Bob Fulton state funeral: Paul Kent calls on NSW Government to give Bozo farewell he deserves
If Bob Fulton is denied a state funeral it will be one of the great insults the government could inflict on its most popular sport, Paul Kent writes.
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At the risk of picking a fight, and Bob Fulton always appreciated a good one, the NSW Government must understand the presence of the man and give him a state funeral.
The simple truth is if Fulton does not get a state funeral then no rugby league player will ever get one, the simple reason being that nobody has achieved more in the game than Bozo.
It will be one of the great insults the government could inflict on the most popular sport in the state. The same sport that generates the most revenue.
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The last state funeral granted to a sporting figure was Bart Cummings’ farewell in 2015 and, with respect to Bart, he might have been able to train a horse to run but he was never much good at the chip-and-chase.
Fulton’s state funeral should be the easiest decision the government makes.
Fortunately the wheels are turning.
ARL Commission chairman Peter V’landys called Deputy Premier John Barilaro on Monday to formally request a state funeral on behalf of the NRL.
Barilaro passed the request to the Premier’s office where it now sits. V’landys then contacted Premier Gladys Berejiklian asking for support.
The government’s concern was why Fulton deserved a state funeral after rejecting a plea to honour Tom Raudonikis similarly last month.
Clearly, the differences between Fulton and Raudonikis need to be explained.
Fulton is an Immortal, the highest honour in the game. He was inducted in the Sport Australia Hall of Fame in 1985, long enough ago for some to forget.
He is Member of the Order of Australia, the Queen’s honour which seems to be important in such matters.
He is a premiership-winning captain, a premiership-winning coach. He captained the Kangaroos as a player and led them as a coach.
Pick any of the five greatest players in the history of the game and he is in the group somewhere. Some have him at the top.
On any scale you care to measure Fulton qualifies for a state funeral.
He is the equal of what Cummings was in racing or which Johnny Warren was in soccer when he received his state funeral in 2004.
He influenced his generation as a player and his coaching influences are still seen in today’s game.
Warren Ryan’s teams dominated football in the 1980s, for instance, smothering teams with their up and in defence.
Then Tim Sheens promoted Ricky Stuart and the Raiders found with two long passes they could get around the umbrella and the next phase in attack was on.
So Fulton countered the Raiders’ big shift with the up and slide defence, and so Manly emerged as the dominant team of the 1990s.
He is the last and one of the few champion players to emerge as a champion coach.
All, while having the ear of the game’s greatest powerbroker, if he was not one himself.
There were many parts to him.
Some years back we were at his Quambone property sitting on the back of some quad bikes about to go chasing pigs.
Wild pigs are a tremendous pest in the bush, and given they suffer no guilt stealing feed put out for livestock in times of drought there was little guilt returned now that the drove of pigs was about to be thinned.
Bozo’s son Brett was hurrying his father along. Brett’s mates waited with some patience while Bozo was in and out of the house.
As we waited I remember looking at their rifles, and how good they looked, and knew Bozo was always the guy that wanted the best.
After coming to Australia from England as an adopted four-year-old, and growing up in housing commission, it was like he figured out what was important to him and made a promise to himself.
He came away from childhood with a need for strong family bonds, one he protected fiercely to the end, and a need inside to have the best of everything.
That was the life he created for himself, all on his talent and tenacity.
And as I looked at these rifles as we were about to go hunting pigs I began to imagine the rifle he must have stored inside.
“Come on Dad,” said Brett.
“Hang on,” he said, coming out one door and walking into another, “let me get my gear.”
He was inside for less than a minute when the door banged open and out he came.
He was carrying an old divers knife.
“Is that all you’re taking?” I asked.
He looked at me like a fool.
“Yeah, that’s all you need,” he said.
I said to him that the day he died I was going to tell that story, the bloke who goes pig hunting with a knife, and he laughed.
“You’re an idiot,” he said.