Two battle-dusty sheriffs stand at opposite ends of the ANZ corral in the Wild West, wearily upright among piles of the steaming fallen as the only remaining gunslingers from a drawn-out bloody battle carried out over 1 score and 6 rounds. And a couple of finals.

Both wear an engulfing tattoo of strain on their weathered mugs from years of gruesome scrap. Their hair is unkempt and grimy, filled with the dust of the battlefield like chronic brown dandruff, yet their eyes have the sharp competitive glint of a bright young soldier on his first tour of duty.

After a protracted and arduous shoot-out against other aspirants in the county, only one solitary death pellet remains for both in their respective trusty firearms, ready to be blasted at whoever ultimately stands in their way. Both know they are excruciatingly close to the warm horse trough of victory, yet are cautious to not let their regimented minds wander too far ahead.

Both gunslingers then suck in what could be their last breath, and slowly raise eyes to see the sweaty outback marksman that stands between them and glory.

Once again for both, it’s a silhouette of familiarity cut against the sun-strewn backdrop.

It’s a feisty rivalry that has bubbled since the days when they were conjoined twins.

‘Not you again, you wily pistol-totin’ son of a….’

The never-ending spaghetti western that is Dirty Des Hasler v Crazy Craig Bellamy has returned to the big stage in 2012, and like huddling under a big old poncho made from the coarse coat of the snowy owl bison, it just feels right.

After going mano-a-mano in 2007 and 2008, a third chapter will be written in blood on Sunday night, and like it’s 2 predecessors, I can’t pick who will be on the victory whisky come full-time.

These two locally feared hombres have been regular fixtures at the yearly showdown with contributions from at least one through years 2006-2009 and 2011. The well-worn soil of this battlefield is awash with their DNA, so much so that you wouldn’t be shocked to see little spitting cacti with side-part haircuts sprouting from the turf in years to come.

It’s the experience and rivalry of the pair combined with the intoxicating lure of a fracas of styles and wits that has me power-chucking with excitement even before a Steeden is kicked in anger.

And how will the victor be spoken of as smoke rises from the gun barrel in the aftermath?

The prize on offer for these 2 contemporary coaching doyens transcends the standard hardware, balance boosters and Gatorade-soaked business shirt. A nailed-down spot on the mantle of modern day greatness beckons he who finishes standing.

The reason?

Because the campfire stories of their recent travels and travails are lavishly special.

Hasler switched counties for a challenge like a wild western Valentino Rossi and hasn’t required a single warm-up lap, whereas Bellamy had his ranch pilfered, but now the farm is back to life thanks to his acumen. And some cheap livestock.

Whichever adds ‘Premiers’ to the credits at the end of their 2012 movie will ensure their unfinished story already has true blockbuster status.

So far this week, it’s been textbook ‘big game’ conduct from both coaches with the relaxo-meter soaring. There’s been casual praising, jive talking with the press and many a mention of ‘benchmarks’, but you can guarantee this is merely a shield for the raging doses of paranoid-insomnia these 2 intense competitors would be enduring as the match draws near and their trigger fingers become increasingly flinchy.

And by the time Sunday arrives, their super-cool personas will be nearly almost gone, with the final rites read to that surface weekday composure when it melts inside the unforgiving furnace of the coaches box as the gun-battle plays out before them.

It’s going to be another corker battle in the setting western sun, and I can’t wait to huddle under my bison poncho with a whisky and watch the two sheriffs do battle.

Again.

One of the more memorable episodes of this year’s NRL finals series has to be the hardy guts and miraculous strapping that was Jamie Lyon’s bucking of medical lore last week.

To the gritty Manly man, I say kudos. There is no doubt his legend has further expanded after that fine display of indestructibility.

It’s another shimmering jewel added to an already-majestic rugby league reputation thanks to him fronting up to play a cut-throat finals match on a skittish calf muscle that was high as a kite on painkillers.

Earlier in the week, said leg was pronounced as certified mince meat, but not only did he merely survive on the turf of the SFS, he prospered, performed and proficiently piloted his charges to within another step of title glory.

Not a photo you will see on a Parra Leagues Club membership card.

