BY DAN

In his 39th game of NRL Josh Papalii stalked Paul Gallen. A lion hunting, power and grace, quiet fury, enveloping a man who had taken on the toughest in terror, a personalised fog settling in around him. Gallen ran to mummy (well, the ref) asking for protection. Forget the Russian was cut, this big bad was scared. And for the first time in years the Green Machine song that echos out across the hallowed turf of Bruce felt like it was predicative rather than an aspiration. Bad and mean. Papa’s gonna hit ya.

Call it putting the spine in our spirit. Papa made the chest of everyone in that crowd puff out. Forget not going quietly. He was going to make sure the whole world knew who the Raiders were. The Milk had been exciting in recent history, and were again that day. They’d been hardworking and even occasionally good. But it’d been a while since that mix of physical and dynamism had graced the hallowed turf of Bruce. On that day he was brilliant, tormenting Paul Gallen like a crocodile hunting prey. Quiet and efficient. Scary without histrionics. Just doing what is necessary. Canberra walked away with a famous finals victory, and what seemed like a promising player was quickly becoming a legend.

Even then, barely a year into his career everyone knew he was something special. He was part power, part grace. Ripe potential of hope coming to the fore right when we needed it. For years he felt like an anomaly; Canberra, with a generational talent, just hiding out on the edge? Talk about a mule with a spinning wheel. By 2013 he was already playing Origin, and even while Canberra were cratering at the backend of the Furner regime, he kept delivering. Always impressive. Without fanfare. The only time he drew attention to himself was in his performance (and some admittedly ridiculous off-field issues). He wasn’t embarrassed by the attention. More ambivalent, perhaps uneasy with the connection of adulation to his task.

His transition to the middle matched this mindset. He loved the battle, loved the grind so much the red-pilled dickheads that plague social media should be forced to pay him royalties. Over the years he wasn’t so much our best middle. He just was our middle. Shit sometimes he was our entire attack. Many have joked about Canberra’s propensity for crash balls but the addiction was borne from chasing the high. No Raider in my life was felt more likely to score given the ball close to the line that Josh Papalii circa 2018-2020.

What started as our mettle quickly became our engine. It was double duty. We joked (kinda?) for years that we wore him out like Boxer, the horse from Animal Farm. He quietly did whatever was needed for our revolution. Metres. Moments. Tries. He just kept delivering, no matter how tough the carry, how ridiculous the situation. Papa gave the Raiders what they needed. We were worried it would wear him out. No one man should have to carry the load he did. We should have realised the outlier before us. He became the best prop in the game, a representative staple. The pride of a team.

If at first he was our courage, and then our work ethic, in 2019 he became our deliverance. Sacred and spiritual. The angel Michael escorting us to the gates of heaven. In the future some nerd is going to tell you that 2019 wasn’t that impressive – 150 odd metres a game is something middles crank out all the time. Six tries isn’t that many, the tackle breaks aren’t even that high. I tell you this seriously: that season is one of the best seasons a middle forward has ever played. This was degrees of difficulty that would make Olympic gymnasts wary. This was levels of courage that would make a lion envious. This was delivery FedEx can only aspire to. Many people were responsible for Canberra’s success that year but none more so than Josh.

When he crashed over against Souths in that preliminary final it was a feeling that is hard to explain to non Raiders fans. It was euphoric. It was enveloping. It was cathartic. They’ll tell you it’s the hope that kills you but for one moment we allowed our souls to soar. Not just know what was possible but to really, really fucking believe. What made it more amazing is that everyone knew it was coming. At the ground we were yelling for it before the play started. On the commentary they’re noting it as its happening. None of it was a surprise. For the best part of eight years when Canberra had needed something done, something hard, something that required cracking a rock with a pick, digging a hole with a spoon, they turned to Papa. So they did here, and yet again he delivered.

When his head popped up from scoring he first looked at us, the unhinged faithful at the south of the ground. I know I sound like Ralph Wiggum but I genuinely believe he looked at us like we were part of what he’d just done. Acknowledging 27,000 people in the crowd were there with him. It was him showing that he wasn’t just a footballer playing a game. He was part of us, our representative, our tribute to the footy gods, going forth and returning to us a bounty. I will spend my life chasing the high of that moment.

We never did get the grand final we wanted but it wasn’t because of Papa and I feel bad for that. If there was a player that deserved a reward for dragging his club and the community around it along with him it’s Josh. In a just world he’d be a premiership winner. Alas the world is sometimes brutal (not always Hobbes you dickhead).

Being the man he is, instead of reward he bestowed us a further gift. Trust. The calm insistence on continuing to deliver deep into his 30s. The quiet act of resistance against father time, remaining part of our one-two punch well beyond the drop off should have occurred. He’s still outperforming young players. He’s so good there was a conversation about him unretiring from representative footy, returning to provide service to Queensland team that desperately needed someone to stand up in the middle. He would have thrived – it would have been just like the old days, the only person capable of bending a line entirely focused on one man.

That trust has made him the best father figure many have had. In the squad, in the club, in the community. The soul of city without claiming it. The heart of club without demanding to be seen. Just quietly pulsating the blood through our veins, making sure we can stand tall, hope for better and trust it will be delivered.

This Sunday, for r the 300th time, Josh Papalii gives us a reason to believe.

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