Back in the days of old, when Brisbane Jugger stood as the only ray of hope in the entire southern hemisphere, the group once had some strange and mysterious visitors. Back in those days we played on ratty soccer fields in Mitchelton, where passers–by consisted of the odd dog-walker or flasher, and the toilets were a half-day’s hike away.
Having prepared for a typical afternoon of Jugger, with the centre circle gouged out of the earth by an industrial brushcutter and the oak-cored weapons padded up just enough not to shatter kneecaps on the first strike, a few carloads of quiet strangers arrived with serious, dark intent.
Aloof, the black-clad mystery men weighed up their opponents (that was us, in case you’re not quite following things so far) and uttered the strange guttural tongue that betrayed their origins in the Southern wastes (Acacia Ridge, as it turned out). They wielded a full set of colour-coordinated weapons, built to spec, and they knew the rules of Jugger better than I (never much of an accomplishment, to be honest). None of the Brisbane group so much as knew or had heard of a single one of them. Not even Adam, and he was in Genesis (i.e. the bible chapter, not UK’s 80”s synthpop group).