Retro Raiders!

Round 4, Raiders vs Tigers.   

Best Bits:

1.      Terry yelling at the refs. Terry arguing with the refs. Terry entering into disputes with the refs that had nothing to do with him. Terry been scolded by a ref: “I don’t need your help Terry”. Terry in general. TERRY.

2.      Warren Smith in commentary observing Joel Thompson leaping to his feet with intent to agitate after a tackle and saying mildly “yesss…always looks to be happy to accommodate somebody if it gets a bit frisky out there is Joel…”

3.      Jack Whighton, who my brother and I have taken to referring to only as Jack Boom, giving it to Benji Marshall around the chin and leaving him reeling and drooling like Brendan Fevola at the 2009 Brownlows. Do not be fooled by his sweet nineteen year old sugar-face and baby animal eyes, people: he is an agent of aggression – less sunbathing Labrador puppy, more chained-up-overnight-at-the-wreckers-attack dog. My approval is wholehearted.

4.      Reece Robinson. He just… SEEMS SO NICE. And he hustled back from injury early – risking messing up that pretty face with his fractured cheekbone – to fill in at fullback for Dugan and had a high-octane and audacious blinder. He ran! He leaped! He contested! He caught! He did it all and he looked fine doing it! Consequently, he was the subject of pervy texts – not for the first time – from my girl J-Bo. Example: “Robinson I love his assssssssssssss!!!!!” He pleased us both greatly. This makes him a people-pleaser, and proves that he really must be very nice.

5.      Footage of the Raiders belting out the victory song in the sheds, and Blake Ferguson accompanying with his half River dance, half stroke victim choreography. It has a name, his collection of moves – ‘The Fergie Dance’.  A sublime visual representation of victory.

6.      Laurie Daly’s chickens finally coming home to roost. He is clearly burdened with a psychic blockage that prevents him from tipping against the Raiders, no matter how diabolical their form. You just don’t see loyalty and resolve like that anymore.

7.      Jarrod Croker – sweet sad eyed man-child, summing things up beautifully in his post-match interview with the stirring words “Guess we played a bit of Raiders of old.” Croker! Jesus me! That is the most deeply meaningful and poignant post-match sentiment I have ever heard.

8.      Raiders 30, Tigers 16. Ye olde Raiders REPRESENT.

I'm Not Mad, I'm Just....Disappointed: The Raiders Under-achieve Again.

Why the long face?
Oh, right. The Raiders are playing.

Like the last 7.5 games, give or take a few moments of fabulousness (hi Blake Ferguson!), this was not the game to watch if small matters of discipline, defense, ball control and decent refereeing mean anything to you.

The commentators set the scene early with constant references to Canberra's spectacular losing steak, saying theatrical things like: "they are perilously close to falling into the abyss". Being the truth, it is painful to hear.
At some stage in the game, Noddy comments from the sideline that Farrah is "too smart for 'em". More hurt. I flinch and brace for trauma every time Marshall or Orford get the ball. For wildly different reasons, obviously.
Canberra's right side gapes open like a ripped circus tent. The Tigers exploit this at every oppurtunity and run in what seems like several dozen tries.
49-12. Tigers jubilant, Raiders shellshocked.

After enduring this 80 minutes of sustained suffering I took directly to my bed. However, sleep provided no sanctuary. Not on Robbie and Benji's watch. I was haunted by semi-delerious dreams of them both. Really, guys? It's not enough for you to reduce 16 hulking men and Matt Orford to ashen-faced rubble, now you're interfering with the tormented minds of the Raiders faithful? We have so little already!

In my dreams (there was a whole unfolding series of them, eighty minutes worth probably), the two of them were totally tyrannising me. They literally ran rings around me, with cold-eyed and clinical aplomb. No departure from reality there, then. Obviously it was a subconscious sympathy card for the Raider boys, signed sealed and delivered by my psyche (stick that in yer pipe Australia Post).

It reminded me of nothing so much as the way my mum's whippet used to behave on the beach when confronted with dogs he didn't much care for. He'd use his mad athletic skills and speed to dazzle the eye and confuse the mind of even the most menacing dog, performing complicated configurations of spins and darts and sprints that humiliated and exhausted the disdained dog.

Basically, he'd do what the entire Tigers side did to the Raiders on Sunday at Bruce Stadium. Which is the same thing they've done to the Raiders for as far back as I care to remember. Laid. To. Waste.

Jasper (the whippet) eventually slipped a disc in his back and wound up crippled.

Now, I stop short of saying I hope for a similar fate to befall any or all of the Tigers team. However, the heavy reality is that, right now, I can't say with any conviction that I'd entirely disapprove.