Originally posted at http://www.theroar.com.au/2012/06/27/why-blues-just-lose/#comment-949734
I’m a proud, passionate and one-eyed New South Welshman. I’m so passionate that I bleed sky blue and drink Toohey’s New, even if it tastes like something Black Caviar passed through her urinary tract after a big win at Royal Ascot.
Just quickly, on the topic of beer, am I the only one who is confused by VB sponsoring NSW? How has this slipped under everyone’s radar?
Like everyone else in this great state I’m fuming that they’re talking about reintroducing tolls on the M4. I’m livid when I’m stuck in traffic while those bloody bicycle lanes remain as vacant as the reserves of the Central Bank of Spain.
And I’m super pissed that those rednecks north of the border are on the cusp of winning their seventh consecutive Origin series.
Yet despite feeling nauseous at the idea of King Wally and Fatty giggling like 16-year-old schoolgirls enjoying a joint and their first girl on girl pash behind the toilet block, there’s a part of me that’s secretly hoping that the Maroons grind the Blues into the dust and put to rest any thoughts that Ricky Stuart is a decent coach.
You see, I’m a depressed Parra fan – is there any other kind?. The Blue and Gold army has taken quite a beating these last couple of weeks, years, decades… There’s only so much pain a man can take.
I’ve endured Sterlo’s dodgy shoulders, the Crow’s busted eye, Zip Zip’s dicky knees and Brett Kenny labouring against father time while the ‘talent’ around him dropped quicker than Lehman Brothers. I stuck true when the only thing that kept us from winning some prized wooden cutlery in 1992 was the Gold Coast Seagulls being stripped of two points after using too many interchanges.
I celebrated the arrival of the big four from the Doggies during the Super League war, before later cursing the bastards. I was there to see the Carige brain explosion when we choked in the finals. Then I faked my way through a whole year of my life, kinda like Jenna Jameson’s greatest scenes, after the Jana Novotna impersonation against Newcastle in 2001.
I survived the Dykes and McFadden era and the ‘glory’ years of Tim Smith and the second coming of Peter Sterling. I’ve farewelled the ‘Emperor’ Denis Fitzgerald, welcomed the ‘Don’ Roy Spagnolo, and have seen off more coaches than Pamela Anderson has sex tapes. I’ve talked up Danny Crnkovich, cheered for Scotty Mahon, prayed for Adam Ritson and cursed big Mick Vella.
I rode the Hayne plane all way to the edge of glory and parachuted out before we crash landed shortly afterward in 2009. I even paid for my yearly membership even though we signed Carl Webb, Chris Hicks, Chris Walker and Paul Whatuira. Honestly has there ever been a more pathetic NRL recruitment drive?
But every man has his limits…and I’m seriously at the end of my tether.
The rumour mill has been in overdrive recently about the status of Steve Kearney. The board has yet to plant the kiss of death and give Kearney their full backing, but every man and his dog has been linked with some sort of assistant role, from Jason Taylor and Graham Lowe. There’s even talk about signing up psychic John Edwards to channel Jack Gibson from the afterlife.
But last weekend was the final straw, when I read that Ricky Stuart, on the back of an ”impressive Origin campaign”, was being eyed as a possible replacement for Kearney.
Personally I’ve got nothing against Ricky the man, but Ricky the coach is going to kill my enjoyment of league forever.
If it’s not enough that I have to watch the walking donut Chris Sandow and his cap killing contract blunder make his way around the park week in week out, the thought of Tricky Ricky sticking true to his instinct that Hayne is a natural five eighth, and pairing him with Sandow in the halves, is too much to bear.
Right now Jarryd Hayne spends most of his time sleepwalking his way through matches from fullback.
To watch him constantly kick the ball dead from first receiver on one side of the ruck while Sandow fumbles passes on the other side is enough to make me reach for a collection of Peter FitzSimons’ greatest works to put me out of my misery.
So Ricky…if you’ve got any compassion for an Eels fan on the frayed edge of sanity, tell the boys to chuck it in and move onto a cushy job in the English Super League.
I can live with another year of infuriating hillbillies talking up the land of the inbred cane toad.
But I just can’t survive a Hayne – Sandow halves combo.