Raiders to eviscerate Tigers in Leichhardt Oval bloodbath
There is no other option. We win and win well. Here's why.
And so to Leichhardt Oval in the beating heart of the inner-west of maggoty old Sydney Town for the final game of the final round of the 2022 NRL season proper.
And it should be very good.
Because our boys are humming.
How about them against Manly? Jack Wighton, hopping down the left, ball in two hands, running hard and straight and dishing inside and out to Hudson Young and Seb Kris and whoever else wanted to keep the party going. It was a beautiful thing.
That fizzing torpedo pass that hit Jordan Rapana on the chest on the wing, well, that was sexy indeed. Funny thing: Nicho Hynes ripped off a similar bit of kit against Manly at Brookvale a few weeks ago and Sydney media shot their bolt. Yet Wighton does it in Canberra against the same mob and it’s still - true fact - sort of meh among media in Sydney Town where our Green Machine remains slightly out of sight and mind, bit like Cowboys if not Storm.
It is a Thing.
Wighton was my man-of-the-match against Manly because when he’s running straight and stepping and frightening opponent’s right edge the world is a happy place. His mighty left boot sent pure, low drop-punts into the corner before leading the chase, and pinning them like bugs by bashing them into submission. That stuff is golden. That’s Ricky Ball, baby, like Queensland in Origin III: kick early, chase like devil dogs, smash and dominate the ball-carriers. It stuffs their forwards. Emotionally wrecks them. It’s top bloody stuff.
And if they can piss those piggy-back penalties off, this simple strategy of controlled brutality can carry Canberra deep into 2022, true fact.
Admittedly the 48-6 hiding was wrought upon penis-less Manly Warringah Sea Eagles who were, ironically, playing for pride and found they didn’t have any, or at least none that did them any good. If defence is an attitude, Manly’s sucks ass, as they say. Something is crook in Tallarook at Brook … ee, something.
But enough of religious odd-balls who’d put homophobia ingrained by priests ahead of their club and team-mates they call “brothers” in a must-win clash against the Roosters at their home ground. Enough.
Because come Sunday it’s Canberra time, baby, when the destiny of the Canberra Raiders resides in the palms of the Canberra Raiders (or maybe Brisbane Broncos who could easily lose to St George Illawarra Dragons at Kogarah Jubilee at 5:30pm Saturday, the northern flatlander’s form is worse than a horse called Uconic I backed at 50-1 the other day that’s still a maiden after 20 starts, there’s a reason for it, because it’s poop).
But this: we win Sunday and we win well. All the noise about Wests Tigers having one last game, doing it for their fans, doing it at their Spiritual Home (where we smashed them in 2016 in Robbie Farah’s last hurrah) and having nothing to lose belies the fact that for 24 rounds they’ve been largely shit-house. Plodders. Honest wooden-spooners. Meh.
How come? Bunch of reasons. One, for mine, is they don’t care about the jumper. Not enough, anyway. Many years ago Tony Montana (Al Pacino) said in Scarface (1981): “It’s in the eyes, Chico. They never lie.” And in the eyes of Wests Tigers I see professional footballers going through motions. Doing a job as they might weld boilers for the council. I don’t see passion. Heat. Lust. Any of that.
Yes, they were very annoyed to lose to North Queensland Cowboys in that funny finish game a month ago … but … I dunno: I just see pro-ballers, collecting a cheque. And perception, as we know, is reality.
Regardless - we smash them at Leichhardt. I see no other option.
Why? Because we’re better. Better forwards. Better backs. Better bench. Better coach.
Better reason to win.
This Sunday Ricky Stuart, the great Sticki, will take over from Tim Sheens for most Raiders games coached (220), and that’s very good. Because he’s a very, very good coach.
Consider: we lose the halfback before the season kicks off and the hooker in the first eight minutes of game one. Jarrod Croker comes back from a knee injury and does his shoulder, out for the season. Rising colt Harley Smith-Shields does his knee - season. Semi Valemi, the website says “indefinite” - but season. Harry Rushton does his jaw then goes home. Charnze Nicoll-Klokstad got old before our eyes. There’s been suspensions, concussions and refereeing calls from the typically rough end of the pineapple.
But here we are, eighth with a bullet. In form. Potent. Duking it out like those infused with the competitive heat and lust of Mad King Rick. There’s also momentum and continuity. Last few weeks we’ve trotted out the same Best XVII, one that’s highly capable of frightening the absolute mucous out of Melbourne Storm at AAMI Park should that happen next weekend, it appears that it will.
And we have the wood on those people in Bleak City, it is a deadset Thing.
And while it’s likely to rain on Leichhardt Sunday, it’s effectively fact - yes, fact - that the Raiders will be too big, too strong, too committed and too overall bloody good for Wests Tigers and the score will be 34-10, take it to the bank via your responsible gambling app.
In other news, best-selling word-book The Milk has a Two-For-One Limited Time Only Father’s Day Super Special Offer operating until midnight Sunday, so get amongst that action if you’re of a mind and I’ll post out a couple of signed copies to you and your Father Figure.
Meanwhile, furthermore, one of those, if anyone’s heading to the game on Sunday, I’ll be meeting some types for lunch at Norton’s Irish Pub (cnr Norton St and Parramatta Road) from 1pm followed by a pub crawl via The Royal Leichhardt and Orange Grove Hotel, and if you’re in the vicinity you may and possibly should join us.
And, of course: UP THE MILK!