7

WESTPAC STADIUM, WELLINGTON

41.2729°S, 174.7859°E

Saturday, 1 July 2017. British and Irish Lions v New Zealand, Second Test

Sonny Bill Williams drops his arms and shoulder-charges Anthony Watson straight in the face. The crowd gasp. Jérôme Garcès blows his whistle. Anthony’s down on his knees, groggy from the hit.

‘Warby!’ Faz shouts. ‘Speak to the ref! Shoulder to head’s a straight red!’

I look at Garcès. He’s already talking to the TMO, so I know they’re going to have a look. That’s all I need to know. No point spending my chips on this one. If the hit’s as bad as it looked, Garcès will see that and he’ll make the right decision. If it’s not, no amount of me getting in his face will make a difference.

I turn back to Faz. ‘Mate, leave it. They’re taking a look.’

The replay comes up on the big screen. You can see the fear in Anthony’s eyes in the last half-second before the impact, when he knows what’s coming and tries to duck his face away. Every time the hit’s shown and Anthony’s head snaps back the crowd wince, and the Lions fans are booing and whistling, because it looks more and more like a straight red each time.

No referee has ever sent an All Black off in a Test on New Zealand soil.

I’d better have got this right.

Four years ago, I thought captaining the Lions was the ultimate. Now I realise that it wasn’t. Captaining the Lions in New Zealand, the most iconic rugby nation on earth, isn’t even the ultimate. Captaining the Lions to a series victory in New Zealand: that would be the ultimate.

What will I do to beat New Zealand? Whatever it takes.

It was this tour 12 years ago that first really fired my interest in the Lions. I immersed myself in that tour, getting up at stupid o’clock to watch some of the games. Martyn Williams was my hero, and I was so thrilled when he made it onto the pitch as a replacement in the third Test, even though the match and the series were long gone by then. I was also transfixed by the way Marty Holah played for the Maori All Blacks when they beat the Lions before the Test series began.

That tour was a disaster for the Lions, though; whitewashed 3–0 in the Tests, the squad split into two, and full of tensions off the pitch. Even the New Zealand public were disappointed, since they wanted a good, hard contest as much as anyone else. It’s up to us to erase the memories of that tour and ensure that when New Zealanders come to remember the 2017 Lions, they do so with awe rather than disdain, with respect rather than pity.

No one gives us a chance. Of course they don’t. In the black corner are the back-to-back world champions who’ve managed to replace four all-time greats – McCaw, Dan Carter, Ma’a Nonu and Conrad Smith – in the two years since the 2015 World Cup without missing a beat. In the red corner are a scratch side drawn from four different countries who will have less than six weeks between their first training session and the start of the Test series.

‘It’s not arrogance,’ former All Black fly-half Nick Evans writes in the Guardian, ‘but New Zealanders are expecting a 10–0 sweep of the Lions.’ That’s expecting the pick of the Home Nations to lose not just to the All Blacks but to every Super Rugby franchise too, plus the Maori All Blacks and the Provincial Barbarians. Every Lions side since the war has won at least half their tour matches, and usually a much higher proportion than that.

In fairness, Nick’s speaking for the New Zealand public rather than himself. He personally doesn’t think we’ll lose many, if any, of the non-Test games, but he does think the Tests will be 3–0 to the All Blacks. Most pundits are saying similar things, perhaps conceding that we might win the final Test as a dead rubber once the series has gone, much as the 2009 Lions did in South Africa.

The number of people who think we can even take it to the final weekend is pretty small. The number who think we can win the series is detectable only by electron microscope. The bookies have New Zealand as 2/7 for the series, and though I don’t know any more about betting than I did four years ago, people tell me those odds are close to a dead cert in a two-horse race.

I’ve never thought I’m going to lose an international match, and I’m certainly not going to start now.

Monday, 8 May. Messy Monday, when all the boys first meet up at Syon Park. I see Ben Te’o, and remember I’ve got a bone to pick with him about the time he fractured my cheekbone two years ago.

Rather annoyingly, he turns out to be a great bloke.

Gats gives us a form to fill in that includes questions like, ‘How did you feel when you were named in the squad?’, ‘What are you going to bring to the squad?’, ‘List five strengths about you as a player,’ that kind of stuff, all connected to positive affirmation.

He also decides we’re going to have a choir; that singing is going to be part of the tour and that it will help us bond. The Welsh lads, of course, don’t need a second invitation. They don’t even need a second pint. But the English, the Irish and the Scots are less keen.

Gats is determined. We agree that we’ll have four songs. Each country can choose their song and have a representative responsible for making everyone learn that song. So for Wales it’s ‘Calon Lân’, led by Ken Owens; the English have ‘Jerusalem’ and Kyle Sinckler; the Irish go for ‘Fields of Athenry’, led by Robbie Henshaw; and the Scots have ‘Highland Cathedral’ and Greig Laidlaw.

Every night after training in the Vale, we have half an hour’s choir practice with Haydn James, the Welsh choirmaster who does the games at the Principality Stadium. To start with, very few of the boys want to put their heads above the parapet, but gradually people get more into it. ‘You all have to know the words by the time we land in New Zealand,’ Gats says. ‘We’ll be singing them on live TV, and no one’s going to be able to stand at the back and blag it.’

Sinks is already taking on the role of tour hero: the squad joker, the central point of all the banter and abuse, just like Hibbs had been in 2013. One day, while playing table tennis, he dives for a ball that anyone else would have let go – there’s no way he’s going to get there, but he’s so competitive that he tries anyway – and the table collapses beneath him. He’s lying there like a beached whale, and everyone’s absolutely killing themselves laughing, him most of all.

Friday, 26 May. On our last night in Dublin, we all go out for a squad piss-up. Suddenly Sinks leaps up on a table and starts belting out ‘Jerusalem’. It’s not much more than a bar or two later that we all join in. It’s tuneless but heartfelt, and the other punters in the place are loving it as much as we are.

After ‘Jerusalem’ we sing the other three songs with equal gusto; no lyric sheets, no song books. It turns out that the boys really have been learning the words properly, and have properly bought into the whole thing. What I thought might be an embarrassment has ended up galvanising the group.

The whole night is brilliant. You can do all the training and bonding exercises in the world, but sometimes nothing brings people together like a piss-up. Some of the quietest boys really come out of their shells once they have an ale or two inside them, and I know that tomorrow there’ll be gales of laughter from people re-living the night before.

I buy myself a second mobile phone. The only people who’ll have this number are my team-mates, family and close friends. My usual phone I’m switching off for the duration of the tour. I’m getting rid of all distractions, anything extraneous and unimportant. It’s what Andy’s been drumming into me for years – just say no. The next six weeks are all Lions, nothing else; a little bubble with my eyes always, always, on the prize.

Just as I did before the 2013 tour, I go for a walk with Andy. We go to The Wenallt, a local beauty spot that is a riot of bluebells in the spring. He takes me through a relaxation session here, and just as before tells me that whenever things get stressful on tour, I should take myself back here in my head.

Thursday, 1 June. From the moment we land in New Zealand, we have five security guys with us. They’re all ex-military, either Special Forces or Marines, and they’re very patient in answering over and again the two questions they get asked most often: how many people have you killed, and how realistic is Call of Duty?

Whenever there’s a night out, they’re the ones who take us there in the Lions-branded Land Rovers – having reconnoitred the place in advance – and they’re the ones who ensure there’s no trouble. We all know that they’re in charge, no matter how much bigger than them any of us might be. If someone’s got too merry and the security guys say they’re taking him home, that lad has two choices: do what he’s told or be a human pretzel on the floor.

Sometimes we see them relaxing in the team room, but there’ll only ever be two of them in there at once. The others will be patrolling the hotel, or scoping out the next training ground to ensure that all the security cameras are turned off and that there are no hidden cameras in the hospitality boxes; both of those, of course, so that our sessions can’t be filmed.

Most of the boys don’t notice any of this, which is the way it should be. But make no mistake, the security guys keep the show on the road just as much as the coaches and the support staff do.

Saturday, 3 June. In Whangarei for the opening match of the tour. We squeak home against the Provincial Barbarians 13–7, and immediately the press are into us: these guys are semi-pro, why aren’t you sticking 50 points on them?

Well, we’re not sticking 50 points on them because this is a game we’re totally ill-prepared for and which we should never have played. In my end-of-tour meeting with Charlie McEwen, the Lions’ chief operating officer, this will be the very first thing I bring up.

We’ve only been in New Zealand a couple of days. Everyone’s jetlagged and feeling lethargic. The atmosphere in the changing-room pre-match is flat, way off the usual levels of anticipation. Some of the boys even doze off on the way to the game. That should never happen, not at any kind of professional level.

Either we should have come over much earlier – a week beforehand, minimum – and given ourselves time to acclimatise, or we shouldn’t have played the game in the first place, which would have been my preference. We’re on a hiding to nothing: if we win it’s expected, if we lose it’s a disaster. We don’t need it at the end of a long season, and it will make no difference to the selection of the Test team.

Besides, semi-pro in New Zealand is a totally different kettle of fish than it is in other countries. It’s not like when we played the Combined County team in Australia four years ago. The Provincial Barbarians are a good side, not that far off Super Rugby standards, and if I’d been scouting for a top European club side I’d have been in the stands today taking some serious interest in some of the players on show.

Wednesday, 7 June. Auckland. We play the Blues, the first and weakest of the five Super Rugby franchises on our itinerary. They haven’t beaten another Kiwi franchise all season. Even though you’d think relatively few members of the side today will make the Test team, we really should do them over.

We don’t.

We go down 22–16, courtesy of a brilliant Ihaia West try with five minutes to go. Even then we have chances to snatch the win, but we concede a penalty when we don’t need to and then botch a lineout. There are positives – our scrum goes well, our line speed in D is good – but we don’t offer much by way of penetration, and the Blues defence finds it relatively easy to drift across and use the touchline as a shadow.

A loss today isn’t the end of the world. But this will have given New Zealand rugby a taste of blood, and like sharks the other teams will fancy getting themselves a piece as well – starting on Saturday in Christchurch, when we’re facing the best Super Rugby team of all, the Crusaders.