Lyon was deservedly showered with a roaring watercourse of concrete-tough footy superlatives in the days following the win over the Cowboys. For a man who has conquered it all over the journey of 204 first grade games, he can now add work experience in the roles of ‘unbreakable bastard’ and ‘team-orientated needle cushion’ to his bulging resume, which is already shining brightly enough as it is.

From representing his state and country, to captaining a premiership win as well as consistently plastering opponents down his channel either side of a rural hiatus, it’s a record of surplus cachet that encompasses all of the sport’s feathers of expertise and achievement.

In to what section of the stratosphere his profile shall lift if he manages to haul his Sea Eagles to further glory in 2012 is a grammatical unknown. We may need a bulky thesaurus on eastern European performance-enhancers to capture the moment should it happen.

Regardless, his dossier of ticked boxes along with his lucid footballing qualities should have bought him widespread treasure status in our game by now, and here’s where the little party-poop crashes this back-slapping piece.

‘Killer’ my man, I’m afraid you may be recorded in rugby league annals with an asterix next to your name.

I am in no way diminishing his ability to palm, step and ball-and-all with the best of them, but it has to be acknowledged that regardless of his long and continuing string of feats on the field, the heat map of affection for him wanes heavily outside of the Manly precinct.

The diagram freezes to form spiky icicles in the Parramatta region, but that’s another story.

The reason for this territorial change from unconditional worship to frustrated respect is because he chooses to stand idly by and watch as his home state flounders in failure on the Origin stage.

I’m sure he’s probably noticed that it’s all hands on deck at state level right now. So why does this blinding force that would be a walk-up start to the sky blue ranks as a high-ranking corporal gather dust when state lines are re-marked?

It’s because Lyon prefers to state his allegiance to the insular peninsula rather than the whole state. And it’s a burr in our backsides that we can’t quite completely extract.

On a human level, the welfare for his legacy concerns me. I stare blankly in to the bottom of a jar and ponder: how will he be remembered?

He’s in a rich crossover phase of a career where the worlds of his traits are colliding. At this moment, he’s a blend of his youthful days as a track-scorching force of attack and his current makeup of a stoic leader with ultimate footy nous. It’s a more than handy skill set.

We the people of NSW are prepared to break bread with Lyon, which in business speak translates to ‘we forgive you, we are desperate and we’ll even give you your own room in camp far from the snorers, farters and messy rookies.’

He can cement a deserved position amongst the eulogised greats of rugby league’s register of demigods by releasing the burden of whatever has irked him in the past and ending his self-imposed exile from our yearly drubbing by the Maroons.

Killer old boy, the opportunity for statewide adulation is there. You can convince everyone to see that asterix as a star.

Except out at Parra Leagues. I’m pretty sure you have a life ban in those parts.

Australian swimming: consider yourself officially within the filthy confines of that tabloid-created sinister wasteland.

That’s right, our dolphin factory is officially in crisis.

The blind pimple that slowly developed during the Olympic campaign in London finally came to a head last week with all of the explosive and greasy qualities that the bursting of a badly infected pore brings.

Every local patriot and his dog stepped up to apply the pressure of the two index finger squeeze to the booming zit, with administrators, former greats and even disgruntled team members coming forward with their opinions on the evaporated team spirit and shaved-down punkings from the Games.

Would you swim faster for this man?

As the week wore on, the furore gradually grew more feral as the rush to vent the goss intensified.

Watching those involved ripping hamstrings in the sprint towards any waiting microphone was tough to watch. It was unsightly scenes for a one-time eternal stronghold of squeaky cleanliness that now finds itself being followed by pesky bad vibes like a special blue cloud hounds a pool urinator.

Understandably, the governing body is beans-keen to get this sorted out quick-sticks. The abrasive tarnishing of one of the nation’s most respected sports, as well as the potential PR disaster of having reduced numbers of candidates for Uncle Toby’s adverts, has the superiors on the lookout for a rapid-fire refurbishment of reputation.

Will they go for the classic knee-jerk and flush the bad seeds from the ranks? What about an audacious poaching of athletes from other water sports? Or what about we nick a blueprint for success from one of our many arse-kicking rivals, provided it’s not the Brits?

These are all feasible options straight from the bible of fresh starts. However, for effective relief, I believe we need to look left of centre and in-house.

