What the hell is a team, anyway?

I mean, what is it beyond the obvious definition of an assembly of people that take the field within the parameters of the rules of a game?

I say that, at its best, it is a collective of teammates where the sum of the parts is greater than the whole, where a certain magic takes place to unite them and give them the force of two closed fists rather than a whole bunch of separate fingers operating independently.

My metaphor, or simile, or allegory – one of those things, I am never sure which – might be a little violent, but you surely get the drift?

The next question is, what makes a successful team, beyond assembling talent, getting them fit and drilling them until their noses bleed?

I say the X-factor is getting the team to care for their colours, for each other, for the people who support them, and I say that more often than not it comes from having old-stagers in and around the team. You need a critical mass of those who have worn those colours for many years, who know what they represent, who – beyond their own input on the day – also act as a bridge to previous generations, to link the present with the past and get the present to understand and care for the duty, the DEBT, they owe to those who have gone before!

And what truly amazes me is how often, in the professional age of sport, those basic facts get lost.

Look at Souths, with Adam Reynolds, a few years ago. If even a passive observer like me could see that he was the beating heart of the team, the one capable of embarrassing the others should they not get close to matching his own extraordinary efforts every game, why couldn’t Souths? But no, they let him go to the Broncos, at which point the Rabbitohs immediately started blowing smoke from their starboard and port engines, and losing altitude, even as the Broncos started to soar.

The Wallabies without Michael Hooper and other old-stagers at last year’s World Cup? On a bad day they looked like a bunch of 22-year-olds thrown Wallabies jerseys the previous Tuesday and told they were playing for Australia. It just didn’t work. Beyond James Slipper, they just didn’t have the gritty gravitas needed to compete at that level and the result was catastrophic.

A couple of weeks ago, the news broke that the Parramatta Eels no longer wanted their captain and fullback, Clint Gutherson.

Friends? Madness, complete and utter madness. I have watched Gutherson for years. Ever and always it was not just him putting in the finest performances, but also him holding the others to account behind the try line after disaster, shortly before exhorting them forward when pressing the opponents’ line. But, suddenly, Clint, here’s your hat and what’s your hurry, don’t let the door hit your arse on the way out – for we can do better than you!

I say they can’t. I say rushing a bloke like him out the door says it really is just a business after all, and you are just employees. Even blokes who treat it as more than that can be savagely cut, so don’t forget to Bundy on, and Bundy off later. As for the link to the past great players they have played with, that link is broken.

And the latest, greatest example of this madness is new Broncos coach Michael “Madge” Maguire breaking ties with Alfie Langer – regarded as maybe the greatest Bronco of the lot, and a ubiquitous figure running water as a trainer ever since, all while barking instructions from the coach and holding them to account.

Look, maybe Alfie walked in loyalty to the sacked Kevin Walters – or maybe Maguire did indeed bring in the new broom. It makes no difference. McGuire’s job is to find a way to keep Langer in the frame. Who better than Langer to move them beyond being just a casual collective? Who better than Langer to take Reece Walsh aside, and tell him to pull his head in? Who better than Langer to act as the link to so many generations of players past? The answer is, no one. Madness, absolute madness. And if even I can see it, why can’t they?