I hear a lovely story afterwards, the kind of story you only get on Lions tours. A Lions supporter called Alex Edwards turned up at Ponsonby Rugby Club in his campervan, hoping to park up and sleep there. A woman called Sandra Wihongi said he could come and stay in her house if he liked. So he did, and had a cup of tea and a chat with her two adult sons when they turned up. After they’d gone, he said, ‘Your lads must play to a decent standard, being that big.’ Turns out they were Rieko and Akira Ioane, who were playing for the Blues against us.

Everywhere we go, we hear this kind of thing: locals who bring Lions fans into their houses, lend them their cars to drive around in, and so on. This is the kind of country not just where a hotel chambermaid can tell you that your body position at the ruck is wrong, but also where she’ll be spot on.

Rugby binds everyone together, and for all the guys you get who’ll come up and say, ‘You’ve got no chance,’ there are many, many more who are totally lovely and just thrilled that the Lions are here. Everywhere the Lions bus goes, people will cheer and take pictures. In Australia there were times when we could go more or less incognito. Not here. Not for one moment.

Thursday, 8 June. ‘There’s a poll been taken of 200 people in Auckland,’ says a reporter at a press conference, ‘asking them to name three players in this Lions squad, and only five people managed it. What does that tell you?’

I half-laugh, giving myself a few seconds to think about what to say.

First rule of professional sport: never give the opposition’s team talk for them. That’s what this reporter is doing, whether she means to or not. There are 45 of the most competitive men you’ll ever meet on this tour, so whatever psychology you think you’re using isn’t going to work. But I’m not going to bite, even though what I really want to say is, ‘I couldn’t give a toss about your stupid survey.’

Before I can answer, Gats jumps in and says something nice and diplomatic.

At training in the afternoon, I’m sitting in the stands with Mako Vunipola, and I tell him what this reporter said. Mako’s got the most expressive eyebrows since Roger Moore, and he raises one of them just a fraction now.

‘They’ll know who we are when we smash ’em on Saturday, won’t they?’ he says.

That evening a few of us go to the Memorial Wall, which commemorates those who died in the Christchurch earthquake six years ago. Gats has mates who are engineers here, and apparently there are still some places that are uninhabitable because of aftershocks. The Crusaders are clearly really important to this city during its reconstruction, and their blazing start to the season – 14 wins out of 14, an average of 37 points per game – has given people a lift.

I meet a woman called Sarah O’Connor and her boys Dan and Sean, who must be around eight and six years of age. ‘Come and see our dad,’ they say. I think they’re going to take me to meet one of the blokes in the crowd, but instead they take me to the Memorial Wall itself and show me his name: John O’Connor, one of 185 people killed in the earthquake.

It’s all I can do to stop myself breaking down right here and now. These two lovely little lads, so proud of and full of love for their dad. I think about Anna back at home, not even a year old, and the thought of me leaving her behind and her growing up without me just finishes me, it really does.

They take me back to their mum. John was a mad keen Irish rugby fan, she explains, so he’d have been supporting us on Saturday.

‘Are you going to the match?’ I ask.

She shakes her head. ‘It’s a sell-out. We couldn’t get tickets.’

‘Can you give me a second?’

I go over to Charlie McEwen. ‘Mate, these guys haven’t got tickets. I can give the boys my two personal ones. Can you get one for Sarah too?’

‘Course I can,’ he says.

Saturday, 10 June. Gats has said that dropping a couple of games in the build-up to the Tests wouldn’t be the end of the world, providing that we’re still making progress as a squad. But sometimes you need a result too, to build momentum and self-belief. Tonight is one of those times.

We’ve put out what looks very much like a shadow Test side (though, in fact, 13 of the starters tonight will start the first Test). The Crusaders have got nine All Blacks in their ranks.

No more excuses, no more shadow boxing. For the first time this tour, this is the real deal. We have to beat them. We have to put down a marker. If we lose, that’s two games out of three gone, defeats at the hands of both Super Rugby franchises we’ve played so far, and the tour might well be in freefall.

We’re so much better than we were against the Blues. Our intensity and physicality are right up where they need to be, and there’s an edge that wasn’t there in Whangarei or Auckland. Conor and Faz boss the show tactically at half-back, our breakdown work is good and our defence suffocating. The final score is 12–3 to us, with no tries scored – the first time the Crusaders have failed to cross the line in more than two years – but both sides know the margin could have been more.

The entire squad comes into the changing-room after the match: smacking backs, hugging blokes, giving it the big celebrations. Someone shouts ‘Sinks!’ to lead the singing, and we pump out ‘Highland Cathedral’, really pump it out. A strong win, a big win, and the tour’s back on course.

Some of the questions at the press conference accuse us of playing negative rugby. Gats is having none of it. ‘It’s only the third time in their history the Crusaders have scored only three points in a match and both of the other occasions were away from home. The [Lions] team that played tonight has been together for only a week, and this is the sixth hotel we’ve stayed in since we’ve been in New Zealand. We made 13 line breaks. I didn’t see any negative rugby.’

There’s a minor tremor (4.2 on the Richter scale) in the stadium after the conference. If we keep on improving, we’ve got a good chance of springing a bigger shock on everyone who thought this would be a whitewash.

As for the New Zealand public – they know who we are now, don’t they?

Tuesday, 13 June. Dunedin. I’ve only played one match on this tour so far, just over an hour against the Provincial Barbarians before coming off as a precaution after an ankle strain. I need game time and I need it now.

As with the last midweek match against the Blues, we should win, and as with that match we don’t. We’re 22–13 up with 20 minutes to go, but in that last quarter they score ten points without reply to beat us by a point. Sure, we can moan about one penalty against Dan Cole that we all think should go the other way, and without that we’d have won, but those things are part of the game. We need more control and more accuracy than we show.

Once again we seem to be taking one step back for every two forward, losing at a time when we’d just started to build momentum again with the Crusaders win. But, to be brutal, the side we’ve put out is very much a midweek one – the gap between the Test starters and the rest is already pretty clear – and it shows. Only a couple of the boys tonight really press their claims for a Test spot.

I get 68 minutes, plus a try, to go with my 66 against the Provincial Barbarians. I haven’t played badly in either match, but equally I haven’t played outstandingly. I’ll get better – I know I need four games to hit my straps and get the engine going, so two more games will sharpen me up – but right now on form alone I’m not first pick on either flank. Sean O’Brien’s playing better than me at seven, and Peter O’Mahony likewise at six.

And it hurts. My body’s not allowing me to do everything I want, and I want this – to captain the side to a series win – more than anything else. I can’t afford to be off the pace.

‘How are you feeling?’ Gats says.

There’s no point beating about the bush. ‘I don’t want to make the decision for you,’ I reply, ‘but I know I’m not at the level of the Six Nations yet. So I won’t be upset not to be in the starting XV for the first Test.’

‘That’s very honest. I appreciate that.’

I’ve more or less deselected myself, which some people might find strange. But you can’t preach about the team being the most important thing and then put your own individual needs above that. And I know I’ve got history on my side. I was a little rusty going into the 2013 tour, and it showed in the first Test, when I was still getting back to peak form; but in the second Test I played one of the games of my life.

Gats and I go back a long way as coach and captain: two Lions tours, two World Cups and eight regular seasons with Wales. If I can’t be honest with him, who can I be honest with?

Saturday, 17 June. Rotorua. If the midweek team are going to keep losing, then the Saturday team have to keep winning. The Maori All Blacks promise to be even more of a challenge than the Crusaders were, and by the same token it’s even more of a must-win match. We’re only a week out from the first Test.

We don’t win as well as we did against the Crusaders. We win better: 32–10, including a second-half shutout. ‘As good a night as Gatland has enjoyed since the third Lions Test in Sydney four years ago,’ one report says, and it’s bang on. We dominate territory and possession, playing to the conditions (rainy enough to make even us Welshmen feel at home). We’re defensively solid, and yet when the chances come we’re being increasingly clinical when we take them. I come on with 16 minutes left, and even in that short time feel that I’m playing better than I did against the Highlanders.

The win’s also a testament to the way the training sessions are being run. It doesn’t matter how good you are individually, it takes time for combinations to build and teams to come together. Gats and the coaches are always on at us to do four things:

• Be more physical than anyone we face, which is pretty self-explanatory. Win the breakdown, win the set pieces, and you’re more than halfway to winning the match.
• Work hard off the ball and on the opposition.
• ‘Staying alive’ so we don’t get caught out by the unexpected. Training sessions aren’t always structured and organised; some of them are deliberately chaotic and frantic, forcing us not just to think on the hoof but to do so quickly and correctly.
• Being more talkative than they are. Talking creates energy for us and disrupts them. ‘Who are you marking?’ ‘Watch the gap!’ ‘Nine’s stepping out.’ All that kind of stuff, but constant and loud. If you’re screaming at the top of your voice like a little girl the ref can tell you to shut up, but not if you’re saying productive stuff. As Anthrax once sang, bring the noise.

Sunday, 18 June. Team meeting. It’s Father’s Day back home, and unknown to us the video boys have got everyone’s kids to send little clips wishing us a happy day. Anna’s first up, and the sight of her nearly finishes me.

Maro Itoje’s sitting next to me. ‘Whose daughter’s that?’ he says.

‘Mine,’ I choke, and I can hardly get the words out. I miss her. I miss her and Rach so much. Sometimes it seems I’m away from home more nights than I’m there. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a good life, and I know these are opportunities so few people get, but being away from your loved ones is hard no matter who you are. Even seeing Anna’s face reminds me of all the things I’m missing, and of all the pressure I’m putting myself under to make sure that this is worth it.

One by one the clips come up: lots of Snapchat filters and ‘Happy Father’s Day, Daddy’ in unison. It’s so sweet, and there’s scarcely a dry eye in the house. When the clips end, the only sounds are bits of sniffling, with blokes trying desperately not to blub out loud.

‘I need to get a kid,’ Maro says, and the whole room cracks up.

