Sunday, July 20, was the exact type of day Phil Gould and Ray Warren would wax lyrical about. In the peak commentary days, those two legends of the game would paint the most dazzling of pictures, hypnotising Tigers and mutual fans alike into the religiously euphoric feeling of being at Leichhardt Oval on a sunny winter’s day.
Seventeen degrees Celsius with no cloud cover, it was the perfect kind of weather that had the ball boys donning sunglasses and thinking about sunscreen.
Leichhardt Oval is often credited with lifting the home side, but it seemed to have the opposite effect for the women’s side earlier as they lost 24-12; and the first half of the men’s game also saw the ball bouncing into the visitors’ hands, and then into points.
Churlish comments were made by the sold-out crowd that maybe the Wests Tigers Club and their sacred, famed grass had had an awkward and public split, like employees at a Coldplay concert.
But religious experiences are born out of hardship. Those young fans listening to Gus and Rabs in the noughties were now all converts themselves, and they’d seen enough drama at their Eighth Wonder of the World. They know all about trials and hopes, which have galvanised into the deeply spiritual moments they have as The Hill Believers.
These Tigers faithful are, of course, scattered through their hallowed Oval, but most throw themselves at the altar of the Pearce. Although they each have their own rituals and rites to demonstrate their love and belief in their orange, white and black idols, they all connect in one revered act; an act of such joy and connection that all stationed at the altar partake in it. These zealots, huddling under the scoreboard on the Wayne Pearce Hill, crane their scarf-covered necks to the towering edifice, as the decade-old mental numbers are replaced, and give an almighty cheer.
And today, in such faultless footballing weather, the Hill Believers bore witness to their scoreboard numbers swap over in patient precision – Gold Coast Titans 20, Wests Tigers 21.
