On the night of March 5, 2017, I stood on the back of a truck that was carrying an enormous inflatable football and former rugby league players Ian Roberts, Paul Langmack, Dene Halatau, Jamie Feeney and Wendell Sailor, who was dressed in full St George Illawarra kit and standing on a podium thrusting his enormous frame to the tunes of Robbie Williams’ Let Me Entertain You.
Oh, and my dad was there, too. Sounds like the start of a bad joke.
“How you goin’, big fella?” I asked him. “Not too much for you?”
“I’d be better if Wendell stopped putting his doodle in my face,” replied my father, a lifelong Dragons supporter who passed the curse on to his son.
I’m not entirely sure why my old man agreed to be on the back of the NRL’s float at the Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras. I wasn’t entirely sure why I was there either but was at the insistence of Langmack, who is one of those middle-aged straight men who silently makes the world a better place and doesn’t ask for anything in return. Bit like my father.
Roberts had hesitated about being there, too, mostly because rugby league had forgotten him since the 1990s when he became the first professional footballer in any code in the world to come out.
But here we were all, smiling and waving and trying to stay out of Wendell’s way as the float made its way up Oxford Street.
There are many things I’ll never forget about that night, especially how cool my old man was about the whole thing; the grace in which a 68-year-old knockabout brickie from the NSW North Coast just rolled through the night, totally removed from his comfort zone otherwise known as “the pub”.
But what I mostly remember is the reaction of the 200,000-strong crowd towards Roberts. As the truck moved along, masses of people put down their drinks and respectfully clapped like he’d just tapped in for par at the US Masters. They were, simply, in awe of him.
Each time, he would wave back, his crooked and broken fingers the clue that he was once a brutal front-rower for club, state and country.
Roberts doesn’t elicit the same universal respect in rugby league after speaking out about the rainbow jersey controversy at Manly that prompted seven players to stand down for religious reasons.
He has also called on the NRL to host a Pride Round.
Internally, the governing body is torn on the idea. Some executives to whom I’ve spoken fear the same ugly division witnessed at Manly. But ARL Commission chairman Peter V’landys continues to plough ahead. On Tuesday, he said the commission was still looking at ways to hold the round in 2023.
“I’ve always seen everyone as being equal and that rugby league is an inclusive sport,” he said. “We’ll look at if there is a way of doing it without upsetting anyone.”
V’landys’ sentiment comes from the right place. He understands the concept of inclusivity. As the son of hard-working Greek migrants, it was rugby league that provided acceptance and safety.
But the simple truth is rugby league is not ready for a Pride Round. It might never be.
A jumper with some subtle rainbow piping divided a club, ruined a season and ended in a coach being sacked. What would happen to the game if a Pride Round was forced on it?
I’ll take a swing: it would tear it in three, just like the Israel Folau issue and the time former chief executive Todd Greenberg said the game supported same-sex marriage.
In one camp, there are players and fans who, according to their religious beliefs, think homosexuality is a sin.
Of the countless words spoken during the Rainbow Jersey controversy, the smartest came from Phil Gould on his podcast for Channel Nine (publisher of this masthead). He has been quietly saying for years that the growing number of Pasifika players in the NRL meant that religion was something clubs and particularly coaches needed to respect and understand.
“I can remember going to my football club at the time because I saw it coming through in the schoolboy football,” Gould said. “I said, ‘We need to talk about religion because this is something we’re going to have to accommodate in the game’.”
In another camp, there are players and fans who understand that sexuality, like race and gender, is not “politics”, nor is it a “lifestyle” or “belief” or “choice” and can’t believe we are still having this discussion. They understand the absurdity that “inclusiveness” means tolerating someone else’s intolerance.
Then there’s the growing group of players and fans who have come to realise these debates are circular and tiresome, with people shouting at each other for the sake of shouting at each other, with no common ground reached. Instead of raising awareness, understanding and empathy — especially for those struggling with their identity — the well-intentioned gesture would do more harm than good.
What would Pride Round achieve? It would allow the NRL to tick a box while coaches tie themselves in knots trying to make it work. Maybe we should all heed the advice of Manly forward Jake Trbojevic, who said of his seven teammates who stood down: “I understand their biggest thing is religion, my biggest thing is footy.”
Roberts is my hero. He has been since I was a young teenager wrestling with my sexuality, deeply ashamed of who I was.
In the 1980s and ’90s, if you were gay you came to believe you were going to be ostracised from your friends and family and eventually die alone of AIDS-related diseases. When he came out in 1994, it made things a little easier an entire generation of LGBTIQ people.
He still does. He’s not being dramatic when he says “kids are dying in the suburbs” as they struggle with their identity. As people yell at each other on social media, there are young teenagers wondering where they fit in the world. If people believe homophobia no longer exists, they can have a look at my inbox.
But there are some fights not worth having. A Pride Round sounds nice in theory. But why have it if it’s only going to do more harm?
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