BY DAN

In the 58th minute of their 48-2 loss to the Melbourne Storm the Canberra Raiders worked through the middle third. Hooker Adrian Trevilyan used his forwards on either side of the ruck, drawing the attention of markers and providing smooth and easy service to middles coming over the advantage line. The set ended with Jamal Fogarty putting up a defensive bomb that was taken a few metres from the Storm line. Canberra, finally, had earned field position to take advantage of. On the next set the Storm were forced to kick from their own half. This was, in all literal and figurative meaning of the words, as good as it got for the Milk.

The Canberra Raiders 2023 season is on life support. A rot, an infection, obscured by a ladder position more inflated than the property market, has taken hold. In this game they barely crossed halfway. They were less threatening than a puppy in desperate need of a tummy rub. Less aggressive than down feathers. More confused than a drunk trying to operate the self service unit at Maccas at 3am. They were inept. Incapable. They got everything they deserved. The sunshine that lit their incompetence with an undeserved golden hue. To paraphrase Wendy Mathews, it should rain on a day like today

It’s not that they had little to play for. Indeed today wasn’t so much a litmus test for their contender-ship this season. That had been well established in the negative before this game. It instead was a test of their fraudulence; an opportunity to show the “small margins big hearts” approach was a foundation rather than a necessity. They could prove all the haters wrong. Instead they stood naked like the Emperor in his new clothes, proof positive of the vanity of man.

Nothing went right in this game, but more telling was that even the things they built their success on this season felt flimsy. Castles made of sand. Middle dominance, the start and end of many victories this year was absent. With the ball they were eaten up by a team willing to shoot out of the line at forwards like it was touch footy, exposing the simplicity of the Raiders work through the middle.

The Green Machine were instead outgained by 700 metres. Josh Papalii (12 for 118m, 40 post contact) was the only forward to make more than 100 metres on the ground. Albert Hopoate (14 for 113m) was the only other Raider to mark the ton. Canberra’s pack were outmanoeuvred and outmuscled by a Storm pack they should have dominated (and have done in the past). The battle to win a single ruck felt helpless, and it put stress on every weakness they have.

In attack it meant the ball was permanently headed sideways, players running angles like they were trying to solve trigonometry equation. The ball went wide but instead of finding more space they operated in smaller and smaller windows. Centres were forced into impossible passes. Wingers almost exclusively stepped inside cover defence in search of a vain hope of a lazy defender. Debutant Ethan Strange got the ball with the smallest amount of space late in the second half, and it felt like the first time he’d caught the ball without someone in his lap. Matt Timoko, the sides sole weapon, spent most of the game like a frantic parent trying to manage multiple toddlers tearing at his clothing.

Neither half, nor centre, nor edge backrower, got a chance at hitting a hard line and making the defence choose between runners. Instead it all headed out to the edge, a forlorn attempt at getting around a defence that knew exactly where the ball was going. Without space from the middle Jack Wighton was put in positions where he had to make something from nothing. He was faced with tough situations and difficult decisions. He got it wrong almost every time. Jamal Fogarty was less frustrating but perhaps more because he seemed to accept his fate more gracefully, though to the same end result.

The Raiders attack at it’s best is a blunt instrument. A sledgehammer that utilised effectively can crater even the most ardent defence. This version was like trying to make renovations with a slowly swung spatula; nothing happened and everyone looked silly. The rare good ball sets they got ended meekly, and once the score got past 16 to their opposition there was zero chance the Milk would chase it down.

This was depressing but not as bad as the despondency of the defence stretched to its limits. The Storm took their dominance in the middle and did whatever their hearts desired. They pushed wide, putting edges in unenviable one-on-one scenarios. They made middles make repeat efforts, dragging them wider and wider as nominal edge defenders were dragged in to repair the damage made through the Raiders middle. There was no respite and Canberra found no fix. Ten (10) line breaks almost understates the dominance. No player looked good.

This was compounded by (or it compounded, depending on your views on causality and correlation) a timid level of physical contact in the tackle. The first Storm try came when Joe Tapine and Josh Papalii were unable to bring down Christian Welch at the goal line. A second try came when Jordan Rapana and Jack Wighton were forced into a cover tackle after a Asofa-Solomona offload (itself born from imperfect attempt to wrap up the Melbourne forward) and were instead overwhelmed by Marion Seve. The third try came from Elise Katoa running straight over Jack Wighton (and Ethan Strange running straight past the play) and a fourth when Katoa ran past Strange. For the fifth Matt Timoko was caught trying to stop a backrower by himself on the goal line. The sixth came when Munster wandered through Ata Mariota and Tapine (hey you did me twice!) neither getting off the goal line, nor looking terrible interested in making a tackle.

There’s more (Timoko and Woolford had additional depressing efforts) but to pick them out implies these were poor moments that let down the side. Instead they were characteristic of a team that won no battle, offered no recourse. They were overwhelmed, and they collapsed into chaos, each trying to find a magic bullet, desperate in their search. Hudson Young tried to recapture the magic of grubbers past. Corey Horsburgh did that thing where he tries and fails to lay the hit of the century (he’ll get it one day and either succeed or get a 10 weeks suspension).

Jordan Rapana decided he was going to try and do everything, everywhere, all at once. He got sin-binned, nearly conceded a try by being brazenly out of position on a kick (after trying to put a king hit on someone) and threw not one but two passes in close succession to Albert Hopoate that would lead most right-minded individuals to wonder if Jordan had in fact gone stark-raving mad. That last moment led directly to a try, a solemn reminder that Rapa is going to Rapa, and sometimes that’s not a good thing. By the end of the game he’d added all that up with a handful of possibly citeable offences, so maybe he won’t going full Rapa next week.

There was little to like in this. Adrian Trevilyan’s added to his portfolio of ‘yep he’s really good’-ness. He worked the ruck expertly, found holes for forwards to hit, found metres in his own feet, and nearly created a line break. He made extra efforts in defence and generally looked every bit the best of our hopes. Horsburgh, despite his failed naruto-run tackles, worked his ass off, and the oft-grumbled-at Elliott Whitehead did his job in defence, as much as anyone can have in conceding 48 points. But that’s about as generous as we can be. It was a dark day despite the sunshine.

Canberra are in hell right now and one hopes they may climb out (one inch at a time). They’ve turned around similarly darkened skies before. Shit, they’ve done it this season, in less time than they currently have available before finals opportunities run out. But the way they’ve cratered now and they way they’ve failed to fix what ails them during and since the third bye makes this situation more precarious. Less fixable. It feels inevitable now, and we’re just stuck here on a plane waiting for 30,000 feet of pain to end.

This isn’t a good football side but it should be better than this. All year we’ve been waiting for the reaper to come collect, and now he’s sitting in our loungeroom and pouring himself some of the good whisky. Finding a way out of this mess will take something courageous. It starts with finding a way to win next week. I hope this team has it in them.

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