I want to wake up sweating. I want to wake up hearing that last, last, last 'SIIIIIIIIIIIIIING US A SONG YOU'RE the COBRAS MAN! SING US A SONG TONIGHT! FOR WE'RE ALL IN THE MOOD FOR A VICTORY... AAAND ITS GOT US FEELIN ALRIGHT! SIIIIIIIIIIIIING.... I want that fucking TROPHY!
Sorry... I got a little carried away there. Just needed to get that off my chest. Sorry guys. Sorry Raubs, sorry Bailo, sorry Callan, sorry Dil, sorry Junks, sorry Evan, sorry Jamie, sorry Khots. Sorry everyone. Sorry to let you down with that little outburst. I let my emotions get the better of me. But to be honest with you guys, the prospect of this final is a bit bitter, sweet I must say. I am a long way from my home, my physical home and my spiritual home. So what am I meant to do exactly? I mean... I am excited and I am jealous. I am pumped up, but strangely deflated. The prospect of the Cobras winning another trophy is bringing out all sorts of emotions I didn’t realize I possessed. Knowing that our boys face the final and biggest challenge of the season and I can’t be there to contribute makes me a little sad. But this isn’t about me it’s about the Cobras. I went out for dinner last night. A place called Megan’s. Quite nice. Looked like the entire restaurant had been pulled out of an interior decorator catalogue. Jar full of dried lemon rinds for aroma. Tick. Simple, yet elegant tables. Tick. The limited menu that says; “hey, we don’t do a lot of food, but what we do do, we do really well.” Tick. Quirky music pouring out of some hidden speaker that says; "we provide an intimate setting, but we're still here to have fun." Tick. Dull conversation with a girl you’ve never met about a job you don’t care about. Tick. The one irritating girl who doesn’t laugh at your insanely funny comments, and keeps rolling her eyes at you. Tick. The annoying hipster who makes the most obvious observations about the most obvious comments, that you had thought of ages ago but chose not to say because it was too bloody obvious, and then every one laughs with him like he’s some kind of fucking genius. Tick. Basically the kind of restaurant and the kind of night you’re happy to write off at ten. I was roped into it and it won’t happen again. I promise. I promise Shane, I promise Poen, I promise Dino, I promise Marzie, I promise Armo, I promise Warren, I promise Tom, I promise Fridge. (Not Hawski though, Hawski looooves those kinds of evenings. Hawski may or may not have brought his guitar along. Hawski may or may not be the guy who takes his jersey off at the table without keeping his t -shirt down to reveal just the slightest glimpse of a torso that even Ryan Reynolds would be proud of. Hawski may or may not be 'that guy'. Who knows).
Anyway. So we’re chatting away- you know: casual like- and one of the other guys at the table chirps up; “so Dugald do you think Oxford would beat UCT if they had to play a game against each other?” I took a moment because my comment obviously has some serious ramifications and I wasn’t about to get into an argument about such a thing in Megan's. Oh no... Not Megan's, not with el diablo (the bitch sitting opposite me) staring me down. So I simply said;” not sure about that but I am positive the Cobras would beat them both!” Now we all know the Cobras would struggle against UCT First XV. It would be a good game. A bit like Wales VS South Africa, but you always know that a Cobras win is unlikely- less so now that our team is starting to actually resemble the UCT First XV. But that’s not really the point. The point is that we have that beautiful sense of ability that courses through our veins. That inherent self- belief instilled in every member of the Cobras family. This, I believe, is what really separates the Cobras from every other team in the league.
I remember (fuck that sounds old) the days when we first came into the league and we played against a Nadoes team that resembled a French club side more than it did a UCT internal league team. I’ll never forget that game when a young long, greasy haired Graeme Steen was destroyed in a late tackle by the then UCT First team Captain who had at least six years on him. Graeme didn’t moan, didn’t winge to the ref, he just got up and got on with the game. Hard as fucking nails. I remember Wayne Wayzie, a New Zealander drafted in by UCT First XV for the season coming on for them and butchering our players. But fuck me did we get stuck in! Do you think Nick FW stood back and said; “well guys let’s just have fun, we can’t win.” We knew, and he knew that we couldn’t win, but that didn’t stop Nick shitting on us for missing tackles or dropping balls. In that first season the true Cobras ethos of battling for every inch was born. We’ve seen many clubs come and go. Turtles, MOB, SOcO Thocos or whatever their shit names were, all faded like most teams do when they play the Cobras. Those are the foundations on what is today a group of people who live to kill themselves every Wednesday night for the love of their team mates.
So where are we now? Five years on, new faces, new songs but the same fundamental attitude remains. The songs and the change room sessions are a big part of who we are, but it’s that desire to fight every minute of every game that sets us apart from the rest. None of that arrogant Nadoes; we were here first bullshit, just stoic belief in ourselves, and the guys around us. If it isn’t Kyle Rennie picking from the base then it’s Cal groveling at the bottom of the ruck. If it’s not Warren Butler slotting from the half- way line then it’s Poenie sizing up the man in front of him and shunting him backwards. If it isn’t Raubs leg driving then it’s Rayaann sliding effortlessly into the corner. If it isn’t you, then it will be one of your team- mates.
So what am I going to do on Wednesday night? I could ask Mano From Heaven to sort out a live feed for me, but I don’t want to take his focus off the game. I could ask Dil to give me continuous live updates, but unfortunately the oke is arguably the least reliable human being when it comes to answering calls or messages. Bailes would give me brilliant accounts of the game, he could probably even give me all the heights and weights of every player on the pitch. James Bailes is rugby! I could ask any one of the many Cobras crew that will be lining the field, hopefully hurling abuse and encouragement in equal measure (Encouragement!). But I won't.
The truth is I choose to rely on the abrupt score updates from my father. His massive fingers are not ideal for typing text messages on a cold evening on the Green mile, but he’ll persevere because he knows what the Cobras means to me. It’s part of our family now. I think my mum gave up giving me lectures on going to lectures on Thursdays a long time ago because she knows what Wednesday night means. When my bro started playing for Cobras in matric the Cobras logo was sewn on to the chest of every piece of clothing in the house. (That's figuratively speaking. Can hear a couple of you slower lads- not necessarily the props- going: ahhh what? You see what I have tried to do there is explain just how much my family loves the Cobras. How it means something to us. You see? Sure? I could explain it again.) Anyway- we love the Cobras.
So bring me that fucking trophy gentlemen! I want to be tossing in my bed on Wednesday night, I want to be haunted by the thoughts of all of you drinking yourselves to a stand still. I want to wake up sweating with Kyyyyyyyyyle, Kyyyyyyyyyle Rennie! ringing in my ears. I want to feel that cold, wet cement floor on my knees as I go down for one last 'Hoist up the Cobras sail...' I want to fall asleep quietly singing; “I wanna go home, I wanna goo hoooooooooome! This is the best team I’ve ever played for!” da dada da dada…. And on Wednesday night I will truly know what that song means. Those words will never hold such weight as they are going to on Wednesday. I am going to celebrate by myself, not necessarily on Wednesday night but come Friday, I'll have a beer or two, sure.
So that’s my little contribution chaps (Graeme Steen voice). It’s not much, but it’s about all I can give you at this point. It’s not Al Pacino, but it’s probably the best I’ve got. Probably. Much better in person. Of course. If you win, massive sesh at my house on my return. If you lose… Well who we’re kidding. THE COBRAS. DON’T FUCKING. LOSE!
Fucking Cobras ‘til I die! Come on!
So until then…
ALWAYS TAKE THE WEATHER WITH YOU!
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