Life knocks you down just when you think you have cracked it again. On Tuesday, 15 October 2013, I was feeling weary after flying back from South Africa. I had been in Durban, persuading a young full back in the Sharks academy to commit his rugby future to Japan. He was of mixed Japanese and South African heritage; and, as always, I was on the hunt for promising young players. From Tokyo I would head to our training camp to begin preparations for the biggest challenge in world rugby – our game against the All Blacks.
In Tokyo, I felt queasy during lunch with members of our management team. I blamed the jet lag. I got through the lunch and closed my eyes while we made the three-hour drive to the training camp. I tried to sleep but I couldn’t. A dull headache throbbed. When we finally got out of the car there was a tightness down my left leg. I had run a lot in Durban and my left hamstring felt tender. Again, I thought it was nothing unusual, just stiffness after a long drive.
As we walked around the camp, my movement was less controlled. ‘Shit,’ I thought, ‘what’s going on here? This feels strange.’ But I didn’t say anything and concentrated on trying to move normally. I thought it would pass.
Once in my room, I sat on the bed and looked out at the ocean. Dark, ominous clouds were rolling in from far out to sea. I tried to lift my left hand. It was then that I knew something was wrong. I willed it to move. I managed to lift it, but my arm was now ridiculously heavy. I got up, found my phone and rang Hiroko.
I was relieved to hear her voice but I also felt anxious as I told her what had happened. She spoke clearly and told me to lie down. I ended the call when she said she would phone the team manager. Lying on the bed, my head and the left side of my body were numb. There wasn’t any pain, just a creeping heaviness.
When the manager arrived, I started to feel a little better. He said we should get the next flight back to Tokyo as a typhoon was on its way and we didn’t want to be stranded so far from home. He asked me if he should call a doctor, but I said I would rest.
I slept and felt calm when I woke up. Within a few hours we were at the airport, ready for the short flight. On the plane I still had a pounding headache and my left arm wasn’t working properly. I closed my eyes and the flight passed peacefully. But as soon as I tried to stand up, I knew I was in real trouble.
The entire left side of my body was frozen. I struggled to get down the stairs of the plane, leaning heavily to my right. My left arm and leg just dangled. At the bottom of the stairs I was asked to see if I could touch my nose with my left hand. No chance. I knew then that I was having a stroke. It was like a computer system slowly closing down. Bit by bit, another part of me was retiring from use.
They moved quickly and, within minutes, I was in the back of an ambulance. I was dimly aware of the siren screaming as we raced to hospital.
They sedated me and I slept for most of the next three days.
When I was finally fully conscious, I managed to have a conversation with Hiroko, who had been feeling sick with worry. The doctor arrived at my bedside and explained what had happened to me. He then suggested I should stay in the hospital to recover.
‘But doc,’ I said, ‘I can’t stay here for long.’
‘You must stay in hospital,’ the doctor said again.
Instinctively, I reacted to what I thought was terrible news. Trying to lift myself up I said, ‘I’ve got to get ready for the game, mate. We’re playing the All Blacks.’
The doctor shook his head gravely. ‘No, Eddie-san,’ he said softly, ‘you won’t be coaching in this game. You must rest.’
They kept me in intensive care for another five days as my speech was slightly slurred and my left arm was still paralysed. My blood pressure was also high. I lay there and wondered how long it would take to start coaching again. There was never any thought in my traumatized head that my career might be in jeopardy. But I hated the feeling of lying there helplessly. I also wondered about what part of my lifestyle and my work habits might have contributed to the stroke. How much of this was down to me? Could I have avoided it?
I still knew I would make a full recovery. I was taking Japan to the World Cup. No ifs, no buts, no maybes.
It was easier when they moved me from intensive care to a normal ward so I could begin my rehab. ‘This isn’t great,’ I said silently to myself, ‘but I’ll beat it. And I’ll beat it fast.’
