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IT'S always amusing to read how a sporting team or athlete has been inspired to an unlikely victory because of something a reporter has written in a newspaper.

Seems to me if they need the opinion of some underpaid hack to fire them up there are bigger issues afoot, but that's by the by.

Still, if South Sydney Rabbitohs need some words to take them somewhere tonight where they have yet go this season – the winner's circle – I'm happy to oblige.

You want to know what's wrong with the Rabbitohs? They're soft, that's what.

They're big heads, walking around thinking they're something special. And why? Because Russell Crowe and Peter Holmes a Court have told them they are – and the rest of Sydney's in-crowd has perpetuated the myth.

They're not a football team. They're a bunch of blokes who think they are role models, crusaders for social justice, white knights for the infirm and oppressed. To say nothing of pretty boy glitterati opening nighters.

No wonder George Piggins won't go to the games. I reckon if he saw his team walking around in those Armani suits he'd head to the nearest bar and have the first drink of his life.

Did you read the bake that Johnny Sattler gave them after last weekend's debacle against the Tigers?

I reckon it is only because Satts is one of the greatest gentlemen God ever put breath into that he didn't say what he really wanted to.

I don't know whether Satts watched that reality TV series South Side Story (don't get me started), but it would be interesting to hear exactly what he thought about that scene where Russell looked into the eyes of his utility forward and uttered those immortal words, "I love you Dean Widders".

Can you imagine coach Clive Churchill saying that to one of the Souths pack in 1970? The Little Master flattened at training. Now there's an image for the Centenary TV ad.

Not that there wasn't a special bond between the Rabbitoh greats. They just didn't see the need to talk about it in the media. They did their talking on the field by sticking up for each other.

They used to call Souths "The Pride of the League" because the Rabbitohs represented everything that rugby league was supposed to be: a working class game played by hard men with no airs and graces.

Well those days are certainly gone. Now they're flown to America for a trial game, given leather jackets and Italian suits. They go to movie premieres and society functions and are held up as poster boys for the down-trodden and short-changed.

I received a call yesterday from one of those down-trodden and short-changed. His name was Karl and the reason he feels that way is because he is a South Sydney supporter.

He's not one of the old-timers, mind you. He never knew what it was like to see the likes of Satts, John O'Neill, Elwyn Walters, Ron Coote, Gary Stevens and Bobby McCarthy take an opposition pack apart. He hopped on board in 2002 because he bought all the hype about how the Bunnies had fought the good fight and given big business a black eye.

But six years on he's disillusioned, despondent and depressed. Every time the Rabbitohs come to Brisbane he hands over his hard earned and sits in the stand hoping to see the Pride of the League show some pride.

Ten times he's done it – and he is yet to see them win. The money it has cost him probably wouldn't buy one of those Armani suits, but it was a fair whack for him.

Not that he is complaining about the money. It's the lack of respect that hurts. Souths seem to have gone in to bat for every other minority group known to man over the past few years – actually it's surprising they didn't boycott tonight's game in support of Tibet – but what about its own minority group – their supporters?

Why don't they show them some love?

There you go boys. Take it as a letter from Karl.

Do with it what you will.