The Tale of Harry Hockings (All time favourite GPS player)
In the January heat of 2014, Harry Hockings was nobody’s pick. He was stuck in the 16Bs playing on the wing, a position that suited him about as well as ballet slippers on a bull. He was tall, awkward, and built like a garden rake. Most people assumed he was just there to bring the oranges. But something snapped in him that preseason. Harry got tired of being the "tall bloke who doesn’t hit rucks," so he made a decision. He threw his asthma puffer in the bin, tore up his Netball Queensland membership, and moved into the Churchie gym. Literally. He brought in a swag and started sleeping under the squat rack. His bench press was so violent it made it look like he was trying to hurt the bar. He ate like a machine — steak and rice at recess, peanut butter straight from the jar, whole lasagnas after class. He sweated through his school uniform by Period 2 most days and once blacked out mid-deadlift just to wake up, shake it off, and do another set. In 25 weeks, Harry stacked on 30kg of lean muscle. Coaches started calling him “The Concrete Giraffe.” His skin was constantly red from how hard he trained—he sweat like a busted tap and was often seen pushing a sled around in the sun until he looked like he'd been baptized in battery acid. Still, no one expected him to make the First XV. That was until the final trial, when Harry put on a performance so violent it should’ve come with a warning label. He made 30 tackles, three line breaks, and rumbled over four defenders in a single run like a runaway fridge on wheels. The selectors looked at each other and wrote his name down with shaky hands. Harry Hockings had forced his way in.
The season rolled on and Churchie dominated. Every paper, blog, and post talked about Kalyn Ponga — his footwork, his flair, his freakish ability to make defenders quit mid-play. Meanwhile, Harry Hockings was buried in the engine room, doing the hard stuff. No highlights, no interviews, just head tape, hit ups, and bruises. His teammates called him "The Boiler Room" because he was always steaming, silent, and impossible to shut down. He was the bloke making 15 tackles a game, blowing out scrums, and cleaning rucks so hard he left divots in the turf. Then, the night before the final game, everything went sideways. Harry came down with some kind of violent stomach bug and spent the night in bed shaking and throwing up like a busted hose. The team doctor ruled him out. But at 11:15 in the morning (3 hours before kick-off), white as a sheet and running on fumes, Harry drove himself to the ground in his battered Hilux, listening to Midnight Oil through the one working speaker. He walked into the sheds, looked his coach dead in the eye and said, “If I die, bury me on the try line.” That afternoon, he played his finest game. He made 20 tackles, stole lineouts, and carried defenders on his back like oversized backpacks. By half time he had no working limbs—just pure heart and desperation. He coughed blood, spat it out, and kept playing. When the final whistle blew and Churchie went undefeated, the cameras chased Ponga. But inside the sheds, the boys hoisted Harry onto their shoulders. They knew. He wasn’t flashy, but he was tough. He wasn’t gifted, but he was built. A bloke who made himself through pain, steel, and sheer bloody-mindedness. From 16B winger to Churchie’s iron heartbeat — Harry Hockings had earned his legend.