The laughter, however, can’t totally disguise a certain amount of discord in the camp. It’s to do with the ‘geographical six’ – Gats’s decision to call up six replacements as injury cover for the midweek matches. Every Lions tour needs replacements, as every Lions tour has to deal with injuries severe enough to send original players home.

But those replacements are usually chosen in strict order of merit, and are more often than not blokes who only just missed out in the first place. In 2013, we had to bring in guys like Brad Barritt, Christian Wade, Billy Twelvetrees and Shane Williams. The first three had been close to selection anyway, and though Shane’s case was different – he’d retired and happened to be in Australia at the time – he was also a bona fide rugby legend, a two-time Lions tourist, whose credentials no one could question.

If you get the call-up for the Lions, no matter where in the world you are you drop everything and get on the next flight out, even if that flight ends up being several different flights across multiple time zones. That’s the cachet of the Lions. But Gats has chosen to do it differently. Since Wales have just played Tonga in Auckland, and Scotland have just played Australia in Sydney, he’s called up Kristian Dacey, Tomas Francis, Cory Hill, Alan Dell, Gareth Davies and Finn Russell, with only the last two probably pretty close to selection originally.

Many of the boys feel that the integrity of the jersey has been compromised. Even one minute in a midweek Lions match is something most Home Nations players get nowhere near. The situation’s been made worse by the fact that management didn’t initially tell us this was happening. Most of us found out from texts sent by one or more of the six themselves.

So there’s a lot of resentment flying around, and inevitably some of it gets taken out on the six new arrivals. They sit at the front of the bus, and abuse is hurled at them from the back, some of it good-natured, or partly so, but some of it with real barbs too.

I go out of my way to sit with the six and try to make them feel welcome, but they know they’re not widely wanted and that their presence is unsettling the squad. Cory deals with it well, introducing himself on the bus microphone and saying he won a Twitter competition to be here, and that gets most people back onside, but some of the other six don’t seem to know what to say or do. Maybe there’s nothing they can say or do.

I talk to Gats and let him know the grief this is causing the squad. The irony is that in the end he hardly uses them anyway. Dell and Russell get 15 minutes between them, both as temporary replacements; the four Welsh boys just collect splinters in their arses after two games sitting on the bench. Gats says that he feels unable to use them because of all the controversy, and in any case some of the midweek team make it clear before the start of their games that they’ll refuse to be substituted off unless they’re injured. They’ve worked all their careers for this tour, and they don’t want to give even a minute on the pitch to someone they feel undeserving of the honour.

The whole affair doesn’t disrupt the Test team, so it makes no difference to the series result. But it does disrupt the midweek team, it does add to the pressure I’m putting on myself to be the best captain I can be, and it ends up being a lot of aggro for absolutely no reason whatsoever.

Tuesday, 20 June. Our last midweek match before the Tests, which means it’s a pretty good time for the midweek side to notch up their first victory of the tour. It’s not just the win that’s welcome, but the manner of it too: 34–6 against the Chiefs, and with a real energy and sharpness to boot. That might be enough to put a few of tonight’s players in the frame for Saturday, I think; certainly for the bench, maybe even for the starting XV.

Just as we did after the Crusaders match, we all pile into the changing-room and sing our hearts out. Most of the guys who played the Crusaders match sat tonight out and vice versa, which shows how strong the collective spirit is. Whether we’re playing or not, we’re all in this together.

Wednesday, 21 June. The team for the first Test is announced. I’m on the bench, which given the amount of game time I’ve been able to have is fair enough and the best I could have hoped for. Pete O’Mahony is captain, which may surprise some people given that Alun Wyn’s also in the team, but Pete did a good job as skipper against the Maori All Blacks and is certainly up to the job. Two of last night’s team, Liam and Elliot Daly, are in the starting XV for Saturday. It’s never too late to put your hand up for selection.

I go over to Pete, shake his hand and tell him I’ll give him any help he needs. I know he won’t need any, but it’s important to make the offer. Everyone goes over to the man who’s got his place and shakes his hand, no matter what they might be feeling inside. No one has ever been or ever will be bigger than the Lions.

Geech has always said that the greatest Lion he worked with was Jason Leonard, not for the matches he played but the ones he didn’t; for the way he helped Paul Wallace and Tom Smith in South Africa in 1997, despite his own disappointment at not making the Test team.

Just as in 2013, the training session immediately after this announcement is savage, with everyone trying to show either that they deserve their place on Saturday or that they’ve been unjustly overlooked.

Thursday, 22 June. Just as in 2013, the training session today, once everyone’s got yesterday out of their systems, is quick, slick and looking good.

Friday, 23 June. Drico hands out the shirts. He talks about the 1971 vintage, the only Lions ever to have won a tour in New Zealand; in a four-Test series, they won the first and third, lost the second and drew the fourth to take the series 2–1. Whoever heard of the final match of a series being drawn?

That team contained some of the greatest names in rugby history: JPR Williams, Gerald Davies, John Dawes, Mike Gibson, Barry John, Gareth Edwards, Willie John McBride, Mervyn Davies. ‘1971 is still being talked about like it was yesterday,’ Drico says. ‘Now it’s your turn to make history.’

Saturday, 24 June. Eden Park is lit up like a spaceship. The All Blacks haven’t lost here since 1994. Then again, I remember, the Brazil football team hadn’t lost at home for something like 40 years when Germany destroyed them 7–1 in the World Cup semi three years ago. Just as I told Sonja McLaughlin after the opening match of the 2013 Six Nations, records are there to be broken.

We come out and line up to face the haka.

The haka. I know it’s theatre, I know it’s box office, I know that the crowds love it. But I hate it. People say it’s a sign of respect. Do me a favour. You’re mimicking jabbing me with a spear and cutting my throat. That’s not respect. Besides, it never used to be like that. Look at footage of the All Blacks teams in the 1970s. Their body language during the haka was much less confrontational.

Last year, when we came on tour here with Wales, we came to a school that did a haka for us. I was out front as the captain, and there was this big Polynesian kid in front of me giving it all, the staring and eye-rolling and stuff. In the next senior players’ meeting, Gats asked us what we were all thinking during that haka. The other boys all said that it was important to respect the local culture, it was part of the experience, and so on.

And I was just thinking, Please don’t ask me.

‘Warby, what do you think?’ Gats said.

‘Honestly?’

‘Of course.’

‘I was looking at that big fat kid in front of me, and I was thinking, “Come on, you and me, let’s go.” I didn’t like it. I just wanted to get up and scrap him.’

Gats smiled. ‘Exactly. That’s exactly what we should be thinking. It’s a challenge. You need to eyeball him and tell him with your eyes what you want to do to him.’

I remember that now.

Eyeball them. TJ Perenara prowling as he calls it out.

Eyeball each of them. Kieran Read at the head of the pyramid with Jerome Kaino and Israel Dagg behind him.

Eyeball every last one of them.

The match starts at a furious pace and rarely lets up. We’re almost ahead in the first minute when Foxy breaks, Conor’s tackled five metres short and Elliot’s bundled into the corner by Dagg. A few minutes later, we get a glimpse of what we’re up against, when Beauden Barrett scoops the ball up one-handed on the bounce and skips out of Conor’s tackle in the same movement.

The All Blacks start to set the tempo, moving the ball fast away from the contact area and working the phases quickly, trying to pull us out of position. Barrett attempts a cross kick to the corner and Anthony (Watson), backpedalling and stretching, does very well to pluck it out of the air.

We try to slow them down, but it’s hard to do so without flirting with the law. Barrett kicks one penalty, and then they get another one for not moving away. Once more they’re quicker than we are. Aaron Smith taps and passes, it goes through the hands of Barrett and Dagg, and there on the wing is their hooker Codie Taylor, taking it off his own toes and diving in at the corner. Easy to say we were caught napping, but things like that don’t happen in isolation. They’ve been moving us around and taking us to the edge, and that’s the result.

We begin to stabilise. Faz has a penalty on the half hour to make it 10–3, only for Barrett to restore the 10-point cushion three minutes later. We need something before half-time, something that won’t just get us closer on the scoreboard but will also show the All Blacks and the crowd that we can play some rugby just the way they can.

Five minutes before the break, we get it.

Anthony fields an Aaron Cruden box kick in our 22 and passes infield to Liam. Read’s hammering up the middle towards Liam, but rather than kick, Liam chooses to be matador to Read’s bull, dropping his shoulder and stepping him so expertly that Read looks exasperatedly towards the heavens as his momentum takes him forward into thin air.

Liam running flatstick across the 22, looking for the space. Sonny Bill coming across before Ben blocks his run, subtly but perfectly. Cruden trying to close Liam down, but Liam’s too quick and now he has the angle to head upfield.

Liam running in open space with red and black shirts scrambling in his wake. The crowd rising, sensing something. Liam running with his head up and looking all around him, seeing where the support and the danger is. Liam up to halfway. Liam taking Dagg’s tackle and feeding Foxy. Foxy onto Elliot. Elliot adjusting his line, in then out, fixing Anton Leinert-Brown. Elliot back inside to Foxy. Foxy turning Barrett left then right. Barrett getting to Foxy. Foxy spinning himself in the tackle to feed Sean two metres from the line, and over Sean goes with Smith and Dagg clinging onto him.

Try. What a try. The Lions can’t play rugby? Watch that and weep.

It’s 13–8 to the All Blacks at half-time.

‘It’s a man test,’ says Andy Farrell. ‘Are we ready for it?’

We start the second half as though we are, that’s for sure. Twice Liam and Anthony combine to beat men. They look dangerous, not just with their own lines but in the way they’re opening the doors to our other runners. But we can’t break through, and there’s no team better than the All Blacks in soaking up pressure and then hitting you on the counter.

With 53 minutes gone, I come on for Pete. I’ve got half an hour to help win the game and ensure I start the second Test, and each of those feeds off the other.

A minute after my arrival, Read shows why the All Blacks value him so much. The ball comes loose on the floor, and even though he hasn’t played for six weeks he’s first there, scooping a pass off the floor purely through the power in his fingers. He doesn’t have a backlift with his hand, let alone his arm. Just flicks it up with his fingers, and down the line it goes for Ioane to slide in at the corner.