Rehab began but, in my opinion, it was too slow. I thought the physios were being too soft on me and that I could always be doing more. They warned me to take it nice and slowly. I would nod and agree with them, but once they were gone, I’d continue my rehab at night. Finally, after plenty of nagging, they allowed me to take a short walk with a stick around the ward at eight o’clock each night. I did lap after lap of the circular top floor of the hospital. After ten nights I began sit-ups and push-ups. The nurses would shout at me in Japanese to slow down and not go so fast. I would smile and say ‘Yes, yes,’ and then go back to what I was doing.
I was clearly making progress and was well enough to go home – but they suggested I spend another two weeks in hospital to complete the rehab programme. As much as I wanted to be home with Hiroko and Chelsea, my priority was my recovery. I took the advice to stay in hospital and work on my rehab. It was a wise decision. By the time I was discharged, I had made huge progress. I was a long way from being fully recovered, but the paralysis had eased and the reboot of my system was well under way. The frightening experience was suddenly nowhere near as daunting and I felt as though I was starting to put it behind me.
Someone described recovering from a stroke as being similar to walking into a library and finding all the books have fallen from the shelves. The job then is to put the books back in the right order. You have to relearn simple movements and actions.
It was challenging. The stroke had messed with my brain and the simple task of listening and talking to people was difficult and irritating. My limited movement was another source of frustration. Slowly but surely I started to improve; but it took me almost six months to recover fully.
I held my first coaching session again in April 2014. It was a start. I was lucky that John Pryor had put me on a specialist training programme to beat the last numbing consequences of the stroke. I lifted weights and I ran. I got fit and strong again and a dark time turned into a good period. I became much healthier. I ate even better than before and I cut back on drinking. I now only have the occasional glass of red wine.
People always ask if the stroke changed me. And it did. When you are sitting in a quiet room recovering from an event like that, all kinds of thoughts whirl through your head. I think I became less intense and learnt to relax more. I’m sure the England players will find that amusing but it did give me pause for thought. But, most of all, it supercharged my love of family, friends, rugby and coaching. I was grateful to be working again – and fortunate to be in a job that gives me such pleasure and satisfaction.
I also started to go to a church near our home. I had never been a practising Christian, but I found peace in church. It was not some dramatic conversion – but, rather, a place where I could reflect and give thanks for my returning health, my family and my work. I began to strongly believe that there is a purpose for all of us in our lives.
My purpose is coaching rugby. I’m not much good at anything else. I don’t have a long list of interesting hobbies or a bucket list of crazy adventures to complete. I just like living a simple life and coaching rugby. It’s hard to explain the joy I get out of it. I resolved to make the most of my talent and, instead of getting weighed down by frustration or worry, simply give it a real hot go. I did not become any more, or less, dedicated and hard-working. But I became clearer in my thinking.
In Tokyo, the church was a ten-minute walk from my home. I went there every Sunday and it was a lovely coincidence that the pastor was a South African. He was a big Afrikaans guy who loved rugby. I think he was pretty pleased that I turned up. I’d always sneak in late and sneak out early. But I went, yes, religiously, every week.
I haven’t really found the right place since then. Whenever I’m in a new town now, and I see a church, I’ll step inside. It’s very low-key but I’ve retained that gratitude and faith. It’s simply a belief in something higher and greater than all of us. The clarity of thought that I had during my illness has since served me well. I know what I want to do and how I want to do it. And I also know that none of us can afford to waste a single second. Life is precious.
A few months earlier, following ongoing reflection about my strengths and weaknesses as a coach, I’d taken steps to ease my intensity. I had invited Kaori Araki into the inner sanctum of our team. It was a radical step as Kaori is a female sports psychologist. Japanese rugby is very conservative and parochial and devoid of femininity. In truth, I was less interested in Kaori’s gender than the fact that she seemed to be such a bright and incisive psychologist. I was intent on using all available techniques to know my players better and to help them become more decisive in their thinking.
Kaori did some fine work with the team but perhaps her most penetrating comment was directed towards me.
