15 November 2008

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