Barrett converts, and then nails a penalty on the hour to make it 23–8. We’re more than two converted tries behind now, so we have to chase the game, even if that means leaving ourselves open. With just over ten minutes to go we try to work it up the right side, but it comes loose in traffic. Perenara hoists the kick, Liam – usually so secure under the high ball that he’s nicknamed ‘the Bomb Defuser’ – drops it, the bounce falls kindly for Ioane, and he scorches Elliot on the outside. With the conversion, that’s 30–8 and game more or less over.

I keep competing like crazy at the breakdown, just to try and slow things down and provide some damage control. It’s a shit job, putting your head in there time after time, but I love doing it. The adrenaline masks the pain. The pain’s always there now.

We pressure them hard at the end, desperate to come away with something to take into next week. Faz drills a penalty to the corner and we win the lineout. The clock’s gone red now. Rhys Webb darts and is caught. Foxy smashes through a couple of tackles and sets up the ruck. Again Rhys darts, this time throwing a dummy round the fringes, and he’s through for a try: 30–15.

The All Blacks were the better team and good value for the win, there’s no doubt about that. They were also the first team we’ve played on tour who got the better of us physically, which was one of the main reasons they won.

‘Our energy wasn’t good enough,’ Andy says. ‘We were our own worst enemies. The amount of times we had the All Blacks exactly where we wanted them and then let them out far too easily with a penalty, an offside, a dropped ball, whatever – we didn’t manage our energy well enough and the physicality went backwards on the back of that.’

He’s right. But four things stand out for me. First, the margin of victory flattered them. They might have been a score better, but not two scores plus better. Second, we scored two tries to their three, and at least one of theirs was sloppy defending on our part and a lucky bounce on theirs. Third, we’re not going to lose the physical battle again. And finally, we’re still improving.

This series isn’t over yet, not by a long chalk.

Sunday, 25 June. I feel battered, absolutely battered, even though I played less than half an hour. I’m used to the pain, but this is different. I’m operating some way off my maximum capacity, and sometimes I feel like I’m just hanging on. I’m undercooked, I haven’t got time to get back to anything like full fitness, and I feel that I might snap at any moment.

Monday, 26 June. I have to hide it all. I have to be in the team, and we have to win. That’s all there is to it. Park the doubts, shelve the pain. Grit my teeth and push on through. Whatever it takes. Whatever it takes.

Tuesday, 27 June. The midweek team’s last match, against the Hurricanes. We’re 16 points up at half-time, but somehow let the Hurricanes back in to snatch a 31–31 draw. It’s a frantic, thrilling match, which the crowd love, and though we really should have won it, at least we didn’t lose.

Now there are only two matches left, the second and third Tests, and we have to win them both.

Wednesday, 28 June. I’m as fit as I’m going to be. If I’m not in the starting XV tomorrow, it’ll be because the coaches don’t think I’m good enough. Gats dropped Drico four years ago. He’d drop me in a heartbeat too, which is why he’s such a good coach. No sentiment, not when it matters.

I could go and ask to sit in on the selection meeting. He’s always said I’m welcome at them. But I’ve never done that before and I can’t start now, no matter how desperate I am to find out whether I’m in.

Thursday, 29 June. I almost cry when he reads my name out in the team meeting. I’m back in the starting XV, as skipper. Pete’s dropped altogether, with the coaches preferring CJ’s versatility on the bench. It’s a tough call for Pete – from captain one week to spectator the next – but it just shows how high our standards are and how intense the competition for places is.

I tell the press conference that this is the biggest challenge of my career, which it is. It’s the biggest challenge of all our careers, from Gats downwards. ‘We know it’s all or nothing now. When you’ve been physically outplayed, which we were, that does hurt you as a playing group. In rugby it’s very much a case of 99 times out of 100 the more physical team wins. Being physical doesn’t mean beating up people. It means your scrum is dominant, your lineout maul is dominant and your breakdown is dominant. We all accept last weekend was probably the first game on tour we were beaten in the battle at the breakdown from a physicality point of view. That’s just going to fuel the fire.’

I’m not just saying these things. I truly believe them, and myself. That’s what helps make people believe me too. But the level of anticipation for this match is scaring me. Even at the press conference, I could feel it; the reporters, hard-bitten at the best of times and usually by now knackered from weeks on the road, are really up for it. Am I up for it? Am I up to it? Is my body going to let me down again?

Two in the morning.

Can’t sleep. The witching hour, when the darkness comes flooding in; thoughts tumbling and cascading over each other like a Snowdonia river in full spate. The darkness comes flooding in, and it’s all I can do to stop it drowning me.

I get out of bed. Shards of pain as my feet touch the floor. I push myself slowly upright, gritting my teeth as the aches flare and settle.

Sam Warburton shouldn’t be captain.

Sam Warburton shouldn’t be playing.

Sam Warburton’s past it.

I take one step, gingerly, then another, and another. Walking – hobbling, more like – across the carpet over to the window. I pull back the curtains and look out.

Below me is the Wellington waterfront. It’s quiet and empty now, but earlier this evening it was packed, as it will be later tonight, and tomorrow night, and Saturday night too. Many of these people will be wearing red rugby shirts, and will have saved up for years to come all the way across the world just to watch us play.

I want to be one of those fans, drinking and singing their hearts out, with no problem more pressing than who gets the next round in. Instead, I’m here, torturing myself with questions to which I have no answer. Why? Why am I doing this to myself? Why am I putting myself through all this pain, all this pressure, when I could be doing something – anything – else? Why am I in a job which right now I detest?

Round and round and round. Body, mind and heart. Physical stress, mental stress and emotional stress, all working on and off each other. I feel as though I’m in a submarine going deeper and deeper, springing leaks as the hull creaks and flexes, and soon I’ll come to the point of no return, the moment when the pressure gets too much and crushes me like a tin can.

A submarine. A volcano. All this pain bubbling up inside me, and if I don’t deal with it, it’s going to explode and consume me in all its molten fury.

I need to talk to someone. There are several people I could call, but there’s only one person I know will really understand. I dial her number.

‘Sam?’ Her voice is full of concern. It’s lunchtime back home in Cardiff. She knows what time it is where I am, and that I wouldn’t be phoning for no reason.

‘I’ve had enough, Mum.’

Friday, 30 June. Not much sleep, but feeling a bit better having spoken to Mum.

We have our captain’s run at the Jerry Collins Stadium in Porirua. I would love to have played against Collins – he retired before I began my international career – and I’ve heard all about him: a huge guy known as ‘the Terminator’ for the ferocity of his tackling, but off the pitch a lovely man who’d go into bars and chat to fans, who once played for Barnstaple seconds while on holiday in Devon just because he fancied a game (and who then asked Barnstaple if he could wear their socks when he turned out for the Barbarians), and who was killed two years ago in a car crash at the age of only 34. His last act was to throw himself over his baby daughter and save her life.

It’s some perspective, a reminder of something that I badly need to remember right now: no matter how important tomorrow is, it’s still just a game.

Saturday, 1 July. The second Test of three is always huge, as one team’s fighting to stay in the series. Four years ago it was Australia; now it’s us. There’s a purity to that equation. Game on or game over, make or break, win or bust.

‘We’re hurting more than them,’ Graham Rowntree, the Lions assistant coach, says. ‘Use that energy. They’re in for a f***ing long night.’

I gather the boys round me. ‘Sometimes it comes down to this.’ I beat my fist against my heart. ‘Who’s the bravest? Who wants it more? Who’s the most hungry? Tonight it’s us.’

It’s sheeting it down at the Westpac, but the fans don’t care. They’re a sea of red, singing and dancing, every one of them soaked to the skin, but the atmosphere is still so passionate that you can almost touch it.

And that passion, that energy, comes from within us too. We have to dredge the depths of our souls to make this the game of our lives, of all our lives. This is a level above almost anything else in sport.

The most important 80 minutes of my career. Here we go.

The All Blacks lay out their tactics right from the start: Smith makes two box kicks in the first 90 seconds, trying to unsettle our back three. It’s not just wet, but windy too, and when Liam chases his own high kick, both he and Dagg miss it as it drops.

Conor and Elliot work it up the short side. Jérôme Garcès pings the All Blacks for not rolling away. I win the lineout and Tadhg Furlong makes the hard yards, dragging Kaino with him. Those big physical sessions we had on Tuesday and Thursday have really paid off. We’re not letting ourselves be outmuscled again.

Johnny feints to send Sonny Bill the wrong way. Foxy flips a pass to Alun Wyn out of the back of his hand. The first 10 minutes are all ours; they’ve hardly been in our half, and we’re playing all the rugby.

Eleven minutes gone, and they get down our end for pretty much the first time. Barrett has a penalty, but it hits the upright and bounces back into play. A few minutes later, Read knocks on. Last week, Barrett didn’t miss a kick and Read was immaculate. Not today. Small margins, but small margins win big games.

We front up to the All Blacks at a maul. Not one step back, not from any of us. But Mako’s penalised for going down at the scrum, and this time Barrett does nail the kick. We’re level within a few minutes, and it’s from something Gats flagged to Garcès earlier in the week: the All Blacks runners being ahead of Smith when he box-kicks.

The rain is hammering down – proper monsoon conditions.

With 24 minutes gone, the game changes irrevocably. Toby catches a Sonny Bill kick and offloads to Anthony. It’s not the greatest offload, and by the time Anthony’s got it and looped round there are two men on him. Waisake Naholo is first to get him, and as he makes the tackle Sonny Bill drops his arms and shoulder-charges Anthony straight in the face.

The crowd gasp. Garcès blows his whistle. Johnny and Faz come sprinting towards the ruck, screaming in protest. Anthony is down on his knees, groggy from the hit.

‘Warby!’ Faz shouts. ‘Speak to the ref! Shoulder to head’s a straight red!’

I look at Garcès. He’s already talking to the TMO, so I know they’re going to have a look. That’s all I need to know. No point spending my chips on this one. If the hit’s as bad as it looked, Garcès will see that and he’ll make the right decision. If it’s not, no amount of me getting in his face will make a difference.