‘Eddie-san,’ she said respectfully but firmly, ‘you are too grumpy.’
I gave her a suitably grumpy look in return, then asked her to explain.
‘You walk around with a scowl on your face most of the time,’ she said. ‘You look very intense and bad-tempered. Often the team don’t understand why you are in such a bad mood. Even when they please you, you are still in a bad mood. It would help everyone if you lightened up.’
I protested that I was rarely in a bad mood but, when pressed, I admitted that I worried a lot about all the work we needed to do to get the squad ready for the World Cup. I am not, in ordinary life, a worrier. But the relentless nature of international sport occupies your mind. As head coach it is extremely difficult to escape the demands and stresses of the job.
‘You must try,’ Kaori said. ‘It will help you and it will help the players.’
Of course she was right, and so, even before the stroke, I made a conscious decision to try and lighten my expression and the surrounding atmosphere. I also made attempts to include the odd rest day for both the players and the staff as we continued the remorseless work we needed to do in 2015. Our plan was clear and we were monitoring our progress. I knew exactly where we were and exactly where we needed to be. It was a huge gap. But with Kaori’s new information, I resolved to smile more and make the programme more interesting.
I enjoyed studying martial arts in my spare time and, in 2014, I asked Tsuyoshi Kohsaka, a former UFC fighter, to come into camp so that he could teach the players how to stay low in contact. The boys loved it because Tsuyoshi offered something different while preparing them for the battle I had begun to discuss – against South Africa in our opening World Cup match.
Slowly and carefully I began to plant the seeds of how we would beat the Springboks. In my new and less frenetic way, I opened up conversations to explore the players’ views. In June and July 2014, we held a training camp which coincided with the football World Cup in Brazil. It was fantastic. We watched games between training and, while Japan had finished bottom of their group, the pulse and excitement of the tournament became a great way for us to understand what was ahead of us at our own World Cup in another 14 months.
Costa Rica were the surprise team in Brazil. They were low down the world rankings and most experts predicted they would finish bottom of a group containing Italy, England and Uruguay. In the end they finished top and Italy and England were sent home in shame. They beat Greece in the last 16 and only just missed out on the semi-finals – losing on penalties in the quarters to the Netherlands.
I used Costa Rica as an example. We, too, were expected to do little of note in the World Cup. But I told the players we could shock the world. We were not good enough to win the World Cup but we could be the team of the tournament. To do this we needed to reach the quarter-finals. Our first two games were the hardest of all – against South Africa, the two-time world champions, and then Scotland just three days later. Rather than targeting Scotland and playing a second-string team against the Boks, as some people had suggested, I said we would carve our way to the quarter-finals by beating South Africa in the tournament opener.
No one believed me at first, not even Steve Borthwick and my fellow coaches. But, without them knowing, I had already launched Operation Beat the Boks.
In the European winter of 2014, after another November tour in which we lost to Scotland but easily beat Russia and Spain, I went to Munich to meet one of the great coaches of world sport.
Pep Guardiola turned out to be the biggest influence on me during my time with Japan. Pep had just taken a year’s break from football, having left Barcelona after he won so much with a brilliant team in which Lionel Messi, Andrés Iniesta and Xavi proved that comparatively small men could become the greatest footballers in the world. I was fascinated by tiki-taka, that Barça style of football characterized by short passing, deft movement and controlled possession of the ball until the opposition defence are opened up and helpless. I wanted to talk to him about these attributes, because Japan had to find a way to beat bigger teams. We were so much smaller and the only way we could win was by moving the ball quickly into space.
Pep was incredibly generous and gave me a lot of time. He also allowed me to watch his training sessions with Bayern Munich. It was intriguing because he was coaching some of the best players in the world, and talking to them in various languages, while working with striking intensity. After a routine warm-up he split them into three groups and had them working on concepts of space with relentless focus. One particular session only lasted for 30 minutes but, as they came off for a break, the players were mentally and physically drained. Despite the freezing temperatures, sweat ran down their gaunt faces. Pep’s razor-sharp instruction and expectation pushed the players to their limits. But with purpose, intensity and clarity, they had achieved more in half an hour than most teams would in a traditional two-hour training stint.
