in surprise and mouths, ‘What the fuck?’ when I raise the Mega-Noise Reducer towards him. The power board on the floor crackles and puffs of smoke rise from the desk. He forgets about me as he turns and reaches for a fire extinguisher on the back wall.

 

 

To read more by Paul Harman 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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