The beaches

The northern beaches are god’s country, even if fewer Manly supporters can afford to live there. The eastern beaches would be god’s country if you could park there. To everyone else, real estate values are a good enough reason to hate both clubs, their gods and their overpriced countries.

The player conundrum

The problem for neutrals is, that it takes imagination to fully hate individual players at Manly and Easts today, especially with Brandon Smith sidelined. The heart of Manly is Turbo, Jurbo and Burbo. What’s to hate? Yes, DCE has been disliked, but now he is past 50 years of age (don’t believe he’s only 35), fans have softened. How can you hate someone who is that old and still getting better? If you’re looking for a prancing, error-prone show-pony, Dominic Young and Jason Saab cancel each other out. Grubs? Jared Waerea-Hargreaves is more of a cult comedy, like Spiros Arion or Mario Milano, brought on to whack someone and get sent off again to a standing ovation. I’m as prone to pointless hatred as anyone, but I’ve searched my soul and just can’t find it.

The venue

Brookvale Oval, or whatever it’s called now, can be hated because of its chaotic transport options, its blinding afternoon sun, and toilets that are like the black hole of Kolkata. Like Stephen Lucas, Brookie hates you too. But the new Sydney Football Stadium, or whatever it’s called? Wasn’t that paid for by taxpayers’ money? Has everyone in New South Wales gifted a billionaire his own workspace? Someone still hasn’t explained that.

The modern coach

Neither Trent Robinson nor Anthony Siebold is a former player of note, so they didn’t bring a personality or any other baggage into the coaching box. They prefer suits to polo shirts. In frustration, they don’t throw their toys out of the cot in the style of Sticky or Bellamy. They adopt a thousand-yard stare and sigh heavily. When they whinge about referees, they do so within the established guardrails to avoid fines. They speak like pseudo-intellectuals from corporate brainstorming sessions. They care about the person more than the player. They’re bad box office.

Mincemeat for Melbourne

The stakes for Saturday’s match are not high. The reward for the winner is a trip to Melbourne to get belted. For the loser, a trip to Bali to get hammered. Or, in case of a miracle, a trip back to Sydney in a fortnight to get monstered by Penrith. This is not do-or-die. It’s die-now-or-later.

Hate for hate’s sake

When Manly and Easts last played in a grand final, in 2013, the TV ratings were down. Rugby league fans will not be ruled by purely negative emotions. If they want to hate-watch, they have infinite options on Netflix. For the sensible neutral, such a game is lose-lose. It ends up with seeing celebrations in the Easts jersey – a symbol of entitlement, unconscious privilege and rule by business connections – or in the Manly jersey – a symbol of Manly. For the neutral, whatever happens on the field, the certain result is self-hatred for having watched to the end.

Tribal hatred does soften with time. I’ve begun to like the Storm, partly because Ryan Papenhuyzen and Cameron Munster are so good to watch and partly because if you can’t admire what Craig Bellamy has done as a coach, you’ve lost all ability to appreciate the art of turning the ordinary into the excellent. I like Penrith too, because at their best they have perfected the greatest game of all, and they’ve done so while repeatedly divesting themselves of outstanding players to stay within the salary cap.

Loading

I even like Easts because they have saved the NRL from great embarrassment by not being good enough to win premierships while driving their City Fords through double-wide cap loopholes. All league followers owe Politis and Robinson a debt of gratitude by failing to buy themselves a title.

Manly or Easts? An insoluble moral quandary. Hate one or the other, hate both equally, hate neither equally, it’s all just a game. (No it’s not.) But league needs hatred like Dracula needs blood, and the beauty of league hatred is that you don’t need to know what it is you’re hating.

Maybe it’s the fast-approaching end of the season and six months to wait until round one. You shake your fist at the rising of the sun. It’s just a reflex. That’s what September is about for most fans. Once your team is gone, you need to hate someone. I think I can speak for all Sea Eagles and Roosters fans when I say, Guess what? If you can be bothered hating us, we’ll find it in our hearts to hate you too.