BY DAN

The Canberra Raiders’ stumble to the end of 2023 continued in their 36-24 victory over the Canterbury Bulldogs. Against an opposition with half a foot in Bali they cobbled together a victory through mixture of talent, intransigence, and the kindness of a team more versed in self-flagellation than them. At least St Jerome was penitent. It’s enough for this week, but that’s all it is. Another week to hope they’ll work it out. By this stage we should know better.

If ever there was a reason for a team to put together one shining day, and a moment to do it, it was this. Canberra have been stuck halfway between heaven and hell recently. The wins in the bank always gave the hope they were better than they were and maybe that they’d finally ‘click’. It looked a beautiful day in the nation’s capital. A quick track and a challenged opposition whose season was over, with half the team being pushed out the door by everyone’s favourite fantasy NRL manager masquerading as a CEO, should have resulted in an easy victory. And yet Canberra couldn’t manage that.

It wasn’t because their game plan – their only game plan – was ill suited to the affair. The Raiders one-step process of ‘win the middle and work the rest out later’ happened. They did that, for the most part. They outgained their opposition by over 200metres across the game, primarily on the back of the strong efforts of their middle forwards, and a backrow that got more heavily involved in dirty stuff than normal (both Elliott Whitehead and Hudson Young cracked 100m on the ground, mostly through hard yard work).

Josh Papalii (16 for 159, 61 post contact, 6 tackles breaks, a line break and a try) was brilliant, a fast-stepping brute, hurting them coming and going, pushing through and between tackles. Joe Tapine (23 for 186, 67 post contact, 5 tackle breaks, 1 try assist.) looked fluid and powerful, impossible to bring down as always. His work at the back of the game linking the middle third was also impressive, and he popped a perfect prop’s pass to put Papalii in late in the game. Horsburgh (18 for 140, 42 post contact, 43 tackles in 65 minutes) was excellent, his usual paradoxical mix of grace and gumption. They even got good stints out Emre Guler and Ata Mariota.

Canberra got down the ground fine and should have had more opportunities to score but their offence was inefficient as always. Their best work was Jordan Rapana working a short side. The first try came from him creating numbers on a blind, swinging outside Jamal Fogarty, burning Matt Burton (not the only time that occurred in this game) and putting Matt Timoko in. The Raiders third came from him playing first receiver on a short side, putting Timoko (on a line so well sculptured Donatello is proud of young Matt) into a gap. He palmed off Burton like the defensive liability he is, and cantered to the line. The fourth was again Rapa at first on a week side again, this time sending a pass that was meant for Timoko, but found Cotric, who scored (not without effort). Jordy added his own try to this mix, a crash play essentially again on a short side after a strong run by Hudson Young cratered the defensive line. He even created
repeat sets for the Milk, calmly grubbering when not much else was happening.

It was borderline brilliant and occasionally mature (bruh that pass back in on the short drop out tho), and also bittersweet that the Raiders best attacking fulcrum is a 34 year old sometimes fullback who’s not even meant to be working today. He played with intent, direct at defence, able to identify number opportunities, or weakness in defenders (like Burto!), willing to use
options with soft and skilled passing in close quarters. That he might not play next week (someone do maths about grade 1s and fines and adding up to a suspension), and that Canberra don’t get that sort of play more regularly from the fullback (or any position) is the only downside.

Apart from Rapana the Canberra redzone attack was, to be polite, patchy. The ball rarely got outside the second rowers unless Rapana put it there. Matt Frawley hit so many face-balls to to Hudson Young you would have thought five-eighth was the world’s oldest profession. On the very rare occasion Croker got the ball on a sweeping movement he was caught as soon as he caught it. Sometimes that was the play and sometimes it was the player. It was also a function of a defensive strategy by the Dogs that sort to shut down moves outside in, a recognition that inside out isn’t their strong suit.

But it also reflected a slowness to the Canberra attack in both precision, personnel and intent. It felt listless. At the risk of venturing into pop psychology, it felt like the Milk were unsure, lacking confidence in their approach or their ability to deliver what they were meant to be doing. It meant that everything had a timid tinge, something that became more stark by the intensity and directness of certain players (Rapa, Cotric early, Tom Starling late, Schiller for his stint, and Papa the whole game) in contrast with their more confused brethren.

