Andrew Fifita distracts on weekdays and wins on weekends

Andrew Fifita brings acute embarrassment to his organisation.

Andrew Fifita brings acute embarrassment to his organisation. His oafishness and lack of social graces are more suited to an American frat house, the Bra Boys on the drink at the Maroubra pub on a booze-fuelled Friday evening, or a low-grade motorcycle gang craving more respect. But the other thing about the big giggling lump is that between kick-off and fulltime, there’s no other prop you’d rather have on your side. No other prop you’d be more loath to play against. The mad, dangerous, roly-poly bastard.

Premierships are won by lions, not lambs.

Fifita’s contemptuous attitude in day-to-day life translates to an immunity from the normal pressures of end-of-season football. It just doesn’t affect him. If I’m picking a No 8 for the September playoffs, I want the meanest, most miserable, most angry, most ­cantankerous, most mule-headed, most combative bloke in town. I want the biggest mongrel in sport. I want bad, bad, Leroy Brown … Fifita. Badder than old King Kong. Meaner than a junkyard dog. Hands like a concert pianist. A stomach like Santa Claus. Stop that! To get to the heart of the ­matter … what a bloody handful.

He’s easily bored by an NRL competition in which only 70 per cent of the players are any good. He regularly goes missing in meaningless matches. Heck, he’s gone missing in Origins II and III after dominating an Origin I. But when things get wild and woolly in September, all the aggro, frustrations and feuds that complicate Fifita’s day-to-day life allow him to revel in the organised chaos of rugby league.

Sweating like a pig, and shaped like one, too, he’s in his element in these Sunday afternoon tests of manhood between rival forward packs. We’ve seen what the big giggling nincompoop can do in a grand final. It’s what few props can dream of.

The Sharks were error-prone and sluggish in the early stages of their 38-12 thumping of the Newcastle Knights yesterday. Fifita ­asserted himself and it was all over. He started a running battle with Knights hooker Danny Levi, who may or may not have been sledging him about podcasts and Jim Dymock and various other episodes in Fifita’s life.

The Sharks prop pointed at Levi. Abused him. Called him out. Making a tackle, he grabbed the back of Levi’s jersey and threw him to the ground by the scruff of the neck. He flopped on him, monstering him, as Levi coughed up possession. Almost immediately, the Sharks scored their first try and Fifita started to properly run amok. He finished with 188 metres, four tackle busts, four offloads and 20 tackles. Running like the cops (or Dymock) were after him.

It was a fitting send-off for retiring veteran Luke Lewis in his final home match for the Sharks as Kyle Flanagan, the son of coach Shane Flanagan, made a triumphant debut. “Good kid, good parents,” Shane said of Kyle. “I thought as the game went on, he got better. I knew he was going to play first grade at some stage, I just didn’t know when. As a coach, not his ­father, I was really pleased he could play together with blokes like Louie (Lewis) and Gal (Paul Gallen) and Andrew Fifita, Matt Prior, Aaron Woods, Josh Dugan, all those rep players. A young half coming into the team, I think we had eight Origin and Test players. If you’re going to make your debut, I think you’d want to make it with the Sharks at present.”

Fifita was only brought to the ground yesterday when three or four Knights defenders were on his back like little kids trying to drag down the biggest kid in junior football. The swagger, the unshakeable self-belief, the rat cunning, the toughness, the fearlessness, the love of the confrontation, the legalised brutality of rugby league … he’s in his element. He did a run around as though he was in the No 6 jumper. He conjured a one-handed, no-look offload when half the Knights players were jumping on him. Threatening to score in the 69th minute, he threw away one defender, charged like a Spanish bull, was held up by three defenders and earned a penalty that sealed the win. He’s a distraction from Monday to Friday. Come kick-off on a Sunday, however, he’s the hope of the side. Which is what he’s paid to be.

Saturday night at Moore Park was embarrassing for the NRL. Nearly 53,000 Sydneysiders had been attracted to the floodlights of Allianz Stadium and the SCG like moths to football’s great flames. The car parks were chockers. The Captain Cook pub was overflowing. Only 13,263 went to the top-shelf NRL game between the Sydney Roosters and Brisbane Broncos. The other 39,660 walked straight past Allianz to watch the Swans at the SCG. It was a stark ­reminder that the AFL is the biggest game in town, and nation. Which is any wonder given the NRL provides all the drama.

Dylan Napa is another prop you’d run a mile from. His sickening hit on Andrew McCullogh was shaping as another source of controversy until the match review committee came up with a ban of between three and four weeks and the consensus was that, well, that’s about right. He’s got to get his technique sorted out before he kills someone, but if he returns for the Roosters’ all-or-nothing finals matches, that’s what makes opposition packs think twice. He just might kill someone.