I had also started to structure our training in short concentrated bursts. But, rather than feeling proud that Pep and I had the same views, I squirmed at how amateurish my sessions seemed when compared to Guardiola’s sophisticated and intricate coaching patterns. I liked the way he could move from coaching the team, talking to everyone in ways that opened their minds, to individualistic moments when he would take a player to one side and show him exactly what he meant. He sometimes even used his hands to move a player physically so there could be no misunderstanding about what they needed to do. It was impassioned and it was inspirational.
At the end of a long day, which finished at 7 p.m., Pep gave me two hours in his office. He talked about space, movement, passing, training and winning. I left Munich feeling almost dazed. It was exhilarating to watch, listen to and speak with one of the masters of our profession but, at the same time, it was embarrassing to know how far ahead of me he was. Prior to visiting Bayern Munich, I thought I knew something about professional coaching.
Sitting on the plane back to Tokyo, I realized how much I had to learn. It’s a great lesson in business as well as sport. If you think you’re going OK, you’re probably not. Stay humble and curious and use every minute of every day to improve your attitude, your skills and your contribution. It’s the only way to stay relevant and have a constant impact.
These rare encounters with great coaches in different sports are invaluable and, in later years, I gained a lot by talking to men as distinct as Sir Alex Ferguson, Louis van Gaal and Ric Charlesworth. I explored new training ideas, such as tactical periodization. I went to Qatar to meet Alberto Mendez-Villanueva, who explained that the concept was created years ago by Vitor Frade at the University of Porto.
Tactical periodization is a system of training that focuses logically on certain moments in play; the resulting levels of improved fitness and skill levels will transfer directly to a game. Tactical thinking drives your training; it is shaped by four key areas – defensive organization, offensive organization, the transition from defence to attack and the transition from attack to defence. Every aspect of training targets ways to sharpen the physicality and mentality that your team will need on match day.
Rugby and real life collided again for me in May 2015. We were about to play Korea in the third and last game of the Asian Cup in the Japanese city of Fukuoka. We had won our first two games in the tournament and were building towards the more important Pacific Nations Cup and then separate tours of Uruguay and Georgia to get us ready for the World Cup. I knew that the crucial preparation would be done in our training camp – but the games were important because we were already playing the style of rugby with which I knew we could beat South Africa.
Five days before the Korea game, my sister Diane called from Sydney. Dad had just a few days left.
The news hit me hard. When I had last been home to visit Mum and Dad, I could see he had reached that stage where he’d just had enough. All the life had drained out of him and he was waiting to slip away. But you can’t make such choices in life, or death, and so he lingered in a deeply shadowed world.
Dad was 96 when I took the call. It felt almost merciful to know that the end was near.
I was torn between the desire to see Dad one last time or to return home for the funeral and stay on longer with my mum, Diane and Vicky. In the end I decided to be at the game against Korea on Saturday 9 May and fly home straight afterwards.
On 6 May 2015, Dad died, less than 24 hours after I took the call. I would have made it back in time to see him, but nothing would have changed. I could not have saved him and I would just have seen a ghostly image of my father on his death bed.
Three days later it did not matter that we had beaten Korea. I just wanted to get home.
On the long flight back to Sydney, I thought of everything my dad had done for me, and for us as a family. I could see him clearly again – the good, decent, hard-working and selfless man who was gone for ever. I choked up, as I still often do now when people ask me about my father.
I think of that old Harry Chapin song about a father and his son. In the first part of the song the father is too busy working hard to give the time he should to his boy. And then, as he ages and retires, and has ample time, his son has become a man with his own commitments and constraints. It echoes life and our interaction with our parents and then with our children.
If I had the chance again, I think I would have flown home to see him one last time. I am not entirely sure. All I really know is that I wish I had done more for him in the last years of his life. The consuming nature of my work means that so many sacrifices are made at the expense of my family.