The job is prime for a man who can sweep a place clean like Dick Van Dyke before applying some deputy principal-style muscle and discipline.

Swimming Australia needs the services of the rebuild king, and that man is Brian Smith.

End the pain now.

Forget for a moment about a long-term messiah. We know Smith has a definite shelf life, so give him the reins on a ‘knock em down, drag em out’ 2-year deal, which allows him to come in with a whistle and a grimace and simply extract the cancer from the organisation.

Think about the possibilities.

His distinctive style of mind-muddling philosophising and back pocket micro-management would have the egotistical creases in the Australian shirt ironed out in quick time. The disruptive pool fools would be thrown into a chlorinated haze of confusion with his regular changes of race plans being delivered by text at inappropriate times.

The cockiness of youth would be quelled and replaced by puzzled minds desperately trying to determine what the day’s training would entail. “Is it my start? Or my tumble turns? Is it kickboard work? Perhaps waxing?”

Poisonous influences such as Magnussen-style swagger and D’Arcy-like imprudence would be consigned to distant memory as Smith ruled with an iron fist.

There’s also the possibility that a major international meet falls within his usual honeymoon period of the first 6 months, resulting in an unlikely spike in fortune that sees the green and gold catapult back to the apex of a medal count.

And with his track record of choking at the big dance, he would fit in perfectly with our recently developed silver culture.

It’s a perfect fit like a pair of spray-on budgie smugglers. The fact that he’s currently on the lookout for work should have the Aussie pool people selling him the benefits of the black line right as we speak.

The answer is simple. Get in BS to filter out the floaters in the Australian swimming pool.

There’s a sleeper of this weekend’s NRL Finals extravaganza. It’s an explosive action/drama dwarfed by the shadow of a ratings beast and secreted in the dusty limitations of the 5.45pm graveyard shift on Saturday.

Everybody is talking about Friday night’s next instalment of apprentice v master in “UnderDessie”, but how about some spotlight action for the comparably tangy “UnderBellyache”, the subplot to the blockbusting Melbourne v Souths clash?

If it weren’t for Friday’s third 2012 episode of the supremely popular friend-versus-foe soap, this mouth-watering clash would easily have the top billing in the hot slot. Having it fall on the same weekend is like trying to re-launch E-Street at the time of a Home and Away wedding / Irene homicide double.

Bellamy. The black belt.

It’s a shame because this skirmish of old lineage between Souths coach Michael Maguire and the Storm’s Craig Bellamy is nearly as good.

Their coaches box history began with a youthful Maguire looking for a work opportunity in 2004.

He was handed the chance by Bellamy to continue his coaching development with a gig at the Storm where he ably assisted in the club’s 2 now-bogus premierships in 2007 & 2009, before deserting the tutelage of the Southern Don to take up the head role at Wigan in the UK Super League.

He departed Melbourne with a truckload of his mentor’s blueprints under his arm and brain full of Bellamyisms, both what formed the foundation of a similar philosophy he created which piloted him to the 2010 Super League premiership and 2011 Challenge Cup.

Now the young upstart is back in the NRL as a rival to his former footy Pops, and it’s safe to say the pair of them are mustard-fierce to get hold of a replacement trophy for those rescinded by Ian Schubert as soon as possible.

Adding further intrigue to this thriller is the fact that Maguire is lobbing in to town with 3 of the old boy’s former cohorts rolling alongside him in Matt King, Michael Crocker and Greg Inglis.

Yessiree, its like an oil-free “Dallas” clan showdown and all signs point to a squeaky-tight one.

Being a monstrous final that demands a great cliché prediction, I’m going to say that the battle of the primates in the middle is going to go a long way to deciding the result.

Both packs will be drilled with identical principles to win the ground and belt like a headmaster for the full 80 making it akin to inch-fought trench warfare, but on paper the Bunnies have the edge in star power. Both scrums are like two new flat-pack Ikea cupboards with the same instructions for assembly, except Maguire’s team is reinforced radiata with a glossy veneer compared to Bellamy’s honest cobbled-together chipboard.

Maguire. The P-plater.

However, in Melbourne’s favour is the fact they won their only clash this year in round 2, and the game is being played on their turf at AAMI Park where Souths have never won.

