Up The Milk n all, and welcome back Red. But The Riff go a bit too good
This column is nothing if not positive. We've predicted victories over Storm, Roosters, hot Dogs. But if there's one team that's a pencilled-in mental "L" each season, it is these Penrith Panthers.
And so to game day, at home, against the Riff … and, well … I dunno.
Every week, you look at Our Guys versus Their Guys and think, we’re a show here. Prime front-rowers. Bit of flash in the backs. Hudson Young. Hold the ball, share of luck. We’re a show.
This week? Not so much. And even with a reserve grade tinge to much of the Panthers bench and forward pack, you’re clutching at so many plastic straws. Because Penrith’s reggies just slot in as cogs of a beautiful, brutal machine.
Their front-rowers, one could argue, match, even eclipse the Raiders bookends. Moses Leota and James Fisher-Harris are the testing material, the bash brothers of truck-it-uppery. Their clashes with Josh Papali’i and Joe Tapine will be deadset knee-tremblers.
In the backrow Isaah Yeo is like a five-eighth. And Liam Martin could wrestle a rock. And if these people dominate you, as they can, then their Really Good Players - Dylan Walker, Jarome Luai, Brian To’o, and you could throw in Izack Tago - kill you.
That’s right. They kill you and you die, and on your patch, that was once so much of a graveyard for visiting sides that they brought their own coffins, they win. And probably by lots.
Penrith just win contests across the park, and don’t drop the ball much, and seem to be fitter than normal people.
I honestly give us a sniff against anyone. Bit of luck. Injuries. Refs. The bunker. Anyone can beat anyone in this National Rugby League, as Wests Tigers showed against Manly Sea Eagles.
But the Riff? Not so much. They’re the game you almost mentally pencil in the “L”. They go, as they say in our brutally effective and spare Australian lingo, good.
They go good.
Our guys? Not as good. And while you should never question the desire and pride of professional sportsmen, when you go to Townsville and defend like the Swiss Navy, get flogged 42-4, let the Cowboys run free like the buffalo, you begin to question the desire and pride of professional sportsmen.
Because, well … what was that? The Cows aren’t Real Madrid. Val Holmes isn’t Christiano Ronaldo. It rained tries. Their backs were covered in bird-eating spiders. It was just bad. And one hopes Forever Coach Ricky Stuart has some sort of man-management plan to chasten and cajole and inspire his people, some bit of wizardry gleaned from 571 games coaching NRL and representative teams and going to training a lot.
You wonder what, though. Maybe there’s nothing you can say. Stay mute. Make a statement with silent disdain.
Look fucked if I know. And fucked if you know either, I would warrant. But we’ll have a stab, and try to remain positive, and never, ever, not ever, never, something, as Taylor Swift would say, declare that we cannot beat Penrith Panthers.
But Jeez. I mean, up The Milk n all. But if we get within 10 points of Penrith, Donny Furner might extend Sticky’s contract until 2036.
Can we win? Yes. Will we? Unlikely.
“Big Red” Corey Horsburgh has been named on the bench in the No.22, and no doubt will tear onto the field with much of the Mal Meninga Stand urging him on, very keen to see how he goes given his apparent desire to no longer play for Canberra Raiders.
He hasn’t played first grade since April. He’s only played two first grade games all year. Probably should temper expectations. But if our Horse can run out and rip in, and bend the line a time or two … it would be good.
Elsewhere, Seb Kris is back in the centres, Albert Hopoate is back on the wing, and Jordan Rapana is back at fullback. Kaeo Weekes has been moved to five-eighth because Ethan Strange has a calf thing, and Adam Cook did not set stadia alight in the six.
I like Weekes at six. He can scoot. So can Matt Timoko. So can Xavier Savage. They need to have a crack, offload, take a chance, chip and chase. Pull something out their bottom. Tough to beat the Riff with crash-ball-repeat.
Anyway it’s the other half of the game concerns, the one we don’t have the ball. So, on the back of Jamal Fogarty’s kicking game, they have to pin the other team in their area, and bash them when they’re there, and do it both ends of the field, for as much of the 80 minutes as they can muster. Do that, even in a loss, you’d cop it sweet.
But a win, in Elliot Whitehead’s last game, a man who’ll leave nothing upon the park but cauterised skin tissue, would be as sweet as it would be surprising.
Up The Milk!