What is it about grubs and Slater (A slater, for one, is more like a beetle or miniature armadillo than a grub.) He is one of the quickest, smartest and most exciting rugby league footballers ever. At worst, he might milk a penalty. He's very, very good, which is always going to antagonise opposing fans. But those factors hardly make him Robinson Crusoe. Yet he is synonymous with that particular term of abuse. Slater, you GRUB!!

Maybe I've missed something. Maybe it's just that people dislike his jumps-jockey shape, his stablehand voice. It's irrational, but what's rugby league for if not for the venting of irrational hatreds?

Anyway, that's not quite the point of the story, but was one of the questions that arose for me while sitting in the rain at an obsolete suburban ground the other night. On that issue, it's been decided that a rugby league fan would prefer sole possession of a 1000-seat bay some 200 metres from the action and further still from civilisation in Homebush, undercover and comfortably seated, to being bucketed on while sitting in a mudheap a few minutes from home. I'm not so sure. True, there are drawbacks with suburban grounds. You can't see very much. You get wet and cold. The toilets are like the Black Hole of Calcutta. The food queues have you considering the people-smuggler option. If you want to watch replays of your team being carved up by referees, you have to climb through crowds who think they're made of glass. Then there's the sound effects, the tough-guy wannabe teenagers screaming in their prepubescent pipes: Tackle the faggot! And the constant din of that guy whose voice is beginning to crack with frustration: Slater – you GRUUU-UU-UBBBB!!!

And this is on the no-alcohol "Family Hill".

But that's not the point of the story. I wouldn't go to the game if it was at Homebush. Being a number on a spreadsheet to fulfil some NRL-ocrat's attendance KPI doesn't appeal. What appeals is being among the steaming, writhing, blood-curdling aortic rush of rugby league's lifeblood. What's a bit of rain? A lifelong memory. Who needs toilets when there are trees? When the referees are killing the game, why give them the satisfaction of poring over endless video replays? The charming grit of the live rugby league experience is not knowing what just happened, not being able to see and hear because of that blinding, deafening, SLATER YOU FILTHY GRUUUUUBBBBBBBB!

But that's not the point of the story.

Passions boil over, especially when the tide has turned and is running out like worming hour at Lake Narrabeen. Ah yes, rugby league, the people's game, now the fans are really getting involved, and: SLATER, YOU GRUB! I HOPE YOU DIE OF CANCER!

The first thing that comes to mind, from the silence that follows, is walking into the Maroubra Bay Hotel in an Easts jersey. Or the Happy Days episode where Ralph Malph thinks he's got the crowd in his hands until he says, "And the principal says you're all expelled!" Or Ian Botham hopping into a lift with Ian Chappell. It's sepulchral. Pins are heard dropping all over the hill. Finally, some quiet.

And then they turn on him. Not the opposition, but those who are wearing the same colours. My team, right or wrong? No. He has crossed the line. How many others, who heard that, have had relatives die of cancer? How many just recognise stupidity when they hear it?

First there are some isolated shouts: "Oi, quit it." Then it builds. He says something back, in self-justification, but this time he's too quiet to hear. They turn, and hound him. Gutless moron. Should be ashamed of himself. And finally, he is. He realises he's crossed the line. He slinks away, and he won't be standing in that spot next week either.

Rugby league in a suburban ground is a beautiful thing, and the NRL can't do anything about it. That cretin did not violate any of the official policies against hate speech on racial, religious or cultural grounds. If he'd said what he said to Ali Abbas, he wouldn't be on the wrong side of a code of conduct charge. If he'd said it to Adam Goodes, he wouldn't be held up as an example of bad education. ?If he'd said it in a crowd of Melbourne Storm fans . . . well, his type wouldn't.

His own kith and kin kicked him out. Your average rugby league fans are partisan, but they also know a deadset dickhead when they see one. They self-govern, and self-regulate. No fines, no written rules are necessary, just a sense of what's right and wrong. For the rest of the game, those fans make a point of clapping Slater (who is none the wiser). He's the player, and whatever they think of his cause, he deserves respect.

They'll remember that grub when they see him next, although they probably won't, because next time he'll watch on TV, or from somewhere else, or only go to games in a stadium where he can sit so far away from another ?soul that no one can hear him. He can be the lone voice in Bay 661 at ANZ and scream to his heart's content. That's the point of the story.