Cameron Smith: Rugby league genius, top bloke – The Roar

Even haters dont hate Cameron Smith. All those keyboard kooks in Twitter Land who get a horn from hating something, anything, and throwing their self-loathing gibber around the e-waves, even those clowns dont hate Cameron Smith.

Smith is universally-regarded: Top Bloke.

Maybe not universally. Theres people would be boo Santa delivering life-saving medicine.

But, in the main, even to those who arent Queenslanders or Storm boys, people nod and look at Cam Smith and think, Cam Smith? Respect.

Old blokes like him because he looks like they looked in the 50s and 60s: tight, sensible. Neither arm full of tattoos. No expensive haircut. He looks like a man should: Military, old school. A man.

Girls like him, too, though they dont fling themselves like hot muffins as they do spunkier boys.

Smith appeals to women more than girls. His is a mans face, a handsome enough mug; shades of Colin Farrell; dark, low eye-brows; prickly three-day growth.

To young men hes the wise and wry wise-cracker, the older bro whod lend you fifty. Dudes arent jealous of him. Unlike some from the fractious, gilded man-youth of his e-generation,

Smith doesnt drink alco-pops, wear flash threads nor squire gimlet-eyed hotties.

Hes a beer man. Schooners of Carlton. Drives a Kingswood. Got a Harley. Top Bloke.

Referees like Smith because he doesnt front them, get big in their faces. Where others (fools) rush in, waving arms, all sweat and spit and indignation, swearing, Waddyafugginmean!? yes, you James Graham Smith just asks a question: Talk us through that one, sir. He barely even tilts an eye-brow.

And the refs, respected, think, Top Bloke, and find him hard to penalise.

People like him because he doesnt look like a roid-engorged monster-man. He looks like a knockabout from your social golf club, a tradesman wholl do you a love-job for a carton. Top Bloke. All-Aussie.

Even when News Ltds papers published television screen shots of several illegal tackles in a State of Origin and the minutes of the match in which they occurred, there wasnt an uproar, especially.

The usual keyboard warriors went at it. A couple of radio jocks opined. But the general sentiment was, well, its State of Origin. There is room for the grubby.

And anyway, its Cam Smith. And hes a Top Bloke. And a great bloody player.

Great? One of the greatest ever, pal.

The marvel of Smith is not his: super-smart work from dummy-half; slick ball-work at the ruck; darting snipes; subtle dummies; soft hands; innate combination with Cooper Cronk and Billy Slater; veritable genius of a left foot; frozen-rope goals; flawless defence; fitness; precision; guile; bravery; strength; leadership; nor winning ways of rugby league.

At least not entirely.

For while those are all fine traits and the mark of a Great Player And Future Immortal, Smiths greatest trick is that he does all this stuff as if hes driving down the shops for milk and bread, laidback like a pot-head in a hammock.

Smith will make 50 tackles and wont have messy hair.

Smiths defence is technically excellent because its always had to be. Since he was a little tacker hes been the same size relative to others. That being an aptly-named the accountant compared to the other mobs blood-gargling Vikings.

But Smith is sinewy strong. Like a tradesman whos been on the tools a decade, he has muscles where they matter. He is hard rather than showy. Hes a nerd not a Julio.

I once shared a Chinese meal with two Raiders giants, Tom Leahroyd-Lars and Dane Tilse. And both admitted to being frightened of running at Smith lest he make them look stupid.

It doesnt mean you dont try, smiled Leahroyd-Lars. You still try to run over him. But hes very hard to shove off.

Like Allan Langer did, Smith can get up and inside the ribs of the giants, inveigle himself, and use the bigger mans weight to hurl him down face first.

Few years ago I was ringside at an Anzac Test in Canberra, the yearly exhibition of Kangaroo dominance over Kiwi.

Smith had his usual game-face on: The Mask. And he was just there, playing, scheming, doing little things perfectly.

A grubber, a show-and-go dummy it was subtle, super-effective stuff. The surgeon thing rings true. He carved the Kiwis and they scarcely even knew it.

He was giving up 20-30 kilos of mobile muscle to the games biggest Vikings in that case ridiculous man-beasts Jared Warea-Hargreaves and Jesse Bromwich and bringing them down, and holding them there, humping dirt.

For another of Smiths greatest tricks is his work on the deck, slowing play-the-ball. A little ankle-tug here, a head move there, a chin-cup. These plays dont hurt his opponent but they do subtly, briefly immobilise them.

And in a game in which ruck speed is crucial, Smiths body-work wins games. As Learoyd-Lahrs said over Mongolian lamb: When hes got you on the ground hes always gaining that extra second.

My mate Matt Hill, an Australian rep judo man, reckon its due to hours of practice at judo and Brazilian Jujitsu.

To manipulate players, to turn them onto their backs and control them, you have to maintain control of the head, says Hill. And Smith knows this.

Hills been thirty years in judo and says he can recognise league players whove been drilled in the dark arts.

Hill reckons were Smith to retire tomorrow he could enter and immediately compete in blue belt Brazilian Jujitsu competition.

A lot of players have Smiths skills. But only the gilded few have all of them all of the time. Smiths greatness and youd wager one day his Immortality is that he pulls them off near-perfectly every game.

Doesnt matter if its Round 4 in Campbelltown or Origin Decider. Smith just plays. Right option, right time.

And hes done it for a decade. Hes the fulcrum in the games three best teams Storm, Queensland, Australia.

Hes the fulcrum of perhaps the games greatest three-prong death squad The Big Three.

Cronk might be credited with more Try Assists and Men-of-Matches.

Slater has scored more long-range tries to the delighted squeals of girls. (My wife calls Slater My Billy.)

But Cronk and Slater do their thing on the back Smiths perfect, soft passes butterflies wafting into waiting hands. Cronk and Slater dont have to think.

And when they do think, they think, Cam Smith. Heck of a player. Top bloke.

See the original post:
Cameron Smith: Rugby league genius, top bloke - The Roar