Back-to-Back: The Centres Who Broke the Dragons
The bus rumbled down the M1 towards Sydney Football Stadium. Inside, the mood was tight but familiar—a low hum of boots tapping against floorboards, the occasional hiss of velcro straps, muffled jokes thrown down the aisle. Chris Johns sat near the front, half-turned in his seat to look back at Steve Renouf.
They’d done this last year. They’d beaten St George once before. But Johns knew that repeating the feat would ask questions of them no one had yet thought to voice.
Renouf caught his eye and grinned, teeth flashing white under the fluorescent bus lights. “You ready to write your name in the book again, mate?” he called.
Johns just shook his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “You wrote yours last year, Pearl. My turn now.”
The Old Red V
St George had become the reluctant co-star in this Broncos epic. Twice now they’d fronted the powerhouse from Brisbane, twice they’d tried to strangle the life from them with discipline, tradition, and that old Red V pride. But they were a team of the past trying to tame the future.
And the future, in those days, looked like Steve Renouf in open space. The future looked like Chris Johns doing the hard carries no one saw, the covering tackles that saved tries no one ever remembered.
Wayne Bennett had told them both the same thing in separate conversations that week: It’s the centres that’ll break them. Not the pack, not Alfie Langer’s wizardry, not Hancock’s darting runs from the wing—it was the link men, the outside backs who had the freedom to turn structure into chaos.
In ’92, it was Renouf who’d slipped through. He still replayed it sometimes when he closed his eyes: the way the ball sat up perfectly, the grass parting before him, the roar of the Lang Park faithful deafening even on a neutral ground. He’d felt untouchable that day—young, lightning-quick, and crowned in front of the whole country.
Now, in ’93, Johns felt the itch. His chance to be the one they talked about in pubs and on playgrounds. The unsung workhorse turned grand final hero.
The Tunnel
The teams stood shoulder to shoulder in the tunnel. St George in white and red, stony-faced, clenching fists and jawlines. Brisbane in maroon and gold, a shade looser, but just as dangerous for it.
Johns bounced on his toes. Next to him, Renouf rolled his shoulders, glancing back to check where the fullback was standing. Habit. He always wanted to know the angles—where the space would be if he slipped his man.
“Oi, Johnsie,” Renouf murmured, leaning in so only his centre partner could hear. “First twenty—let ‘em think you’re just gonna cart it up. Then we’ll go wide.”
Johns gave the smallest nod. That was the thing about the Broncos then—trust. Bennett’s greatest trick was letting them believe in each other more than any game plan. If the moment came, you’d know. And you’d know who’d be there with you.
The whistle shrieked. A wall of noise hit them as they emerged from the tunnel, the stands seething with red and white, maroon and gold, split down the middle by years of rivalry that ran deeper than league alone.
Opening Salvo
It was a brutal opening. St George were desperate—still smarting from last year’s near miss. They hammered Brisbane in the ruck, chopped down the wingers, trapped Langer when he tried to scheme down the blind side.
But every time Johns ran, he leaned in with his shoulder, low and coiled like a spring. He made metres no one expected. He carried tacklers three at a time. Every carry was a promise: I’ll be here all night. I’ll break you eventually.
Renouf waited. He drifted wide, flirting with the sideline, watching the Dragons slide nervously each time the Broncos shaped left. He could feel them flinch—one mistimed read, one bad inside shoulder, and he was gone.
And then, as the clock ticked towards halftime, it happened.
The Break
A loose offload from Kevin Walters. Johns scooped it up on the bounce, felt a hand brush his hip but slipped free. For a heartbeat he thought about putting his head down, but he sensed it—Renouf screaming down the outside, boots slapping the grass.
Johns didn’t even look. He flicked it blind, a miracle ball, spinning end over end into space.
Renouf was there before the Dragons even knew he’d gone. He arced infield, burning past the cover, skidding over under the posts.
Back at halfway, Johns bent over, hands on knees, gasping for air. Renouf jogged up, gave him a slap on the back.
“That’s yours as much as mine,” Renouf panted.
“Not yet,” Johns shot back. “I still want one for myself.”
Second Half
St George didn’t fold. They never did. They came again, hammering the Broncos’ line, dragging the game into the mud. The big forwards slugged it out like punch-drunk boxers. Langer kept barking plays, Walters kept jinking and jabbing, but space was suffocating.
Johns knew they needed one more blow. Something final, something that would make the Dragons realise the future had arrived again, whether they liked it or not.
And so, when Langer drifted across field and found him with a flat pass 20 metres out, Johns didn’t hesitate.
He faked left, stepped right, carried one defender, then two. He felt a hand claw at his jersey, another smash into his ribs. He twisted, legs pumping like pistons, seeing the line creep closer through a red haze.
And then he was over. Ball slammed down with both hands. Johns lay there for a second, cheek pressed to the turf, the weight of the defenders falling away like old shackles.
When he rose, the scoreboard glowed. The Broncos were up by more than a converted try now. The Dragons looked beaten. The future had come for them again.
Final Whistle
When the siren wailed at full time, Johns found Renouf first. They embraced like brothers. Sweat, grass, exhaustion. The stands heaved and bellowed around them but for a moment it was just the two of them, the two centres who’d sealed it back-to-back.
In the sheds later, Johns sat with his boots off, ankles taped and muddy. Renouf was across from him, medal draped around his neck like an amulet.
“You reckon they’ll remember us?” Johns asked, voice low so only Renouf could hear.
Renouf laughed. “Mate, they’ll never forget. Two years. Two tries. Both the centres. They’ll talk about it when we’re old and fat.”
Johns grinned. “Speak for yourself. I plan on staying pretty.”
Renouf balled up a bit of tape and flicked it at him. It hit Johns square on the nose. The room howled with laughter.
Legacy
Years later, the footage still rolls out every September. Kids in backyards and schoolyards still throw dummy passes and call out Renouf! or Johns! as they dive for invisible trylines.
The Dragons would come again, of course. They’d rebuild and rise and fall and rise again. But in ’92 and ’93, it was the Broncos’ time. It was the age of a team that could run you ragged, could smash you up front, could open you up out wide with a flick pass, a dummy, a streak of light down the sideline.
And at the heart of it were two centres—one a pearl, gliding on pure instinct; the other a workhorse with the heart of a prop and the hands of a half.
Back-to-back. That’s how you become legend.
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