The Under-Colours

Hello, Jane.

Somewhere in this parcel there is a garment in red and blue, and somewhere further along there's a man who sent it clear across America because he thought it would make you laugh. That's true, but it isn't the important part. It's also meant to carry a bit of Newcastle to Texas: the old times, the family, the friends, the town that made you. That's closer to the important part, but still not quite it.

The important part is that you've just become the Keeper of the Under-Colours, Texas Chapter. There was no application process. There rarely is. The Hunter chooses, the parcel arrives, and that's that.

I should explain what you've been handed, because the rules are older than the club and considerably older than the man who sent them. Settle in. It won't take long, and there's a drop bear in it.

Where the colours came from

The scholars and by scholars I mean three gentlemen at a pub in Mayfield who have never been wrong about anything, ask them trace the Under-Colours back further than the club itself. The story goes that the colours were chosen not by a committee but by a woman who dreamt them: red for the blood of the forwards, blue for the cold water of the bay where the fathers worked, and of the best beach in the world, where every Hunter kid learned to swim. You know the one.

She stitched them into a garment nobody was ever meant to see, and that is precisely why it worked. Luck, you understand, is shy. Luck does not perform. Luck hides under a frock and does its quiet work while the crowd screams at the wrong things.

And luck travels. A garment posted halfway across a continent picks up more of it than one bought down the road. Ask anyone in the Hunter.

The drop bears

The drop bears came into it later. A drop bear, as any Novocastrian will tell you, hunts by sound specifically the sound of a man confidently predicting a result. This is why Newcastle fans are superstitious rather than cocky. It's not humility. It's survival.

The one reliable repellent, tested across generations, is the Under-Colours worn by a true believer in the household. No house wearing the red and blue beneath has ever lost a member to a drop bear. Make of that what you will.

The Lego Clause

This is the newest and most powerful piece of the lore, and the only one with documented evidence. A Knight, asked what winning felt like, reached for the truest comparison he had, found it unspeakable on television, and said instead that it was better than Lego. The Hunter understood immediately. A sacred substitution had occurred.

Here is the mechanism: by naming the smaller joy out loud, you leave the greater joy unguarded by jealousy, and it comes to you. This is why you must say "better than Lego" at least once during the match, with a straight face, and never explain it to anyone who doesn't already know.

The observances

For those taking this seriously and you should:

• The garment is put on before the anthem, not after.
• It is not removed until the siren, regardless of scoreline, regardless of golden point, regardless of what you've had to drink.
• It is not washed during finals season. The luck lives in the weave, and water is the enemy of memory.
• It is never photographed from the front.
• It must be worn with genuine belief, proven by saying out loud, at least once: Up the Knights. Mumbling does not count. The drop bears can tell.

Meanwhile, back in the Hunter

Twenty-five years since the last one, and the Hunter has lost its mind in the best possible way. Reports from the homeland this week:

• A local butcher has started making blue sausages. Food dye and pork, in the name of the mighty boys. Pubs answered with blue burgers and red sauce.
• One tattoo artist cancelled his regular bookings and worked late into the night inking Knights fans. One bloke went with "Defend the kingdom."
• Houses and shopfronts all over the region have been painted red and blue.
• The old mascots came out of retirement, in their original 1997 and 2001 costumes.
• About 12,000 people turned up just to watch the team train, and the merch queue snaked through the car park.

The Lego Clause, you'll note, has been passed to the next generation. The lore is in good hands.

Word from the other side

Meanwhile, the television people are openly speculating about the Roosters winning a sixteenth. Out loud. On the internet. The drop bears have been notified.

Read more: ABC News | Newcastle Herald

The Keeper's Obligation

The Under-Colours are never photographed from the front. This is absolute. But the lore is older and cleverer than that, because what the Old Fellas understood is that luck must be witnessed or it curdles.

So: the Keeper must send proof to the Gifter. Not a photograph of her face, not a photograph from the front a photograph of the Under-Colours as worn, taken from whatever angle the Keeper judges most flattering to the colours, which by long tradition is from behind and slightly above. Any good Novocastrian woman knows the angle without being told. It's practically inherited.

The proof must reach the Gifter on match day before the whistle or after the siren, it doesn't matter, but within the day. And the scoreline is irrelevant. A loss witnessed is a debt paid forward. A win witnessed is a win locked in. A win unwitnessed is the worst outcome of all: the luck goes back in the box for another twenty-five years, and everyone in the Hunter will know whose fault it was, even if nobody says it aloud.

The Gifter, for his part, is bound to silence. He may acknowledge receipt. He may say "Up the Knights." He may not forward, post, or show. The Under-Colours are shy, remember. That's the whole point.

Twenty-five years, Jane. Not one premiership has come home to the Hunter since you last lived on its soil. The club has done its part. The men have done theirs. What remains is the Under-Colours, and that bit falls to you.

Up the Knights.