My mother, meanwhile, battles on remarkably. In 2019, four years after my dad died, she turned 94. She still watches out for me and, thankfully, she still keeps me in check.
On my own, I think often of those days and realize all over again that family matters more than anything. And, yes, there are times like now when, as I try to talk about my dad, my eyes fill with tears. They are tears of gratitude, of love, and loss too.
I knew the players had bought in totally to our World Cup plans when, rather than saying they were going to training, they echoed my rallying call. ‘We’re going to Beat the Boks,’ they said as they trotted off to another session. Training was actually called ‘Beat the Boks’. Steve Borthwick took it even further. I could hear him urging the players on by saying we had already beaten the Boks four times. They looked puzzled and then he reminded them that we had played the exact style of rugby we needed to defeat South Africa while dispatching Hong Kong, Korea, Canada and Uruguay. When we played Georgia in our final warm-up game before the World Cup, we would run out against them as if they really were the Boks. We would stick to the Beat the Boks game plan we had honed to perfection. Of course, none of these teams were in the league of the Boks, but that didn’t matter. It was more important, at this stage, that we drilled such belief into the players.
The game plan was simple. We would play the same fast, aggressive rugby we had worked on the past three years. It was vital that we maintained the speed of the ball and kept it in play, staying away from set pieces and striving to keep the score as close as possible so that doubts could begin to fester in Springbok heads. We would take them low and tackle in numbers – with our physical bravery matched by an emotional courage that we would play flat and attacking rugby. We would play to win rather than to limit the damage.
The closer we got to the World Cup, the more we analysed the Springboks as individuals. Each of our players knew their opposite numbers inside out. It became easier to imagine an historic victory if they stepped away from gazing in awe at the collective mystique of the Boks and looked closely instead at players who were, just like them, fallible human beings.
I really did believe that we had a serious chance of winning – but we needed South Africa to have an off-day and we needed to be better than we had ever been before. If they turned up at their best then they would beat us. It was as simple as that. But, in the opening game of the World Cup, we could catch them cold.
They had so many advantages over us – in terms of size, strength, power and experience. But I was so familiar with the Boks – I knew they wanted to play the game as if they were a heavyweight boxer. They wanted to play relatively slowly and pound us into submission. They wanted to use the power of their set piece, and the sheer bulk of their forwards, to physically dominate us. We could not allow that to happen. Once we came close to matching them physically, we could crack them mentally.
When we had possession, it was vital we moved the ball quickly so that they would also have to move fast. How many times could we make them move against their will? How many times could we make them have to get off the ground? We needed to play the game lower and quicker. And even when they did hit us, as they surely would, we could never allow them to trap us. They wanted to hunt us down but we had to keep them on the run.
Our Beat the Boks camp began in July 2015 and, for 12 weeks, I worked them harder than ever before. At Miyazaki, on the island of Kyushu in the far south of Japan, the players went through a punishing schedule. It was not merciless training because, with John Pryor’s help, we were pretty scientific in the way we staggered the levels of intensity. The players had also grown used to the kind of sustained and ferocious commitment I demanded. They were hardened. But this regime was rigorous both mentally and physically. We did not flog them for the sake of flogging them. The sessions were as sharp as they were brutal. I think it was more gruelling for the players because we pushed them emotionally to the brink. They could handle the one-off sessions without undue difficulty – but it became harder for them when there were five sessions in a day and we trained for the first five weeks without a day off.
Every hour of every day was mapped out. They were stretched and engaged constantly, whether working on basic handling or scrummaging skills, wrestling and boxing, cycling or problem-solving exercises. It was fascinating to be at the heart of it, to watch them suffer and yet, at the same time, grow in strength and resolve. The Japanese players, even more than the foreign imports, took to the regime with messianic zeal. They radiated commitment and conviction. The ‘Beat the Boks’ call echoed around Miyazaki with a haunting power.
