For neigh on 15 years Tom, Pip and I morosely watched as our birth state’s rugby league football team lost to a team of sky-blue jerseyed super stars from our southern neighboring state of New South Wales. The loss was always hard to take, but more so because so many of those sky-blue super stars were only just last year – our maroon-jerseyed state heroes. See, our players had since been lured to the gambling revenue rich southern football clubs with their deep pockets and nice fat cheque books. Such was the heartlessness of these club administrators that they twisted our champions desire to promote their careers and give financial protection to their families into a traitorous curse You must now wear that sky-blue jersey and become an enemy of your birth state. What glee it was for those New South Wales Czars to watch a game against Queensland being won by these now cursed sky-blue pawns what bitter heartache and anguish for us! Finally after years of pleading, our state was given the chance to pick a team based on where the players first played the game. It was a chance to go back in time to when the game was played for heart, soul and spirit rather than just for money. Well, I got the (3) tickets for that inaugural 1980 “State of Origin” game to be held at The Cauldron”, Lang Park. There were only 40,000 tickets sold to that first game in spite of more than 80,000 people today claiming to have actually at that historic occasion. Then again the crowd were so one-eyed one could easily imagine how twice as many people could fit in to that Queensland witches torture-chamber. So, like ants to the honey pot we joined the thousands of streaming fans in walking the back streets of Milton to that special game site. Being our first game as spectators to an actual grounds – Tom, Pip and I took our place sheepishly on the allocated wooden benches. Apart from some fairly beefy blokes in checkered flannelette shirts, we shared that spot with tomato sauce, beef pies and XXXX. Now that’s not a censored type-mark to hide a politically offensive word it is in fact how us Queenslanders spell beer. You know, it took a while for me, Tom and Pip to get into the game for real. We soon realised that it was impossible to enter into the spirit of this live game until we learnt the Queenslander’s war-crys and the supporters cheering anthems. “BOOO” was picked up fairly quickly and was obviously the call given whenever the other team did anything – good or bad like legitimately tackle one of our blokes. “Arteeee. Arteeee.” was the next war-cry we picked up and was obviously the call given whenever our veteran captain Arthur Beetson did anything super-skilled like catch the ball and roll forward or punch an opposition player in the gob whilst the referee was not looking. The final war chant took a little bit longer to pick up, probably because it consisted of more than one word. This call was obviously given whenever the referee gave a penalty against our beloved team. The chant sounded a lot like a repetitive monotone groan describing in detail the excrement one would usually find in a paddock of bulls. Now each of these supporter’s calls may seem to you of little significance, except for the fact that between 40 – 80,000 were calling them loud and in unison. Such was the intensity of the crowd’s vocal support that some stars of the game in sky-blue were reduced to fumbling nincompoops. Some players in maroon colours were seen to grow 10 feet tall and referees tendered to give decisions in favor of the home team quicker that a Don King appointed umpire at one of his specially organised prize fights. Well, Queensland won that inaugural game, but it was sadly marred by a very ugly incident off the field at half time. See, Tom and me had been a bit too heavy on the soda-pop for most of the first half and so had developed a rather pressing nature-call urge. We had stoically held our position however until half time, fearing the loss of not witnessing some great historic sporting moment. Finally the whistle blew and we were off to the ablution block along with 40-80,000 other patrons. Now I don’t know if you have ever joined a conga line when doing the rather private abolition function but that’s what happened that night. Long, long conga line in long, long conga line out. It was a rush. There was push and shove. Lots of shoulder to shoulder jostling on the 50-man heads down Wailing Wall. There were a few too many nudges in the back as the line behind pressed forward impatiently. In amongst the shifting swaying man-bodies lining that wall, I eventually found a spot alongside Tom as we attempted to do natures pressing thing. After a long pause I joined Tom in zipping up and fighting our way through the waiting lines to the wash basins and then on to join a now more relaxed conga line gliding out of the place. Once we got to the safety of the stands Tom looked at me and said “Phew that was tough. How did you go?” “I didn’t – I couldn’t” was all I could say with a painful grimace and a bewildered shrug of the shoulders. Well, I may have missed some vital historic match play halfway through the second half, but at least I managed to get some privacy in the now deserted cubicles. Believe me, it was an even better feeling than an historic Queensland win RELIEF!!!
