St George Illawarra CEO Peter Doust is watching Wayne Bennett with a growing look of alarm.

The super coach is tearing up on Kogarah Oval on what appears to be a battered old green Massey Ferguson tractor.

“Wayne! What the hell are you doing!”

Benny hops down, picks up some finely churned up new soil and lets it run through his fingers.

“Dousty, I’m ploughing in some of the finest topsoil in the land – Dalby double grain. What with the saving in groundkeeping fees I’ll be able to buy you a couple of prime premiership grade cattle.”

“Wayne, shouldn’t you be up at Red Hill trying to convince Bruno that you had nothing to do with our huge win last Friday night?”

“He’d never believe me. Anyway, he’s got Ivan the Terrible up there ... Bruno can cook his goose.”

“Wayne, I’ve been meaning to speak to you about your latest signing…well, your only signing.”

“Isn’t that Michael Weyman a beaut? He’ll be every inch as good as Joel Clinton, you wait and see. And he’s a Raider, which happens to be the other club I won a Sydney premiership with, so he’s got good bloodlines.”

“Wayne, I’ve never heard of the bloke. Look, how in hell’s name are we going to win our first premiership since 1979 without some serious back-up. You promised me you could get Trent Barrett!”

“Who needs him, there are plenty of other fish in the sea, Dousty. I told him I could have him playing like Benny Ikin in his prime … and suddenly the line from England went dead.”

“Bloody hell, Wayne, you’ve thrown him to the Sharks. Well, what happened to Brett Kimmorely? You said Noddy was a dead set cert, but now he’s with the Bulldogs.”

“He is? I wondered why he wasn’t answering my phone pages at Shark Park on training nights. I’m a bit rusty at this recruiting stuff. Some of the young blokes I’ve been talking to don’t seem to know just what they’re passing up – like that young backrower Chris Heighington at the Tigers. I offered him $300,000 and six autographed copies of Don’t Die With the Music Inside You and a spot in the next Kiwi Test squad and he baulked worse than a prize steer at the gates of the Chinchilla meatworks.”

“Chris is an Aussie – he’s already played Country Origin.”

“He must be related to Nathan Fein’s grandmother somewhere along the line. Look, I’ve got to get back to Broncos training … there’s a good ’un there I can round up.”

That night at training Wayne starts whistling to his faithful talent scout, Cyril Connell.

“Get round Cyril ... that’s the way, heel, heel, heel. You’ve just about got him corralled. No, not Locky… he’s a bit tired and footsore. No, not Ben Hannant … he’s already been rustled. And you can cut Michael Ennis out of that mob – the Bulldogs have branded him, too. Let’s see, that just leaves Ashton Sims. Son, I’m taking you home … nice and easy now … just sign here and I’ll put the cattle prod away.”