The Warriors line up ahead of their game against the Storm. Photo / Getty
The Warriors line up ahead of their game against the Storm. Photo / Getty
OPINION:
There's nothing like a hiding to solidify your love for your team.
The Warriors got rinsed on Anzac Day. The traditional embarrassment at the hands of the Storm reached new levels of incredulity as the home team tore the visitors apart. After a first half where their best effortsto keep the opposition in the game were taken, the Mt Smart refugees stayed in touch with the Storm, but the second half was the stuff of nightmares: 54-0. Their defence was shredded, their spine snapped. They got owned.
Cue the howls of derision, the accusations, the apoplectic reckons. The threats to never watch again. The sneers, the outrage.
None of which comes from fans. True fans don't defecate the linen in horror. True fans don't destroy their season tickets. True fans understand the reality of fandom. They get that for the vast majority of fans their team doesn't win. Doesn't even compete in Grand Finals. Their team maybe wins nothing of substance for generations.
A true fan rides the wave with the club. They experience the heart wrenching lows, are there for the highs and all the mediocrity in between. Knowing hurt is to revel in joy. The highs don't hold the heavens with such joy and thanks if the lows don't scrape Hades.
I wouldn't be surprised if my team, the Warriors, never reach the holy grail of rugby league. As much as I'd love to see the statue of the two blokes hugging raised high by one of the Penrose gang, that is not my reason for following the team as they get beaten from pillar to post. That's not why I sit through Aussie bias, watch the boys reach deep into the throat of victory and wrestle out the serpent of defeat. Not even for those freakish games where the Warriors are on the right side of a multi carriage maglev wreck.
Warriors fans at a game. Photo / Photosport
I indulge in the Warriors because they're my team. The wrinkles, the creases, the smooth rides, the beauty, the rough edges, the abhorrent ugliness of games gone to seed. The insane signings, the journeys of rookies to superstar status. The bun fights that are ownership impasses. The jersey. All of those goddamn jerseys. I'm there for that. I'm there for the fans en masse. The throngs of folk who turn up (when Covid-19 allows) to set aside their lives, the sometimes unbearable morass of existence, to cheer and shout and holler and be part of something bigger than them – part of a team.
Sure, the Warriors were awful on Anzac Day. They stunk the joint out, a classic dumpster fire. They got flattened by the kind of team who experiences the kind of success we can only dream of. But I'm not buying a purple jersey for the promise of a hollow, bandwagon jumping trophy.
I'm staying right where I am even though my team might never win a Grand Final. That doesn't matter; all that matters is that they are my team and I support them every step of the way, even if some of those steps leave me ankle deep in excrement.
Criticise, sure. Question what you saw? Absolutely. Feel the hurt by all means. Lie in the gutter, beaten and bruised but from that prone position, you can still look up at the stars.
You're a fan, that's part of the drill. But never, ever give up.