I turn back to Faz. ‘Mate, leave it. They’re taking a look.’

The replay comes up on the big screen. It’s every bit as bad as it first looked, maybe worse. You can see the fear in Anthony’s eyes in the last half-second before the impact, when he knows what’s coming and tries to duck his face away. Every time the hit is shown and Anthony’s head snaps back the crowd wince, and the Lions fans are booing and whistling, because it looks more and more like a straight red each time.

No referee has ever sent an All Black off in a Test on New Zealand soil.

I’d better have got this right.

Garcès walks over to Sonny Bill. He has the red card in his hand. ‘I have no choice,’ he says. ‘Direct shoulder to the head. I need to protect the player. It’s direct. The contact is direct.’ He holds the card high, and off Sonny Bill goes.

I bring all the boys in and tell them that this is our chance. I remember doing an event at Celtic Manor with Gareth Edwards, and he was talking about pressing home an advantage. ‘When you’ve got your foot on your opponent’s throat,’ he said – and you could almost see him transforming back to the player he’d been even as he said this – ‘when you’ve got your foot on your opponent’s throat, you keep it there.’

We need to keep our foot on their throat now. We’re a man up with 55 minutes still left to play. We’ll never have a better chance than this. If we don’t take it then we don’t deserve to win in the first place.

Sean and I drive forward, but we snatch at the ball and it goes down. There’s a thin line between pressing home an advantage and trying too hard, and we’re veering towards the latter. In conditions like this you have to let things come to you, you have to make things happen without forcing them. Easier said than done.

Conor tackles Barrett and is pinged for not rolling away. Barrett fades the kick nicely from right to left. The All Blacks are ahead again. They don’t seem fazed by being a man down; in fact, they seem to be embracing it as a challenge.

Faz brings it back to 6–6. Mako is caught on his knee at a ruck, and that’s 9–6. With the hooter already gone for the end of the half, we get a penalty and try to work the advantage. Conor, thinking fast, cross kicks for Toby to jump with Ioane. The ball goes loose and Anthony slides in to try to grab it, but he just can’t make it. No matter. It was a free play, so back we go for the penalty; and that’s 9–9 at half-time.

In the changing-room, thinking our way through the game. Our line speed is good in midfield and we’re squeezing them well round the fringes, making a mess of their ball, picking their runners off well, making them play behind the gainline. Last week they won the breakdown; today it’s ours. We’re giving Smith at 9 much less time than before, forcing him to hurry his kicks and passes. Keep doing all this and we’ll win.

Two minutes into the second half, Barrett gets a very kickable penalty. For the second time tonight, he misses. His radar’s off. We have to use that.

Four minutes later, Conor goes high on Leinert-Brown, and this time Barrett makes no mistake: 12–9. Now it’s all them, Dagg slicing through, Barrett skewing a grubber kick that would have put Read clean through for a try if he’d got it right. Ninety per cent of the first ten minutes has been played in our half.

Mako comes in late on Barrett. No, he tells Garcès, I didn’t change my line. I shepherd him away before he pisses Garcès off even more. Barrett sneaks his kick inside the left-hand post, and we’re six points down. On 55 minutes Mako is pinged again, this time for clearing Barrett out at a ruck with his right forearm cocked, and now Garcès has had enough. He sends Mako to the bin, and Barrett kicks the penalty: 18–9.

Yes, they’re putting us under pressure, but that’s three unnecessary penalties given away, nine needless points conceded, and now we’ve lost our one-man advantage for 10 minutes. The All Blacks don’t even need to try and win this. We’re losing it all by ourselves.

On 59 minutes, Sean tackles Naholo so hard that Naholo has to go off. The All Blacks rejig their shape quickly and expertly: Cruden on at 10, Barrett shifting to 15 and Dagg out to 14.

This is our chance. We haven’t used the extra man at all well, but now we’re down to 14 on 14 we have to take the initiative, and that starts by finding where the mismatches are and using them. There’s a mismatch now.

Johnny and Faz run at their midfield, holding the defence while they distribute. Out it comes to Liam, who feeds Toby on the left wing. Dagg comes to tackle, but he’s not as big or solid as Naholo. Toby bounces him off and dives in at the corner as Retallick tries to cover.

I’m first to Toby, hugging him and screaming in his ear. The Lions fans are going potty in the stands. The only person who doesn’t seem that bothered is Toby himself, but then nothing seems to get to him.

If you want to know why Toby’s such a special player, it’s all there in that try. Lots of players would have had the strength to bounce Dagg off, and lots of players would have had the speed and skill to dive in at the corner before the cover hit came in, but very few players would have had both. Toby does.

Faz shanks the conversion badly, so it stays 18–14. But we’re still in this. We’re still very much in this.

A wall of sound from the stands. Liiiions! Liiiions! Liiiions!

Still the All Blacks come. Ngani Laumape drives forward and takes Johnny back yards as he clings on. Cruden overcooks a grubber for Read, but they have the penalty anyway, and the gap’s back to seven points.

Thirteen minutes left. Johnny feeds Jamie George, who’s still full of running – in fact, he’ll play the whole 80, almost unheard of for a hooker at this level. Jamie’s brought down, and from the ruck Conor snipes and scores. Perenara moans that Faz was holding his ankle, stopping him from getting to Johnny, but Garcès isn’t having any of it. Faz converts: 21–21. Twelve minutes left.

Time to look each other in the eye. Time to believe.

A draw is not enough. A draw means we can’t win the series, we can only square it. New Zealand with 47 straight wins at home. The weight of all those wins pressing down on both sides. Play the game in front of you, nothing else.

A scrum on halfway. Conor uses the ball to shield his mouth as he checks the calls with Johnny. These two know each other so well, and that’s vital in situations like this: the clutch, the quick, the moment where you either have it or you don’t.

Four minutes left. Sinks comes hard off 9, but the pass is a touch high and he needs to jump to take it. At the exact moment he’s in the air, Charlie Faumuina makes the tackle. Garcès blows immediately.

Penalty.

The All Blacks are furious. Faumuina was committed to the tackle before Sinks jumped, there was clearly no attempt to injure him, and Faumuina’s only alternative was to pull out and wave Sinks through.

‘I didn’t know he’d jump,’ Faumuina says.

‘So next time I jump and they tackle me, is that OK?’ Read adds.

It’s a harsh penalty, perhaps, but it’s also a correct one according to the letter of the law, and Garcès doesn’t have much choice other than to give it. Sinks is chopsing off at a few of the All Blacks who are giving him grief. Jamie, Sean and Foxy pull him away before Garcès can change his mind.

The kick is 33 metres out. Faz has got four out of five so far. He’s already walking towards the spot, head down.

‘Three?’ I say as he passes me.

He raises his head and looks at me as though it’s the stupidest question he’s ever heard.

He takes the tee and sets it down. The routine, always the routine. Putting the valve of the ball at the front, aiming down the centreline of the posts, so that the ball’s pointing in the direction he needs to kick it. Taking his steps back. Into his stance. Looking down at the ball and up at the posts, two, three, four times; drawing a line in his head from the ball to a spot far beyond the posts. Drawing that line. Drawing that line.

The first step. The way he holds his body back and upright just for a moment before taking the last few strides. The contact, boot on ball.

I never, not for a nanosecond, think he’s going to miss.

There are 2 minutes and 55 seconds left when the ball goes over. We’re ahead for the first time this series, and now we have to hold out, to weather the storm – and we all know the storm’s coming. It’s the All Blacks. They never go down without making you give all you’ve got.

Ardie Savea takes it off the restart. He goes down in the tackle but he’s not held. He gets up and makes 20 metres with men hanging off him. The All Blacks work it left but drop it. Foxy kicks it on, Barrett collects and hands Faz off. Dagg takes it into contact.

Stay onside. No penalties. Whatever you do, no penalties. Soak it up and keep soaking. Bend, but don’t break.

Cruden kicks crossfield. Laumape can’t get there. Foxy shepherds it into touch.

Our lineout. I’m at the front, and I have this sudden thought: use the flash call. The flash call overrides a normal call, and you can use it when you know you’re unmarked. They haven’t got anyone on me.

Step out of the calling process and react to what you see. Take it on yourself. You’re a big man. Back yourself.

Flash call. Flash call.

It’s risky. I might not make myself heard, or the boys may be too busy listening for the normal call. But Jamie and Sean hear all right, and as long as the thrower and lifter are on the same page as you then you’re in business.

I jump and claim it. Conor kicks clear, and there’s a wall of red shirts chasing it up the field. Almost the whole match gone, when the boys should be out on their feet, and we’re outrunning New Zealand as though we’re possessed.

This is what it takes: to want it just that little bit more, to find the moment when you have the will to do what the other team won’t.

One minute left.

The ball comes loose. Conor volleys it clear. Anywhere will do as long as it’s upfield, but in fact it’s perfect, rolling into touch in their 22. They take a quick lineout to Barrett, who tries a chip over the top. It’s the wrong decision, and that’s because he’s rattled. Games have gone their way so often, so when their key decision-makers make mistakes, that’s when you know you’re into them.

Sean collects it and takes it up. He takes men, and metres, and time.

Thirty seconds.

Ruck.

Twenty.

I have it. Wyatt Crockett makes the tackle and I go to ground.

Ten.

The Lions fans start counting down.

Courtney Lawes takes it into contact with Jamie on his shoulder.

The hooter goes. Time up. Next time the ball goes dead, the match is over.

Conor takes it from the base of the ruck and boots it into the crowd.

Graham Simmons from Sky Sports grabs me for an on-pitch interview.

‘Is this tell your grandchildren time?’ he asks.

I get that it’s a hell of an achievement, being the first team to beat New Zealand on their own turf in 48 matches, and I get that he’s only looking for a reaction, but this is what I mean by being happy to win just one match. One match is only one match. It’s not enough.

‘It’s only half a job done,’ I reply. ‘I’ll be happy next week when we bring the Test series home. We’ve got to win the Test series. It’s great that we’ve got it to one-all. We wanted to take it to Eden Park. But we’ve still got plenty to work on. We gave away too many penalties in the second half, and we’ve got to remember it was against 14 men.’