Our final game before we played South Africa was against Georgia at Gloucester on 5 September 2015 – exactly two weeks before the Boks. Georgia came at us like beasts. Their formidable pack just wanted to crush us. It was the perfect preparation. In previous years we had lost many close games to them because they had bullied us. This time we turned over their scrum and scored a try in the last minute. Japan won a bruising contest 13–10. Once again, we told the boys that they had beaten the Boks.
The mood in the camp was eerily calm the closer we came to a match that had consumed us for a year. I only felt the first twitch of uncertainty on the Friday afternoon before the game. Michael Leitch took them out for his largely ceremonial captain’s run and all the players looked terribly edgy. I told Michael to call it off before we did any damage.
There was nothing left to say. I just had to trust in the work we had done, and in the character of the young men with whom I had shared so much.
On the Saturday morning, on a beautiful day in Brighton, Michael and I went down to a cafe on the gleaming beachfront. We had a coffee and all the unease was gone. Michael did not say a lot but I sensed the certainty within him – a clear conviction that we would play boldly and courageously.
Leitchy was ready. Japan were ready.
I felt moved by the transformation he and all the players had undergone over the last three years. Suddenly, it all felt worth it.
I looked at Leitchy and said: ‘Listen, mate, we’ve got nothing to lose. If you think we should have a go, have a real go.’
My captain looked up and nodded intently. ‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘I will.’
Brighton Community Stadium, Brighton, England. Saturday, 19 September 2015
This is the hardest time. The minutes drag during the long coach journey to the ground and, at the stadium, I feel the uncertainty wash through me like a muddy river.
History is stacked against us. Japan have only ever won one World Cup game in their entire history, and beating Zimbabwe 24 years before will not help us today. Our average loss in the tournament is by 48 points. I know none of this matters now – unless we suddenly crumble beneath the weight of this woeful legacy or the shuddering force of the Springbok assault.
There is little I can do but trust in the players and in our preparation.
In the dressing room the last few words are said. Leitchy is terrific, taking the lead. The players are calm but, as importantly, they are intense. They look ready.
There is a steeliness in Leitch’s gaze as, after giving me a nod, he says, quietly, ‘Let’s go . . .’
The players head down the tunnel. I watch them leave, one by one. I then follow them along that echoing and gloomy corridor.
They walk purposefully, rather than run, into the glaring sunshine. I like the way they look in their pristine red-and-white hooped shirts and white shorts and socks.
The Springboks wear tracksuit bottoms even though it is a scorching afternoon. But their familiar green-and-gold shirts are short sleeved. They look ready to start bashing us.
We know that they want to smash us. They want to pulverize us with heavy hits. So I have tweaked the game plan. We are still intent on dictating the pace of play, but I tell the boys not to be afraid if the Boks have early ball. South Africa is a defence-minded rugby country. They are at their happiest when putting in crushing tackles and knocking their opponents back. Let them come at us because their game is built on defence not attack. They won’t be comfortable with too much ball and they will be less comfortable when we chop them down.
But, most of the time, Japan need to use the ball quickly and move the heavy Boks across the field, back and forth, up and down.
Jérôme Garcès blows his whistle and the roar from a sold-out crowd of 30,666 settles my nerves. At last I can lose myself in the game.
From the kick-off we look fiery and composed. The first real test comes when Zane Kirchner, the Bok’s full back, picks up Ayumu Goromaru’s raking kick and sets off on a run. He unleashes Bryan Habana and my old Bok friend flies down the wing. This is exactly the sort of movement their supporters had paid to see. But we know what’s coming. We chop down Habana and then Male Sa’u, our outside centre, sparks a counter-attack from the breakdown. Moving through the phases, quickly and aggressively, we gain 35 metres. The Boks can see we are not going to wilt at the outset.
After six minutes, and sustained Japanese pressure, Goromaru nails a penalty: 3–0, Japan.
