Like the vexillum of a Roman legion, the logo, colours, name and reputation of a rugby league club are intended to embody the culture and identity of the group which marches behind them.

Even when the North Queensland Cowboys were getting roasted like a Christmas dinner, you had no doubt who they were.

They were boys from the bush, salt of the earth, ready to roll their sleeves up and be in the fight, without pretensions that it would ever come easily.

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The Cowboys moniker fitted perfectly, and even with a few tweaks to their marketing over the years, footy followers were never in doubt who they were; what they stood for.

It became legend that foundation players dripped sweat while landscaping the very hill on which fans parked their derrieres.

A similar case can be built around the Warriors. They’ve certainly seen some lean seasons, but they have branding which is culturally apt, distinctive, aspirational.

Of course, part of their brand recognition comes with longevity, and now both the Cowboys and Warriors have passed the 20-year mark, there is tangible goodwill embedded in their insignias.

This is the dilemma with the argument about to be presented.



Should the Gold Coast Titans undergo a rebranding, or will they be better served by sticking with what they have and forging an identity on perseverance alone?

The problem with the visage of the Titans is that it has always felt like the product of a spin lab, concocted from a test tube.

The colours were market-tested, designed to shift the maximum number of merchandise units, or as the common person might call them, jerseys.

The name evolved from a confusing, cynical compromise intended to capitalise on existing intellectual property, embody past incarnations of Gold Coast franchises, and avoid a well-documented clash around the mooted ‘Dolphins’ emblem.

In the end, through trying to achieve the middle ground in all these things, it seemed to reflect and inspire nothing.

Have you ever been to a park, BBQ, child’s birthday or fancy-dress party and witnessed someone dressed up as a Gold Coast Titan, running around in a metal suit and face mask?

The whole image – the boutique stadium, the Titanium Bar, the silky-smooth aesthetics – gave off an unmistakably synthetic feel from the start that was difficult to connect with.

Which, some wags might be quick to add, perfectly encapsulates the Gold Coast.



That’s where the real shame in this can be found.

Go to a game at a local club like the Southport Tigers, or the Burleigh Bears, the Tweed Heads Seagulls or Tugun Seahawks and you quickly forget the idea that interest in footy is only skin-deep on the coast.

The passion from the stands and on the field is spine-tingling.

This is footy that is gritty, meaningful, heated, built on history and reflective of a community underbelly that rarely gets publicity.

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Attending a Gold Coast Rugby League grand final is a euphoric, gripping experience, with a heady mix between good-natured banter and expectation for success hanging thick in the air.

I doubt any of these clubs sought input from marketing whizzes when they settled on the colours, names and emblems which are now synonymous with the neighbourhoods they represent.

Instead, their uniforms look like a mix between butchers, prisoners and a Terry’s Chocolate Orange.



Beefa, the Burleigh mascot, looks like an ’80s relic from a similar genus as Humphrey B Bear, but he is arguably more iconic and lovable than the Titans mascot will ever be.

Sure, there is a scarcity of bears in Burleigh (save aside from Grindr), and even fewer tigers in Southport (far more cougars there), but what they embody is the sacrifice and hardship endured by those who built their clubs and communities over decades.

Even at the lower levels, you immediately gain an appreciation – if not an affinity – for what it means to be a member of the Tamborine Bushrats, the Ormeau Shearers or the Mudgeeraba Redbacks.

Part of me thinks that footy clubs are meant to be garish, no matter the code. I doubt there are many interior decorators or fashion designers out there recommending colour schemes based on Balmain or Hawthorn or West Ham.

But they work, and they endure, even in cases where the team itself has seen better days.

Rugby league – and most sport for that matter – is not pretty. Indeed, the essence of its appeal is the very opposite.

It’s about sportspeople doing things we would not, cannot. They are perspiring, bleeding, crying in a public arena in a way our sheltered, sterilised lives have become unaccustomed to.

We want that connection; to be put in touch with a primordial spirit; to taste something genuine, raw and unfiltered.



The entire Titans branding, all plastic and whitewash, misses that mark.

Instead the only thing it captures accurately is 21st century NRL trying to be something it is not, turning away from the brutality and working-class ethos that is at the heart and soul of the game.

It’s the meticulously curated Instagram account of an unhappy teen, beautiful but lacking any substance or sense of purpose. Sure, they might have a few likes, but are they someone others feel they could trust and form a lasting relationship with?

The question here is do the Titans bite the bullet and decide to reinvent themselves, reflecting their true spirit and where they really come from?

Or do they keep collecting likes over time and bargain on enough people sticking around that they’ll eventually come to be loved under the disguise they’ve chosen to adopt?