If you play rugby league long enough, there will come a time when you will look another man in the eye and settle your differences with your fists.

It may or may not be politically correct.
It may or may not mean the game will act against you.
It may or may not mean fearful mothers will stop their sons playing.
It may or may not foster violence in the streets.
It may or may not mean that rugby league is dying.

It is simply the truth of the matter.

And so it came to pass on a sunlit Sunday afternoon in Sydney.

The men wearing the foundation colours of myrtle and red were taking on a club that had transmogrified from Berries to Bulldogs, in the process becoming one of the most ruthless clubs of the modern era.

It was a contest to whet the appetite of even the most jaded palate.

Among the Rabbitohs number was one in a long line of proud indigenous players, Chris Sandow, sporting a smile as wide as Sydney heads and a kamikaze spirit that belied his tiny stature.

And bolstering the ranks of the steely eyed Bulldogs was one Michael Ennis.

He is a a skillful, tough rake and one of the main reasons the Bulldogs are among the premiership favourites this year. He is also a sledger of the first water, recognised as the master of the sly jibe in a recent poll of NRL players.

It was a critical moment in the match.

The Rabbitohs had enjoyed the momentum and on the back of an attacking set, the ball went to Sandow for a deep kick to drive home the advantage.

The youngster fluffed it, putting the ball out on the full. It was a cardinal sin and Sandow, head bowed, knew it. It was the cue for the inner demon in Ennis to emerge.

He gave the crestfallen Sandow a gob full as only Ennis can do. The hooker went a step further and literally and metaphorically rubbed the Rabbitoh’s nose in it, pushing the palm of his hand into the youngster’s face.

Following instinct honed in a rough and tumble childhood on the dusty streets of Cherbourg, Sandow fixed Ennis’s gaze for a moment, balanced on the balls of his feet and unloaded a perfect right hand onto the Bulldog’s jaw.

Ennis suffered not much more than surprise and, after the ensuing melee, was even more surprised to be penalised for the incident. It was an immensely satisfying outcome for all but those with blue and white coursing through their veins.

Many will argue that a punch can never be justified on the football field. If the shrill and and the haughty are to be believed, that view is in the ascendancy.

But there must always be room in life for a little rough justice, dispensed summarily, with passion and with righteousness.

And that is the truth of the matter.