Joel Stransky, the former Springbok number 10 whose drop goal had won the World Cup for South Africa 20 years earlier, is the co-commentator as the cameras lock onto me. I stare ahead, not wanting to show any emotion, and it helps that the commentary can’t be heard by me. ‘You’ve got to love the contrast,’ Stransky says to the rest of the watching rugby world. ‘South Africa – big, strong and powerful, playing the one-off running game, trying to almost bully Japan into submission. This man, Eddie Jones, has his team playing fast and furiously with pick-and-goes, moving it quickly and dictating the speed of the game.’
After 17 minutes, with the Boks rumbling though the gears, we are pinned close to our try line. Victor Matfield soars majestically at the lineout and wins clean ball. The green-and-gold pack drive a wedge around him and the ball is funnelled back to Francois Louw, the Boks’ canny blind-side flanker. Ahead of him, Tendai ‘The Beast’ Mtawarira, Schalk Burger, Bismarck du Plessis and Ruan Pienaar drive towards the line. Louw, like a jackal, scavenges low behind them, the ball cradled in his huge hands. Mastaka Mikami and Hiroshi Yamashita, on early as a sub, are helpless against the sheer size of the five Boks. Our other defenders scramble back too late. The Boks crash over, with Louw clearly grounding the ball.
We are 7–3 down after 18 minutes. I look at our captain and Leitchy is just as I want him – talking calmly and looking more determined than ever.
Eleven minutes later, Leitch transforms the game. It starts with a rolling ten-man Japanese maul that oozes resolve and menace. The South Africans are driven back and we keep going. The ball is somewhere deep inside my red-and-white mauling machine and the Springboks are trying grimly to stop our momentum.
I control the urge to jump up in sheer admiration as my pack bullies the Boks. We’re getting closer and closer and then, suddenly, Leitch peels away from the cover of the maul and dives for the line. His left hand stretches out and the ball is over the whitewash. Try.
I leap from my seat and raise my right hand. This feels so good.
It takes a while for the bedlam to die down and then Goromaru kicks the conversion. It’s 10–7 to Japan after 31 minutes.
The Boks are into it now. They know they have to respond and, from the restart, they hit back hard. They produce their own rolling maul and, within a minute, Du Plessis is over for their second forward-dominated try.
This is a key period with seven minutes left until the break. South Africa come close to another try but our defence is magnificent. We keep them out: 12–10 to the Springboks at half-time.
At the break I’m happy, really happy. The boys are sweating heavily but they don’t seem to be breathing too hard or looking anxious. Everything is going according to plan. If we can keep the score this close for another 20 minutes, the Boks will be under real pressure.
‘This is Eddie Jones at his best,’ Francois Pienaar says at the break, praising our high-tempo game. For me, it’s more important that this is Japan at our best. We have been outstanding for 40 minutes.
Two minutes into the second half, a Goromaru penalty restores our lead. It doesn’t last long. Pienaar feeds Lood de Jager, the Boks’ powerful second-rower, just outside our 22. The lock finds an unexpected hole in front of him and, showing startling pace for such a big man, he scorches over the line, just to the right of the posts.
‘He’s a giraffe,’ Gordon Bray the commentator yelps before, as the tall Afrikaner rises to his full height again, he tempers his image. ‘A human one.’
De Jager is mobbed by his teammates and he smiles in delight. I can see how relieved the Boks are to be in front again. Pat Lambie kicks the conversion: 19–13 to South Africa.
After 51 minutes, and another successful Goromaru penalty cutting the deficit to three, we drive deep into Bok territory. Burger is penalized. Penalty to Japan. Fumiaki Tanaka, our little scrum half, looks for the tap and go but Leitch calms everyone down. He points to the sticks.
Goromaru is in the mood; it’s 19–19 after 53 minutes. Television footage cuts to Japanese fans. A middle-aged man looks as if he is about to cry in happy disbelief. ‘Delirious!’ Bray shouts.
We are past the sacred hour mark, our first aim, and still on target after Lambie and Goromaru swap penalties: 22–22.
