Sonny Bill Williams

The Men of Rugby League are under 
siege again; they coined the name 
when gates were down and called 
their troops to rally round. Leaders 
cited sacrifice, of daunting deeds
on sacred ground, of camaraderie
in words that rang a hollow sound.       

Then they split for rival leagues and
freely shot each other down. Their

sacred game was easy sold for thirty

coins of merchant gold – all things

nice and ever true about the League

were moved with speed and buried

deep from public view. 

A grave has been exhumed this week

in a name: Sonny Bill Williams – ever 

heard of him? He fled the scene for

another shore – a buck or two more

and the rival code of Union. The Men 
of League communed to courthouse 
rooms to slice their pound of flesh. 

They abhorred his lack of courtesy, of 
tact, plus spew his broken contract –
it’s not the money so they say – but 
a principle that players stay a-bound. 
But bound one-way! Tied to salary cap

aberrations kept under wraps in their

inimitably covetous Shylock ways. 

Sonny Bill, in France learning French

and playing rugby union isn’t all that

safe either; the way these aggrieved

miscegnants operate guarantees no

‘merci’ is left to see it any other way

than in the cant of these complete

bastards of duplicity... 
© 9 August 2008, I. D. Carswell