Friday, October 02, 2015

NRL 2015 - GRAND FINAL - Broncos vs Cowboys

Like all good things, the 2015 NRL season is coming to a close, and the only question that’s left to be answered is:  which Queensland is the better Queensland?  After smashing NSW in the State of Origin series AGAIN, and now competing for supremacy in the national comp, I guess it’s fair to acknowledge Queensland’s superiority.  In cheating.  And sleeping with close cousins.  And probably other stuff too.

I have spoken to way too many fucking idiots this week who are all claiming that they’re not going to watch the Grand Final because there are no NSW teams competing derp derp derp, and why the fuck would they want to watch the culmination of an entire year’s worth of preparation between two teams who have proven themselves to be better than all of the others?

Justin Hodges was cleared by the tribunal to lead the Broncos into the grand final after his Queensland chum Aiden Guerra gave testimony about how even though Hodges’ tackle was rubbish, it was Guerra’s fault that it all went wrong.  It’s like two kids getting caught nicking a bag of chips and a soft drink from the local IGA, and one kid saying, “Yes, Justin got caught with the chips in his bag but it was my idea in the first place so I should be grounded for two weeks instead of him.”  So with Justin Hodges  escaping a fortnight's grounding and being cleared to play (as long as he keeps his bedroom clean), it gives both teams their full range of players, so there are no fucking excuses allowed about playing an understrength team. 

I remember when I was about twelve years old, and I was playing handball at school.  I wasn’t a bad handball player; there were moments that I’d be able to knock off the top four kids, and I could beat the guys who seemed to spend their whole recess dribbling in the bottom squares.  One day, I was sitting pretty in the King square, and looking to make my assault on the Ace spot.  I figured all I needed to do was go in and hold my position for two more serves before the bell went and I could reign as champion of handball for the next two hours in the classroom – I could order my minions around to do my bidding:  I would have the sharpest pencils in the class.  I would have the cleanest eraser.  My glue stick would be the stickiest.  I could borrow someone’s Derwents without asking.  My textas would smell nicer and leak a whole lot less.

The handball game raged on, and some clown in Queen square decided they’d have a crack at my spot.  Good luck, said I, as this was one of the dribbling idiots that I could get out with my foot.  I prepared my best shot to get this dickhead out before too much time elapsed for my attack on top spot.  I leant back and waited for the tennis ball to bounce so I could hit it on the half-volley and send this guy back to Dunce.  I hit it sweetly but the other guy got his hand to it and tried to return my power-shot.  The ball bounced twice in his square before coming into mine – double bounce was against the rules.  Instead of claiming the scalp and moving on with the game, I decided to drive the nail in.  With an audible, “I’ll just finish you off now, just in case,” I drew my arm back for another power-shot (please note that my power-shot had about the same power as all of my shots, but it made me feel better to think that I had some kind of video-game-chi power that built up and I could unleash it through my handball skills), but this time I fucked up the shot and hit the ball with my wrist and the ball fucked off towards the Year 10 kids who sat on the edge of the handball courts who would throw any stray tennis balls that came their way towards the drains near the basketball courts.  So I did the usual pleading effort with the Year 10 kids, and they actually gave me the ball back (by piffing it as hard as they could at my dick), and I went back to the game with knowledge that even though I could barely breathe through the pain in my groin, I still had time to get into Ace and become king of the class. 

Unfortunately for me though, my friends had other ideas and because I tried to take down a weaker opponent even though I’d already won and then almost had the ball thrown down the drain by Year 10 kids, that my punishment was to go back to the bottom square.  As I trudged back to the arse-end of the handball court, the bell sounded, sealing my fate as the lowest player.  Even worse was that I ended recess behind the dribbling kid that I tried to finish off with my patented power-shot that lead to my demise. 

Anyway, what I mean is that there are no teams that will complain “If you beat us, it’s because we didn’t have a full team,” or even worse is the “we beat you and we didn’t even have a full team” boast.  In my head, that’s how the whole handball game came into it, but I’m not sure if it works now.  But I spent a while typing it out, so I’m leaving it in.

To be perfectly fucking honest, I don’t give a shit who wins.  They are both good teams, and I’d like to see them win for different reasons.  Broncos because they’ve been consistently good all year, and the Cowboys because I don’t hate Jonathan Thurston. 

The ideal game would be something like a 47-all draw after extra time, and then they draw a winner out of a hat and it turns out to be the Raiders.  

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