I’m happy, don’t get me wrong. But I’m happy only that we’ve kept the series alive. If we don’t win next week, then all this will have been for nothing.

Most of the boys are celebrating. There’s a bit of afters between Sinks and Perenara. I help to break it up. For such a ferociously competitive series it’s been played in a pretty good spirit so far, and I want to keep it that way.

We sing ‘Fields of Athenry’ in the dressing-room afterwards, and it feels as good as it sounds. When the singing dies down, Faz speaks. ‘Let’s keep it low key,’ he says. ‘This is what we’ll get used to, as we’re doing it next week as well.’

I couldn’t have said it better myself.

Read is gracious in defeat, saying that we were the better side and that they won’t use the red card as an excuse for their defeat. Sam Cane’s also humble and says nice things, but it’s his three-word reply to a question about the decider next week that stays with me.

‘Game on, mate.’

A few of the guys go out on the town. I don’t even think of doing so. Why should I? I’ve come here to win the series, nothing less. All this win has done is ensured we have the chance to do so.

It’s like an Olympic athlete winning a semi-final; a win that means nothing in itself other than keeping him in the hunt for the ultimate prize. In fact, I remember speaking to Darren Campbell, who won gold in the 4x100 metre relay in the 2004 Olympics, about this.

‘Would you have drunk a few beers a week before your Olympic final?’ I asked.

‘Of course not,’ he said.

Well, this – the third Test against the All Blacks – is our Olympic final.

Sunday, 2 July. Bobby shows us the GPS figures from yesterday.

‘Look at the graphs here,’ he says, pointing to an upwards curve on the right-hand side. ‘You know what that means? That in the last 20 minutes, when the intensity always falls off because guys are tired, your KPIs actually went up.’

I think of the red wave near the end, all of us racing past the All Blacks to get to the lineout first.

‘That never happens,’ Bobby continues. ‘Even when you use all the bench, the cumulative numbers always go down in the last quarter. This is the first time I’ve ever seen this, and I’ve been doing this gig a long time.’

That’s the kind of commitment to the cause we needed to win against the best team in the world; and that, and more, is what we’ll need to win against them twice in a row. No All Black takes losing well, and nor should they. It’s why they’re the best in the world. As one journalist writes: ‘There is hurt pride, and then there is the savage, iron will of an All Black looking to atone for his sins.’ We all know which one we’ll be up against on Saturday.

Monday, 3 July. We have a couple of days off in central Otago, where the boys can go jetskiing or bungee jumping. It’s the same kind of break we had in Noosa after the second Test four years ago, and that did us a world of good.

We don’t want to get so wound up and keen to crack on that we peak too soon. ‘It’s mental refreshment, so we don’t play our game too early,’ Bobby says. The final Test is on Saturday. If we’re ready to play it by Thursday, that’s no good. Hence the break.

Wednesday, 5 July. Gats names an unchanged 23, which is no small testament to the work of the physios in keeping us fit at the end of a savage tour. It’s the first time in 24 years that the same Lions XV has played two consecutive Tests.

If anything shows you how hard the Lions is, it’s this. The two titans of the 2013 tour were Pence and George. They didn’t get a Test between them in 2017. Only six of us – Foxy, Johnny, Alun Wyn, Sean, Toby and me – started Tests in both tours.

The list of those who’ve started Tests in three tours in the professional era is even shorter: Drico, Paulie, Alun Wyn and Neil Back.

There’s a backlash headed our way, and the Irish boys in the squad know that better than anyone. Ireland beat the All Blacks in Chicago last November, but two weeks later in Dublin they couldn’t live with the fury of the All Blacks’ revenge. ‘I remember coming off the pitch and being absolutely shattered,’ Tadhg says. ‘I was sore for days after it. It was one of the most brutal Test matches I’ve played.’

Thursday, 6 July. The New Zealand press are scared. I can tell that by the questions their journalists are asking at the press conference. Like Mako said: you definitely know who we are now.

In one way, the pressure’s off. Whatever happens on Saturday, this tour will have been a success commercially and in terms of fan involvement. We no longer have to worry about letting people down or betraying the very concept of the Lions. We know we’ve done the Lions proud.

But as a player, that’s not enough. How many of us will ever be in this position again, with the prospect of a Lions series win against the All Blacks? Maro, maybe. Perhaps Tadhg. No one else. This is our one chance, our one shot at that. This is our date with destiny.

Friday, 7 July. John Spencer, the tour manager, tells us that his phone’s been pinging with texts from the guys who were on the 1971 tour with him. ‘All of them have been saying: “Get this monkey off our backs. We don’t want to die with the record around our necks.”’

71/17: it has a nice symmetry.

The locals are talking up the Eden Park record something rotten. You might have won last week, the message goes, but you won’t win here, not at a ground where no visiting side has won in the professional era. But I don’t buy all this Fortress Eden Park stuff. Grounds are strips of grass, nothing more. What matters is not where you are; what matters is turning your plans into reality.

One last spin of the roulette wheel. Red or black?

Saturday, 8 July. ‘It’s about having emotional control,’ Gats says. ‘You want to take it to the edge, but you don’t want to go over the top.’ In other words: fire in the soul, ice in the veins.

Andy stands up and looks at us. ‘I believe today you’ll become the best team in the world,’ he says.

Putting on the strapping like armour. I’ve done this hundreds of times in my career, and as I wind it tight now I have a sudden feeling.

This is my last game.

I’ve never thought beyond the next 80 minutes, but this feels different. This is my last game. This is the last time I’ll ever do this.

It’s every player’s dream to go out not just on their own terms but right at the top. The only other man to captain the Lions twice was Martin Johnson, and his last international was the 2003 World Cup Final. Not a bad way to go out. For my last game to be the series clincher against the All Blacks – well, that would be right up there. Eighty minutes of pain for glory that would last a lifetime.

I pull the boys in. The red Lions jerseys seem to glow, lit by fires from within.

‘Let’s pass this jersey on to the next generation,’ I tell them.

No one owns a Lions jersey. You just carry it for a few weeks, try to add to it and pass it on. It’s not the jersey you put on that matters; it’s the one you take off.

Empty the tank, Gats said. We’ll take the shirt off for you at the end if need be.

We go out into the corridor. All the midweek boys and the support staff are there, slapping our backs as we pass. I pick up BIL, our Lions mascot.

Out of the tunnel as if coming up for air. Liiiions! Liiiions! Liiiions! A depth and growl to the chants, knowing how close we are to history, knowing what an inestimable privilege it would be to say you were there when it happened. I drop BIL on the ground the moment my boots go over the whitewash.

Take it in. Take it all in. This is the last time you’ll ever play.

The All Blacks set themselves for the haka. I’m watching them, but for once I’m not thinking how much I hate it. I’m thinking of everything that’s brought me here, all the hundreds and thousands of tiny things which have led to this moment: me, Sam Warburton, captaining the Lions at 1–1 against New Zealand.

It’s fitting that my last game will be in a Lions shirt, because for me this has always been the ultimate. Geech put it very well once. ‘That badge represents four countries, but it also represents you. You should be carrying that badge for people who have put you in that position. It might be a schoolmaster, mother, father, brother, sister, wife, girlfriend. Whatever’s special to you, the people who have brought you to this place, that’s who you should be wearing it for. That’s who you should be playing for. Because in the end they’re the ones who matter. They matter to you. And if it matters to you, it will matter to all of us. And if it matters to us, we will win. Go out, enjoy it, but play for everything that’s in the badge. For you personally, for all of us collectively.’

Perenara starts the call and response for the haka.

Taringa whakarongo!

Kia rite! Kia rite! Kia mau!

Hi!

Playing with the Under-14s at Whitchurch, on a pitch exactly the same size and shape as this. Realising that I might be quite good. Great team, great bunch of blokes. The WhatsApp group we’re all part of now, bonded by those memories. The match so long ago that the tape we have of it is VCR rather than DVD.

Kia whakawhenua au i ahau!

Hi, aue! Hi!

Blood and thunder against the Irish in Wellington. Our red line spread across the pitch, soaking up their pressure, making them punch themselves out. Foxy scoring and their heads going down, and from the stands the fans singing ‘Delilah’ over and over.

Ko Aotearoa, e ngunguru nei!

Hi, au! Au! Aue, ha! Hi!

The trophy lift in the darkness after taking England’s Grand Slam away from them at the Millennium. Punching the air in triumph at the crowd, and three tiers of people punching the air in unison back at me. Rock-star time.

Ko kapa o pango, e ngunguru nei!

Hi, au! Au! Aue, ha! Hi!

Geech handing me my first Lions Test jersey. Laying that jersey out on my bed, the number 7 looking up at me, just as it had done on the replica I’d worn when I was 15.

I ahaha!

Ka tu te ihi-ihi

Ka tu te wanawana

Ki runga i te rangi, e tu iho nei, tu iho nei, hi!

Coming on against Italy and hearing the crowd roar my name. Their appreciation that I turned down Toulon to stay in Wales and sign the central contract. The tears in my eyes as I run across the pitch to the lineout.

Ponga ra!

Kapa o pango! Aue, hi!

My 100th game for the Blues on Boxing Day. The whole family there; all the people I love most gathered in a place that’s very special to me. Baby Anna seeing her dad playing for the first time.

Ponga ra!

Kapa o pango! Aue, hi!

Ha!

The texts my Dad sends me before every match, always ending with the same four words in block capitals: REFUSE TO BE DENIED.

REFUSE TO BE DENIED. The dream I had. The pledge I made.

The haka ends. I count to five before moving, like we all do; we’ve agreed that beforehand, that we’ll wait a few moments and let the All Blacks turn away first. Flames fire into the sky.

We line up for the kick-off. Johnny bounces the ball on the ground. Romain Poite checks with both sides that we’re ready. I’ve never felt more ready. It’s almost as though this is a funnel, with everything in my life poured into the top and narrowed down to this match and this match alone.

Poite whistles. I watch the ball fall from Johnny’s hands as he drop-kicks.

Showtime.