And as we all know, every cliffhanger has a main attraction, so what role will box-office beast Greg Inglis play in this dramality? You know he is programmed for at least one explosion of domination per finals series, so will Saturday be one of those bedazzling nights of match-winning bullish magic?

It’s all adding up to being a worthy sequel to the criss-crossing plotline of Friday night’s humdinger. The AAMI Park bout is a reconvening of former colleagues that’s poised to get edgier than a Rinehart Xmas dinner.

Footy people: will it be the teacher Bellamy or student Maguire who gets the top ratings this Saturday night?

The general conduct of Geoff Toovey in 2012 has been exemplary, and quite frankly I’m disappointed.

When the news broke last year that he was to be the new head coach of Manly, I felt one of those childlike thrills you get when you’re standing a safe distance away from someone who is about to go in to a comical fit of rage.

You beauty! A year of entertaining verbal roasts just like the type he famously deployed in his sandy-blonde days of pomp was surely on the cards.

Remember the days when Toovey was a taped-up terrier living life out on the paddock for the Sea Eagles?

Toovey. Polite. Astute. Badly weather-beaten.

He was a robust, skilful and resilient leader with the preened looks of a divinely behaved schoolboy and the foul mouth of a vile 3rd generation trucker. Combine these traits with a forward approach to airing grievances with anyone on the field who made his life difficult, and what you had was a Northern Beaches Napoleon.

Because of this reputation, I naturally saw his appointment to the coaching role at Manly as an opportunity for a delivery of some much-needed ignition to the bland universe of guarded coach-speak. My expectation was for Toovey to channel his agitated on-field persona from the 90’s and stream it directly into the realms of the coaching world in the form of press conference tirades and searing death stares.

Early in the piece, it seemed even outside influences were on the same page as me, and the variables had it beautifully poised to get the rookie coach going hog-wild.

The media was on side, drumming up the speculation about a supposedly decaying Manly squad under threat from salary cap pressures and its associated vultures. They predicted him to struggle plying his trade in that dastardly Shadow of Des. High expectations that come with inheriting the control panel of the reigning premiers were to drive him to cranium-expanding anger.

Then it was the turn of the footy powers-that-be to pelt a few rocks at him; an injury crisis, a mini-slump and conjecture over the retention of his big stars were just a few attempts to resurface his on-field terrier.

It was supposed to be too much to handle and he was expected to demonstratively prove so. Unfortunately so far, he’s failed miserably.

Besides the occasional short comment when mid-contract talk or post-loss, Toovey has been cool, calm and laced with grace. And not to mention, mostly winning.

He even beautifully handled being delivered the news of the change to the shoulder charge laws second-hand from the press as he alighted from the team bus on the Gold Coast last week.

Not even the NRL forgetting to advise him of a major rule amendment on safe tackling right on the eve of the playoffs was enough to get the blood vessels bulging on his panel-beaten forehead. And this bloke has Steve Matai in his squad.

What happened to you, Tooves? You’ve changed man. You used to be cranky, and now you’re just… cool.

I feel like I’ve been short-changed on a tantrum or two.

However, I potentially see a hair-trigger coming up in the rear view mirror.

Could the peppery build-up of this opening week of finals culminating with Friday’s traffic-halter against the Bulldogs be the proverbial poke that sets off the shelved Toovey fireworks display?

He’s dealt with the Darth Vader/Skywalker stuff surrounding himself and Hasler all year. But that’s nothing compared with the rarefied stakes of Friday night’s outcome.

The deep psychological bruise waiting to be inflicted, the week’s break to nurse pounded muscles after they belt the deep brown out of each other, and not to mention the outright premiership favouritism is all awaiting the winner of this Titanic match-up that should go close to filling ANZ.

Not since he’s taken the gig at the Sea Eagles have so many sharp pokers of pressure all prodded him simultaneously. The only way this test could be larger is if it were the last day in September.

Is Friday’s Doggy date going to tip Toovey over the edge and see us finally get the captivating scenes of rage we’ve all been waiting for?

Perhaps Channel Nine should get Adam MacDougall on standby for a post-match interview just as cover if he doesn’t combust as hoped.