As a youngster I used to catch the bus to North Sydney Oval on a Saturday to watch my local team get flogged.
It was like confession for a Catholic – you knew you had to go and you knew what the outcome would be, but somehow you also knew that it was good for you.
Rugby League was always the working man’s sport.
The battlers in battle. No fancy words or glitz or glamour. Real people, with local jobs, in competition with each other.
The Bears played for my community, my neighbours and my friends. Giving all and losing with disgust was part of the event. Starting the season with a customary first round loss and walking out of the ground knowing “there is always next year” made for great community banter if not rugby league legend.
As kids we emulated our heroes, both from Norths and other teams.
Artie Beetson with the round-the- corner pass or John Gray with the round- the- corner goal kick. (I couldn’t pass like “half-a-game” Artie, but by God I at least looked like him more than the other kids)
I still have late night yarns with my mates as we recall all the names of the 1974 Eastern Suburbs Premiership team.
Each winter we would stand under old fig tree at Bear Park and watch our warriors graze their skin on the concrete surface that for years masqueraded as a first class arena. Sharp wits with a meat pie in hand and tomato sauce dribbling down their chin would always pay out on a visiting team, particularly if they had the misfortune of congregating inside the dead goal area after a rare North’s try.
On a Sunday night the family would watch Big League with Rex Mossop. I have an enduring memory of Rex, with the Lidcombe Oval railway line behind him, wax on about the impressive display from his beloved silvertails.
Usually an all-in melee between the fibros and their arch-enemies from the northern beaches led to much discussion on Controversy Corner the following week, just before they gave away a Meapro ham to some lucky punter.
Good memories for me – they were tough men.
I still love the game, and it is in my bones. But I miss the tribalism.
When television took over rugby league I not only lost my team, I lost my faith in the game.
The game is much faster today and the players are more finely tuned athletes. The tackles are harder and the injuries more severe.
Rugby League remains an impressive television spectacle. But my concern for the game is that it has lost its mojo. No longer do the players come from all walks of life. There is not a butcher, baker
or candlestick maker among them – they are all just a relatively homogenous mass of professional football players.
Their image is managed to the minute and their behaviour is expected to be as pristine as their salaries are large.
Do I feel sorry for modern players? No way. They get half the public scrutiny of a politician and three times an MP’s salary.
I feel sorry for the fans. We have endured much over the years despite some great moments on the field.
Let’s not expect too much of our players. They are not poets, singers, entertainers or erudite commentators. They are young men growing up quickly on massive salaries with high expectations.
And if kids are inspired by great deeds on the field then those deeds will be spontaneous and generous – like helping an opponent in distress after a big hit or patting an opponent on the back with
congratulations after an unbelievable try.
I don’t know if my Bears will ever come out of hibernation. It’s all academic really. They will live in a different forest and it will be a new generation of cubs that will carry the day.
But if you can’t bring back my Bears ….then let’s at least try to find the mojo of the game we love.
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