Less than 90 seconds gone when Beauden Barrett takes it into contact and I rip it from him. No, says Poite, that’s an illegal turnover. It wasn’t. I know it wasn’t. It was a perfectly good steal. I’m on form, so that’s good to know.

Barrett misses the penalty. Laumape chips, Elliot gathers and is caught. Conor clears from the ruck, but back they come again from a free-kick. Smith taps and goes, Beauden Barrett on to his brother Jordie, out to Julian Savea with the line beckoning … and Savea knocks on when he’d have been in for the score.

Five minutes gone, and we’ve barely been in their half.

I make a second steal, this time off Retallick. We have a chance to break, but Faz knocks on. Just like they did on this ground a fortnight ago, the All Blacks are trying to play at a pace too high for us, trying to nullify our physicality by constantly moving the ball away. We have to leach the sting from them and slow it down.

Nine minutes gone. Maro steals, but Faz puts it out on the full. We get it back and start to make inroads. Johnny makes a half-break, then Maro, then Elliot. Give it to the heavy boys. Tadhg and Jamie take it up to within five metres. Fifteen phases and counting, and now Conor spins it wide and we have an overlap out on the right, Liam and Anthony doubling up on their last man. Get it through the hands and we’ll score. Faz throws the pass …

… and Jordie Barrett plucks it out of the air for the intercept.

Suddenly we’re all chasing back. Liam runs Barrett down, but he pops it out of the tackle to Laumape who pins his ears back and goes for the corner. Foxy’s after him. Laumape’s quick, but Foxy’s quicker. Foxy runs him down and catches him 15 metres out. The ball comes loose to Anthony, who collects it and Savea at the same time, and in the blink of an eye we’ve gone from being five metres out from their line to five metres out from ours. Conor clears.

That’s three uncharacteristic mistakes from Faz with barely ten minutes gone, more than he’s made in the first two Tests put together. It happens, sometimes. And if there’s anyone with the mental strength to shrug off this kind of thing, it’s Faz.

The All Blacks are still laying siege to our line. I try to get my hands on the ball, but there are too many bodies in the way. Out it comes to Beauden Barrett, who cross kicks for his brother in the corner. Jordie gets up above Elliot and palms it down for Laumape to scoot in before Foxy, still exhausted from his earlier chase, can get to him. Once more they’ve scored first.

Now we start to get some kind of footing. Foxy puts a grubber through and Elliot bundles Beauden Barrett into touch. This is fast, furious and unrelenting.

Penalty to us with exactly a quarter of the match gone. Faz, ice cool from the tee as always, makes it 7–3.

Again Beauden Barrett puts up a cross kick, this time for Savea. Savea beats Faz and runs over Liam, but Faz tracks back to make the tackle second time round. There’s another black wave breaking over us, but Cane knocks on and Toby gathers, drops and gathers again.

Our scrum, right on our line. The ball’s held between the two front rows, right in the tunnel. Pressure and force and muscle for tiny gains. The All Blacks wheel and disrupt, getting a secondary shunt on. Smith pops it up to Beauden Barrett, who knocks on with Toby covering.

It’s our pressure that’s making them make mistakes – the more opportunities they squander, the tighter they’ll get and the more likely they are to snatch at the next chance too – but we can’t keep playing this rope-a-dope for ever.

The All Blacks take the next scrum down and Johnny clears, but he doesn’t find touch and back they come again. Smith box-kicks, Liam spills and now the All Blacks are over the gainline again and we’re going backwards. It’s been a long, long time since we were anywhere near their posts. Red line in D. Red line in D. Laumape knocks on when he’s almost through and finally Conor gives us some breathing space when he clears to halfway.

If the All Blacks had held on to all their passes, they’d be out of sight.

Half an hour gone. Foxy clatters Beauden Barrett and I jackal long enough to get the penalty. Faz nails it and we’re within a point of them, though I’m not quite sure how. We’ll have done well if we can get to half-time like this.

We can’t. Five minutes before the break, they work it through the hands off a lineout and a lovely floated pass sends Jordie Barrett in for a try on debut.

It’s 12–6 at the break. Could have been worse. Should have been worse.

Johnny speaks up in the changing-room. ‘The moment we have them on the track, we let them off the hook. It’s there for the f***ing taking if we want it.’

Beauden Barrett’s kick-off to start the second half doesn’t go 10 metres; the kind of mistake a club player shouldn’t make, let alone the best 10 in the world. That’s pressure for you. Foxy takes it on and Read obstructs Liam. Our penalty, just inside our half. Kick to the 22 and work the lineout?

‘I’ll have a go,’ Elliot says.

He’s got a monster kick on him, and in training he puts them over from this kind of distance for fun. But a 55-metre kick six points down in the biggest match of your life is a whole different ask to the practice pitch.

He looks confident. And if a kicker’s confident, then trust him.

Elliot doesn’t have an elaborate routine, take a particularly long run-up or seem to connect any harder than any other kicker, but bloody hell he gives this one a thump. It’s high enough and straight enough, and it gets over with a yard or two to spare. What a kick. What a start to the second half.

The All Blacks work a maul and then send Jordie Barrett and Savea down the left. Liam steps up smartly on Barrett, forcing him to hurry the pass and make it forward. They’re playing wide much better than we are, but they’re also making twice as many handling errors as we are, doing what we did for long parts of the Wellington Test, trying to force the game rather than let it come.

Half an hour left. Alun Wyn’s clattered by Kaino and Whitelock together: Kaino’s stiff-arm to the jaw, knocking Alun Wyn unconscious for a moment or two, his head going back and his eyes closing. Ten minutes in the bin for Kaino.

This third quarter is where we almost let it slip last time. We can’t afford to do the same thing tonight, and we don’t. Now three-quarters of the possession is ours. Anthony and Liam work it down the right again. Foxy scythes down Jordie Barrett. Retallick comes in high on Courtney and Liam’s in Retallick’s face, size difference be damned. Our penalty, and Faz nails it.

Twenty minutes to go: 12–12 in the match, 1–1 in the series. Two teams who just can’t be separated.

It’s there for the taking if we want it.

I fly out of the line and into Crockett, making him spill. So close to offside, but we can’t afford to give anything away now. Foxy and Elliot go up the left-hand side. Both sides are going for it with all they’ve got now, no quarter asked, no holds barred. Empty the tank.

Fifteen minutes left. I go low to tackle Read and his knee smacks into my head. I get back up and into line – unless you’re unconscious or you’ve snapped your femur you get back in D – but my head’s thumping and I don’t know what’s north or south. At the next break, Poite tells me to go off for an HIA. I jog off the pitch as quick as I can. Every second counts.

The medics take me to a room below the stadium and run through the HIA protocols.

‘What venue are we at today?’

‘Eden Park.’

A cheer from the crowd, filtering muffled through the walls.

‘Which half is it now?’

‘Second.’

No crescendo, so not the excitement of the few seconds before a try.

‘Who scored last in this match?’

‘We did.’

It sounded loud enough to have been them and not us.

‘What team did you play last week?’

‘The All Blacks.’

Three points to them, if I had to guess.

‘Did your team win the last game?’

‘Yes.’

It’s 15–12. We can still do this.

‘OK. I’m going to read out five words, and I want you to repeat them back to me. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

I’m captain. I have to get back on now.

‘Baby. Monkey. Perfume. Sunset. Iron.’

‘Baby. Monkey. Perfume. Sunset. Iron.’

We’ve got a lock filling in for me at six, and that’s not good.

‘Now I’m going to read out number strings, and I want you to repeat them back to me in reverse order. Four, three, nine.’

‘Nine, three, four.’

What if they make a mistake I’d never have made and that loses us the series?

‘Three, eight, one, four.’

‘Four, one, eight, three.’

I’m so sick of not being there at the end of big matches.

‘Six, two, nine, seven, one.’

‘One, seven, nine, two, six.’

Sent off in the World Cup semi-final.

‘Seven, one, eight, four, six, two.’

‘Two, six, four, eight, one, seven.’

Injured against France for the Grand Slam match.

‘Walk in tandem gait towards that wall, please. The back of your lead foot against the toes of your rear foot.’

Did my hamstring in Melbourne four years ago.

‘That’s fine, thank you. You’ve done that in good time. Do you have a headache?’

‘No.’

My head’s a little sore from the impact, but no more.

‘Do you have any dizziness?’

‘No.’

If this was a club game, would I be off?

‘Do you have any pressure in your head?’

‘No.’

But it’s not. It’s my last game ever.

‘Do you feel nauseated or do you feel like vomiting?’

‘No.’

I’ve got the rest of my life to recover.

‘Do you have any blurred vision?’

‘No.’

I promised myself that I’d be there at the end today.

‘Does the light or noise worry you?’

‘No.’

And that I’d lift the trophy on the pitch, bloody and sweaty and muddy.

‘Do you feel as though you’re slowing down?’

‘No.’

I’ve heard no more huge cheers. It must still be 15–12.

‘Do you feel like you’re in a fog?’

‘No.’

Let me back out there.

‘Do you feel unwell?’

‘No.’

Let me back out there NOW.

‘That’s fine, Sam. You’ve passed the assessment and can return to the pitch.’

Back up to pitchside, as fast as I can. It is 15–12 to them, I was right. I look at the clock. I’ve been down there with the medics seven minutes, give or take.

I come back on at the next break in play.

Faz and Rhys take down Dagg between them and win the scrum. Even a put-in at this stage feels as huge as a penalty. The scrum’s good. Very good. Our front row are massive, forcing theirs down and giving us the kick. I’m fired up, slapping their heads as they come up.

Too far out for Faz to go for goal. Maro takes it into a ruck. I clear out Faumuina. The All Blacks are on the wrong side, stopping Rhys from getting the ball, and he’s furious, slapping Crockett and appealing to Poite.

Penalty. Three minutes left. Here we go again.

Faz lines it up, of course. The man could tap dance in a minefield. Cool as you like, he brings us back to all square, 15–15.

Two minutes left. Titanic match. Titanic series. Not over yet.