As if unsatisfied with imperfect attack, Canberra mixed that slow sideways shuffle with a comical array of errors in attack. Their first opportunity was blown when Horsburgh put a tough pass into Tapine’s hands that was dropped. The second when Tapine put a short ball into Emre’s hands that was also let go of. An offload in good ball hit the turf, Whitehead possibly knocked it on, but just to make sure, Timoko put a hard-to-catch-pass over Nic Cotric’s shoulder and into touch, all within seconds of each other. Smell and Timoko combined again
later, the Englishmen popping a pass that if caught probably would have resulted in a try for the Kiwi if he caught it. Instead Timoko seemed so surprised Whitehead had poked through the line that he dropped it cold. In between Horsburgh said screw the passing and cold dropped the ball over the line instead. 14 errors in total, 10 in an awful first half, is not how you win games.

It made for game that was closer than it should have been, or really, any normal team would have made it. The Dogs shouldn’t have had a chance. In addition to thumping their opposition when they had the ball, the Raiders were effective in getting off their line and stopping a middle that they could physically control. Canterbury barely got going through the middle (Max King got the most metres of any opposition forward, with a massive 108) and if they wanted to test the Raiders line it was by going around them. It required precision and execution that they didn’t have (there’s a reason they’re at the bottom of the table). It almost always ended in error or with Canberra making the right defensive play.

Essentially they were stuck between the 20s, kept in a game by a Canberra attack unable to keep it together long enough to take advantage, and unable to work their way through an opposition defence that was bigger, stronger and more capable than they. But that didn’t dispirit either team. The Milk instead invited their opposition down through a mixture of errors, penalties and idiotic play. For 78 minutes the only opportunities the Dogs were able to capitalise on were borne from the brazen incompetency of a football side that specialises in it. Their first try was borne from field position created because the Raiders were unable to catch a short drop out and a Dogs’ break was invited. Their second from a charge down. The third because Timoko got all Icarus and ran too close to the sideline. Their only try that came without
Canberra’s help was a speculative bomb in the waning light of the game. 

One might have hoped that Canberra could have defended their errors, but there were just so many, and the defence is flimsy enough as it is. All the classics were played. Matt Timoko and Nic Cotric back peddled so far on the first try until it didn’t matter what they did, it was going to end badly. Hudson Young and Jarrod Coker, so vastly outnumbered after the charge down,
shot out of the line. Bert Hopoate was a step behind and what was a forlorn situation became terminal. The Frawley/Croker connection, something that had haunted most fans dreams after the Dragons debacle, only had one costly error, when Toby Seton was able to get outside Hudson Young while Matt Frawley stood a metre beyond the play.

In between all that the Raiders defence had some impressive moments but man, that’s the thing hey. Defence is all or nothing. You either make the plays or you don’t. And making the plays most of the time isn’t enough. There’s no B+. So Canberra pulling off quality one-on-ones on the goal line only mattered in that it delayed the inevitable.

It’s a bit of a theme for the Milk. The Canberra Raiders aren’t in hell, they’re just waiting to be sent there. They’ve earned the life they have, sixth spot with just two games to go in the season. They’ve won close games, scrapped and scraped and clawed their way through dirt and blood and bustle just to have a chance at breathing clean air. It would be downright inspiring if they hadn’t squandered the opportunities presented. A chance of the finals and no chance in the finals. There is no pretence anymore. This is who they are.

Heck maybe we’re better for it. For so long we’ve waited for this side to prove there was something else there. A willingness, a desire, to overcome, themselves as much as their opposition. Win after win piled up and all that was left was the wins. There was no style, no structure. No identity for a team that didn’t overcome poor attack with good defence, or porous defence with exciting attack. Just struggle. Struggle and hope. A dumb head banging against
a wall like some problematic 90s caricature of the frustration of male youth. 

Today they confirmed every sickness, every weakness, every demon they’ve been trying outrun for the last twenty-five rounds. They still won, because their opposition is more flawed than they are. Because they are actually talented, albeit a disorganised mess of talent. All that’s left is hope, a fleeting desire for the world to be different to how it is. The nature of sport means that dastardly feeling will always be there, impossible to get rid of, pressing at us to wish what was, wasn’t, and what is, will change. It probably won’t, but we’ll have to wait to find out. So bitter, that thought, that death is hardly worse.

Shouts to my dawg Dante get your flowers baby. Sorry this is late, my sister called from overseas while I was finalising it. Do us a solid and like our page on Facebook, follow us on Twitter, or share this on social media to give me something to celebrate and I write one
(1) article at your request. Everyone gets one. Don’t hesitate to send us feedback (dan@sportress.org) or comment below if you think we are stupid. Or if we’re not.