SeaEagle007
Reserve Grader
http://www.news.com.au/breaking-news/admit-it-you-only-hate-manly-because-youre-jealous-writes-adam-peacock/story-e6frfkp9-1226732814080
Looking wistfully out the window pondering this question, I notice a rusty old plaque.
It lists 1972, 73, 76, 78, 87, 96, 2008, 2011 as Premiership years - the last three thanks to a permanent marker, because the plaque is getting on.
Also, what it doesn’t mention is wooden spoons. As in 0 wooden spoons since 1947.
So how do you bloody reckon it is to be a Manly fan?
Fantastic, brilliant, superlatively superb and then some.
Hate? What hate? Honestly, we don’t care.
Jealous? Your problem. Again, we don’t care.
Growing up as an Eagles fan wasn’t that hard, because I went to a school which backed onto Brookvale Oval, which meant if you didn’t go for Manly, you were as minority as a nun in a nightclub.
Once horizons were broadened thanks to adulthood, people would get stuck into you for being a Manly fan.
The number of times I heard: (insert snarly, whingy voice) “I’ve got 2 teams. My team and whoever is playing Manly, hahahahaaaa”
Good one. Ripper. My pants just split.
When the club nearly went away thanks to that dalliance with Norths - a worse marriage than Lyle Lovett and Julia Roberts – there was a brief moment when you thought this is bad. This stinks.
But of course even fate knew Manly belonged alone, so the divorce happened, after which a few years of rubbish footy followed.
Never mind, sitting in the sun on Brooky Hill, you’d go up the back to get a pie and beer and see the beach. And all was well with the world.
The bonus is success and sure enough it returned and here we are, into a fourth grand final in seven years thanks to a rookie coach who knows the joint backwards and a brilliant team, trained in a covert base surrounded by bushland off the Wakehurst Parkway in Narrabeen.
The offices are rickety-old demountables, but evidently you don’t make grand finals after watching Grand Designs.
The facilities for making footballers – training pitch, weight room, pool, recovery areas - are first class.
The rest of the world is truly a world away – and included in that is the Manly boardroom, which seems more like a conglomeration of the Gambinos, Corleones and Kardashians.Like us fans with opinion of others, the players don’t care. They just get on with it.
This past week, thanks to an unlikely run to the decider, there’s a sense of admiration for the current Manly team.
That’s nice, I guess. But tell us something we don’t know.
Anyway, has the hate not spread elsewhere? To Melbourne, Canterbury, Souths, or Roosters, anywhere really where’s there’s success, a chequebook or both.
I say “might have spread” because again, we don’t really care.
If this prose has a smug tone to it, apologies.
If you hate Manly even more now because we don’t care, I’m sorry, but guess what.
We don’t care.
Go Manly.
Best Article Ive read so far this week
Looking wistfully out the window pondering this question, I notice a rusty old plaque.
It lists 1972, 73, 76, 78, 87, 96, 2008, 2011 as Premiership years - the last three thanks to a permanent marker, because the plaque is getting on.
Also, what it doesn’t mention is wooden spoons. As in 0 wooden spoons since 1947.
So how do you bloody reckon it is to be a Manly fan?
Fantastic, brilliant, superlatively superb and then some.
Hate? What hate? Honestly, we don’t care.
Jealous? Your problem. Again, we don’t care.
Growing up as an Eagles fan wasn’t that hard, because I went to a school which backed onto Brookvale Oval, which meant if you didn’t go for Manly, you were as minority as a nun in a nightclub.
Once horizons were broadened thanks to adulthood, people would get stuck into you for being a Manly fan.
The number of times I heard: (insert snarly, whingy voice) “I’ve got 2 teams. My team and whoever is playing Manly, hahahahaaaa”
Good one. Ripper. My pants just split.
When the club nearly went away thanks to that dalliance with Norths - a worse marriage than Lyle Lovett and Julia Roberts – there was a brief moment when you thought this is bad. This stinks.
But of course even fate knew Manly belonged alone, so the divorce happened, after which a few years of rubbish footy followed.
Never mind, sitting in the sun on Brooky Hill, you’d go up the back to get a pie and beer and see the beach. And all was well with the world.
The bonus is success and sure enough it returned and here we are, into a fourth grand final in seven years thanks to a rookie coach who knows the joint backwards and a brilliant team, trained in a covert base surrounded by bushland off the Wakehurst Parkway in Narrabeen.
The offices are rickety-old demountables, but evidently you don’t make grand finals after watching Grand Designs.
The facilities for making footballers – training pitch, weight room, pool, recovery areas - are first class.
The rest of the world is truly a world away – and included in that is the Manly boardroom, which seems more like a conglomeration of the Gambinos, Corleones and Kardashians.Like us fans with opinion of others, the players don’t care. They just get on with it.
This past week, thanks to an unlikely run to the decider, there’s a sense of admiration for the current Manly team.
That’s nice, I guess. But tell us something we don’t know.
Anyway, has the hate not spread elsewhere? To Melbourne, Canterbury, Souths, or Roosters, anywhere really where’s there’s success, a chequebook or both.
I say “might have spread” because again, we don’t really care.
If this prose has a smug tone to it, apologies.
If you hate Manly even more now because we don’t care, I’m sorry, but guess what.
We don’t care.
Go Manly.
Best Article Ive read so far this week