Beauden Barrett kicks off. Liam and Read jump for it. The ball comes off Liam to Ken, who’s right next to him and slightly in front. Instinctively, Ken catches the ball – he’s had a split second to react – and in the same movement he opens his hands and drops it, knowing that he’s offside.

Too late. Poite blows. Penalty to New Zealand.

Penalty to New Zealand with two minutes left. I can’t believe it. This is just so textbook New Zealand it’s ridiculous: to win it right at the death after everything we’ve thrown at them, after we’ve been toe-to-toe for the best part of four hours and you can hardly fit a fag-paper between us.

I yell at the boys to watch for a quick tap. There’s nothing we can do if they take the shot at the posts, but to lose because we’ve switched off and they tap and go would be something I’d never get over.

Poite seems to be consulting with the TMO. I go over and ask him to check Read’s challenge in the air, to see whether he’d fouled Liam when they were both jumping for the ball. It’s an air shot at this stage, but I’ve got nothing to lose. If you don’t spend your chips with two minutes to go and the series in the balance, when do you spend them?

I take a mouthful of this liquid we have to stop cramp, as I’ve been cramping like crazy these last few minutes. We’re not supposed to swallow the liquid, but just squirt it in, slosh it around inside our mouths and spit it out again: it works on the receptors inside the mouth.

Read comes over to where I’m standing, next to Poite. We bump fists lightly, recognition that we’re both at the heart of something very special.

‘Wow,’ he says. ‘This is rugby.’

They’re showing the whole incident on the big screen. There’s so much to unpick there at pretty much every stage, almost frame by frame. Was Read in front of Beauden Barrett, the kicker, at kick-off? Was Read’s challenge in the air on Liam legal? That is, could he reasonably have hoped to get to the ball himself? Did Read get a hand to the ball himself, which might mean an All Blacks knock-on? Did the ball come forwards off Liam, or was it lateral?

There are four or five possible decisions here, and some of them might not just cancel out the All Blacks’ advantage but swing it the other way. If Read is deemed offside from the restart, for example, we’ll have a scrum on halfway. Imagine that they drop that scrum and we have a kick to win it. Not just that, but we have a kicker to win it too: Elliot, with his monster boot.

The only thing that is totally beyond doubt is that Ken was in front of Liam when he played the ball. So he’s definitely offside. But was it deliberate, or accidental? This is what Poite’s discussing with the other officials.

The whole thing hinges on this. Deliberate offside is a penalty, but accidental offside’s only a scrum.

The relevant sections of the laws are 11.6 and 11.7.

11.6 ACCIDENTAL OFFSIDE

(a) When an offside player cannot avoid being touched by the ball or by a team-mate carrying it, the player is accidentally offside. If the player’s team gains no advantage from this, play continues. If the player’s team gains an advantage, a scrum is formed with the opposing team throwing in the ball.

(b) When a player hands the ball to a team-mate in front of the first player, the receiver is offside. Unless the receiver is considered to be intentionally offside (in which case a penalty kick is awarded), the receiver is accidentally offside and a scrum is formed with the opposing team throwing in the ball.

11.7 OFFSIDE AFTER A KNOCK-ON

When a player knocks on and an offside team-mate next plays the ball, the offside player is liable to sanction if playing the ball prevented an opponent from gaining an advantage. Sanction: Penalty kick.

The laws are slightly contradictory, not to mention rather ambiguous. What does ‘play the ball’ mean? How about ‘cannot avoid being touched by the ball?’ No professional player, used to catching hundreds of balls in training every week, can decide in a fraction of a second not to catch a ball that comes to them; to do so would be to override an instinct drilled so deep within them as to be more or less muscle memory by now. This was why the Scots were so furious to lose the World Cup quarter-final two years ago to Australia: an offside that was deemed deliberate but that they said was accidental.

All this, I think – I hope – is playing in the minds of the officials. No one wants any series settled on such a contentious decision, let alone a series which has been as momentous as this one has.

There’s about half a minute of Poite discussing things with the TMO before he comes over to Read and me.

‘We have a deal,’ he says. ‘We have a deal about the offside 16.’ It’s maybe not the best word to use, ‘deal’ – it implies some sort of agreement cooked up – but I think he means ‘decision’ and, in the heat of the moment speaking in a language that’s not his own, he picked slightly the wrong word. ‘He did not deliberately play the ball, OK? It was an accidental offside.’

Read’s not happy. ‘No, no, no.’

‘It was an accidental offside,’ Poite repeats. ‘So scrum for black.’

‘Romain,’ Read says. ‘Romain.’

But Poite’s made his mind up. I intertwine my fingers together so the boys can see. Scrum. Get in position and pack down before he can change his mind again.

Just over a minute to hold them out.

The scrum wheels. Read loses control at the base. Rhys steals it and legs it downfield. He passes inside to Toby, who can’t quite hang onto it. Knock on. Another All Black scrum. The hooter goes. Next time the ball goes dead it’s over, but if any team can win from here it’s the All Blacks; if any team has the skill, the patience and the balls to work it for two, three, four minutes at the end of 80 lung-busting minutes, it’s them. It’s never over against these guys until it’s over. They always play right to the end, and you can never let up because you can be sure they won’t.

Ardie Savea comes through. I hold him up. They’re in our 22. Cruden flips it over the top to Jordie Barrett, who slips Elliot and goes for the corner. Liam hauls him down, and CJ and Faz bundle him towards touch. Perenara has it, a couple of metres out. Men all over him, driving him up and back and out. The flag is up.

The final whistle goes. I grab a 500 ml bottle of electrolytes and neck the lot, ready for extra-time – and then I look up and see that everyone’s shaking hands.

It’s over.

It’s over?

I honestly thought we’d have extra-time, as though this was the knockout stage of a World Cup. If the series hinges on it, why not do so? But apparently a draw’s a draw, unless it’s been agreed otherwise beforehand.

It feels a weird anti-climax. Read’s still talking to Poite. No one really knows what to do. The interviewers grab us for quick pieces to camera.

‘Wow,’ I say. The crowd are quiet, waiting for me to continue, and then they realise that I don’t really know what else to say and they burst into applause. By the time the applause subsides, I can just about formulate some words. ‘What a Test match. It’s difficult. It’s all geared to winning. It’s better than losing, I guess.’

‘I feel pretty hollow, to be honest,’ Read says. ‘I’ll look back on it in the future with a bit more pride.’

I find my dad, Ben and some of our mates in the crowd. They’ve been yelling for me, but I couldn’t hear them above the din. I give them a hug. We’re not a touchy-feely family, but it’s an incredibly emotional moment.

I’m called back for the presentation. In 2013, I shared the trophy lift with Alun Wyn. Now I share it with Read. We take the trophy between us, each with one hand on one handle, and raise it together. I tug it towards me, playfully. He laughs and tugs it back, neither of us quite ready to quit fighting for it even now.

I remember the vow I made to myself four years ago: to be here, as skipper, on the pitch, lifting this trophy, the one time my body didn’t give out on me. And it’s come true, sort of. It’s come true, except I never envisaged that Kieran Read would be on the other end of the trophy. Mind you, if you asked him, I bet he never thought that I’d be on the other side of any trophy he was holding, so it all evens out.

‘Would you have gone to extra-time?’ I ask him.

‘Absolutely.’

I wish we could have pulled rank. Perhaps at this level, with everyone out on their feet, it would have been dangerous to go another 20 minutes, so I’d have played a golden point: first team to score wins, simple as that. Try, penalty, drop goal, doesn’t matter. As a spectacle, a climax, that would have been unbelievable.

Kaino walks past us. ‘Shall we get the boys in?’ he asks. ‘All of us together?’

It’s a great idea. We call everyone in and get them to mix, so we’re not just sitting in our own teams but in among the opposition and vice versa. There’s Rhys with his arm around Dagg, Kaino with his hands on Toby’s shoulders, Ken with Ardie Savea, red and black mingling as one – a great image, an iconic image, of two teams that took each other from pillar to post and back again. Forty-six guys who gave everything, won nothing but came away with something special. They couldn’t separate us over three matches, and they can’t separate us now.

No one likes a draw, not really. But if you’d told me when we left Heathrow that, with only six weeks’ preparation and having been ahead for only three minutes across three entire Tests, we’d have shared the series, would I have taken that?

On one level, no. Professional rugby’s about winning. We won in Australia in 2013; we didn’t win here. For that alone, Australia would be the one I’d take if you offered me only one of those series. But in playing terms, the 2017 series was a greater achievement, no doubt about it. The Australia team we beat was a good one. The All Blacks team we drew with was a great one. Add to that the quality of the non-Test opposition, the toughness of the schedule and the relentlessness of being in a country where rugby feels as important as a religion, none of which applied in Australia, and the differences between the two are clear.

We could have won, no matter how unlikely people thought it. We could have won, and part of me will always be annoyed that we didn’t. We certainly could have done more. It was the pinnacle of everyone’s career, and it lasted six weeks. For six weeks you’d have thought it possible to dedicate yourself totally to the cause, wouldn’t you? For six weeks, you could leave no stone unturned when it came to making sure you performed at your absolute peak: eat right, sleep right, stay off the booze as it’s bad for recovery from inflammation, stay away from the blue light of mobile phones, and so on.

But I reckon only 20 per cent of the boys could honestly say they did that for the duration of those six weeks, which, given that we took 41 players, means around eight players. Just over half a starting XV, just over a third of a match-day 23. When you think how close we came, would it have made a difference – would it have made the crucial difference – if everybody had done that? Very possibly. And it’s no accident that some of the ones who did apply themselves properly were among the best performers on that tour: Maro and Alun Wyn in the second row, Johnny and Faz at 10 and 12.

It would have been nice to have had a neat and tidy ending, but sometimes you don’t get them, in sport as in life. A drawn series is very rare – only once before in Lions history has it happened, and that was back in 1955. In the modern era, it’s unique. As Gats says, draws aren’t the worst thing in the world; they create scenes like that joint team photo, which expresses the joy of rugby better than anything else I’ve seen. That photo, and the result which led to it, will forever set the 2017 Lions apart. That’s not a bad way to be remembered. Not a bad way at all.