Rugby players don’t often start fights. But if forced to, they’ll finish them.
Once you start to get recognised, be it local or nationally, a lot of juiced-up blokes like to test themselves against you.
My first experience was in 2006. I’d been in Sydney for a few months and we’d just had a good win at Coogee Oval. Better yet, the Bledisloe Cup was on and I, my roommate Luke Bertram and buddy Blair Frendin headed to the clubhouse to watch the game over a few cold ones.
To my delight, the Wallabies won. And with two victories in one day, we headed to a local burger joint for a quick Bruce Reid before getting on the launch pad and pressing the button for a big night out.
All was well. We were reminiscing the finer points of both games and bangin’ a burger in when a bloke in an All Blacks jersey and one too many under the belt wanders over to our table and takes a chip right from Blair’s plate. Now, from what the internet has shown me, I understand Kiwi folk love their ‘fush and chups’. But taking food from another man’s plate – let alone a stranger’s – is just not on.
We ignored it. But the bloke thought he’d help himself to another. And on this attempt, his hand was met with Blair’s, who pushed the bloke’s hand away and kindly asked him to beat it.
Well, old mate had no intentions of leaving quietly and started swearing and causing a scene in the joint. I hadn’t copped this much heat in a restaurant since I refused to pay $16 for a beer at that small sushi joint in Surry Hills – Nobu I think it is?
So he threatens to bash Blair, which in essence is Blair’s fault. I told him you always sit with your back to the wall . . . Anyhow, Blair stands up and tells the bloke to beat it once more. But this time, the Kiwi swung a packed lunch and Blair – school judo champion from the year before – ducked and landed a beauty right on old mate’s scone. The silly bloke was hammered, and went crashing through table and chairs, landing on the deck with a busted beak and a split eye.
I WASN’T ABOUT TO MISS OUT ON A NIGHT OUT OVER SOME SOGGY CHIPS
He gingerly gets up, claret everywhere and as Blair was moving towards him I jumped between them. I’d seen enough. I held them apart and said to Blair: ‘He’s done, mate. He’s had enough.’ And no sooner had I turned to the Kiwi bloke to say it’s over when he king hit me in the temple! And it bloody hurt.
Now, I love my grub as much as, if not more, than the next bloke. But I wasn’t about to miss out on a night out over some soggy chips.
So I grabbed Blair and Luke and made a beeline for the pub – ’cause I knew the swelling was only gonna get bigger and I wouldn’t be let in in half an hour’s time.
The security guard asked what happened to my eye and I replied: ‘Got a few bumps during our win today for Randwick.’ It worked a treat.
I was always taught to steer clear of fights. Dad always said that no one really wins in a fight, but if someone starts one, you finish it.
The black eye turned out to be a biggie and, given I barely got tackled – as per usual – that day, I’m not sure if my boss and coach bought the story. But I would take a hit for my mate any day. Good mates are rare these days.