Origin: It’s Cordner’s life, so let him live it

NSW captain Boyd Cordner leaves with the field with a head knock. Picture: Brett Costello

Boyd Cordner’s temple was struck by Felise Kaufusi’s elbow and hip and everything went kablooey. He was so groggy that he thought NSW had trashed its very own tradition by wearing jumpers that were no longer predominantly sky-blue. As if. He was so groggy that he believed the logo for the sponsor was bigger and therefore deemed more important than the Blues’ own emblem. As if. He was so groggy that he thought for a second he was on Adelaide Oval. As if. We digress, but State of Origin jerseys should be like baggy green caps. Unchangeable. Sacred. The Blues deserved to lose Origin I for wearing that soulless strip, if nothing else.

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To the point. Cordner was out like a light again and all among us were sickened by the sight of it. Top bloke, Corner, adding to the angst. He was taken from the field like he’d had a few too many at the Taree pub. The consequences seemed obvious. That was Cordner done for the night. That would be Cordner done for the rest of the series. That was the cue for Cordner to gather his thoughts in the off-season and contemplate retirement because without the merest shadow of a doubt, he’s begun rolling the dice with his quality of future life here.

Five serious head knocks in a torrid season is enough. More than enough. And yet …

For all the uncertainty and guesswork and fears about whether the NSW captain has been subjecting himself to irreparable brain damage by ignoring repeated concussions, there’s one irrefutable truth in a complicated matter. Now he’s ruled himself out of Origin II and his soul-searching begins, there’s three words that can shut everyone up if he decided to keep playing next year. It’s my life. Unlike Anthony Van Dyck and Red Cadeaux and a few other racehorses who have gone to the great barnyard in the sky after being pushed beyond their limits, Cordner gets to live that life exactly how he pleases.

Another digression. I felt inspired by the Melbourne Cup, until I felt ill. What were we celebrating? If we really cared about these animals, how could the revelry continue when we saw what was happening 350m down from the finishing line. There was a dead horse. . The show went on. When Phillip Hughes died, proceedings were shut down and no one felt like playing cricket ever again. Anthony Van Dyck was put to sleep and the next race called up. I get the difference. It wasn’t like Hugh Bowman had fractured a fetlock and been “humanely euthanased”. But it made me want to never watch the Cup again. What do these horses really mean to us? Are they mere playthings used for our entertainment and profit? Excuses for a piss-up? I failed to see triumph in the Melbourne Cup. In the end, it seemed a tragedy.

Back to the point. Daniel Ricciardo gets to drive a Formula One car at 370km/h. Next Sunday’s Turkish Grand Prix could kill him and even though it probably won’t, it might. Because it’s his life and he gets to choose. Mick Fanning got to surf again at Jeffreys Bay. The J-Bay Open could have killed him – sharks had obviously developed an interest in him – but he was allowed to tempt fate by paddling out there again. Why? It was his life and he got to choose. Jason Moloney got to step into a boxing ring with Naoya “The Monster” Inoue. Their Las Vegas welterweight bout last week could have killed him, and it very nearly did. But he was free to put up his dukes because it’s his life and he gets to choose. If we’re in the business of protecting people from themselves, why is one soldier allowed to go to war? Why is anyone allowed to smoke a cigarette? Cordner’s wishes should be respected as much as anyone’s. There’s a duty to give him all the research and data and horrifying anecdotes but before next season he should be told … mate, it’s up to you.

Cordner, like every other human athlete, and unlike Anthony Van Dyck, deserves the final say. He understands the correspondence. He has access to the research. He can ponder the statistics. But here’s what we know: how little we know. Off-field head injury assessments, like the one Cordner passed in Adelaide, are considered the be-all and end-all. But the assessments might be assessing the wrong things. All the protocols might be the completely wrong protocols. Cordner has had five severe head knocks this season, and it’s getting to the stage where it’s a miracle if he gets through a game without being knocked out by a minor hit, and every time it happens there’s more chance of it happening again. There the knowledge ends.

Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy (CTE) is the killer condition. But there can be no proof of CTE until it’s too late. Only a dead man’s brain can be assessed. Cordner knows all this. He knows he might have it, or he might not have it at all, or a mild dose … we don’t even know how many concussions cause CTE. One big blow to the head? Ten years of them? Five in one season? There’s some awful consequences.

NFL suicides and murder-suicides are chilling in light of posthumous CTE diagnoses. Junior Seau pointing a gun at his chest and pulled the trigger. Jovan Belcher killed his girlfriend and then drove to Kansas City’s Arrowhead Stadium to kill himself in front of his manager and coach.

There was a professional bull rider found to have CTE after he committed suicide. His family said he was “going through hell” with depression and anxiety and mood swings before he took his own life. None of which Cordner has gone through. Which has made him think it’s all OK.

An American study of NFL athletes once found that of 111 players tested, 110 had CTE. Cordner knows this. He also knows how much of him as a man is connected to rugby league. He knows the pleasure and challenges and mateship he gets from it. Those are the things he has to weigh up. Long-term risks versus next season’s rewards.

He wiped his name from the NSW team sheet yesterday. I’m glad. If Cordner wants to play on next season when he knows all the risks, he should be allowed to. If the NRL tries to make his absence a permanent one, he has the right to slam a fist on the table and say three of the most powerful words in existence. It’s my life.