The Boks dig deep now, trying to kill us off. Fourie du Preez, recovering from injury, is on in place of Pienaar. He feeds another substitute, Adriaan Strauss, and the beefy blond hooker barrels into space and then over the line. ‘Well, we had the giraffe,’ Bray suggests. ‘Now we have the rhinoceros.’
Handré Pollard, on as a replacement number 10, converts, and the pressure eases for the Boks as they savour a 29–22 lead. They win another two penalties and both times they kick for touch. Another try would finish us off. But we hold on and force them back.
Then, with some sublime and exhilarating play, we turn the match inside out. Attacking fast with the exact flat backline we need, Harumichi Tatekawa, our inside centre, delays his little peach of a pass until just before he is smashed by Pollard. Kosei Ono, our number 10, is away and then, with a lovely sleight of hand, he switches play with a reverse pass which dazzles the Springboks and finds Kotaro Matsushima. The quicksilver left wing arrows diagonally towards the right corner flag and releases it to Goromaru who is absolutely flying. He has Akihito Yamada on the overlap but Goromaru does not need him. The try line is open and he dives across it as if plunging into clear water.
Brighton rocks in disbelief and the boys embrace Goromaru. I am up on my feet. This is not good for my heart.
Goromaru steadies himself – and the galloping inside my chest – and lands the conversion. Seventy minutes on the clock. South Africa 29, Japan 29.
Whatever happens from now on, I know that we have already produced the most extraordinary game of the World Cup.
Pollard gives the Boks the lead again with a 73rd-minute penalty to make it 32–29 to South Africa.
We are not done yet. We are on the attack. We are coming at them in the red-and-white waves we had planned.
Seventy-eight minutes 55 seconds on the clock. We have a lineout just five metres from the green-and-gold line. As Matfield organizes the Boks, drawing on his vast experience and expertise as the world’s premier lock, I reach for my last throw of the dice. I bring off Yamada, who has had a good game, and send on Karne Hesketh, my New Zealand-born replacement wing.
Michael Broadhurst, another Kiwi, leaps high and takes the ball cleanly. The maul is on and all the forwards and even some of our backs pile in. We roll and drive for the line.
Ten Japanese men crash over and on top of a green-and-gold pile of defenders. A couple of boys shoot up their arms to claim the try. No one knows for sure and Fourie du Preez walks away as if he might persuade Jérôme Garcès to be equally resolute in refusing the appeals for a try.
Garcès retreats and then uses his hands to draw a square in the air. He needs to go upstairs for the Television Match Official to take a look. We can hear Garcès’s voice on the monitor. He says he did not see the ball being grounded but could the TMO check on the screen.
‘Where’s Clark Kent when you need him – with X-ray vision,’ Bray quips as angle after angle fails to reveal a clear sight of the ball.
‘He’s underground there somewhere, trying to see,’ Stransky says.
‘There’s nothing clear at all,’ the TMO eventually tells Garcès. ‘It’s going to be a scrum five – red ball.’
Heyneke Meyer, the Springbok coach, speaks urgently into his mouthpiece. Jannie du Plessis and Tendai Mtawarira, the Beast, are called back into action. They had been substituted but they return to bolster the front row of an injured Springbok scrum. They have 132 Tests’ worth of know-how between them. Meyer has called in the heavy artillery but my pack don’t even notice. They are in a huddle, talking intently.
I am on my feet, churning with emotion. Hope mingles with pride, as I will my boys on for one last giant effort. ‘Eddie Jones,’ Bray says, ‘on the verge of this colossal upset . . . if it comes off.’
Atsushi Hiwasa, our replacement scrum half, feeds the scrum. ‘Thirteen seconds to go,’ Bray cries.
We hook the ball back just as the referee’s left arm shoots out. Penalty to Japan, but he waits to see if there is an advantage. The scrum wheels and he whistles.
We’ve got the draw, as long as Goromaru can hold his nerve.
I look up and pause. I can see Leitch consulting with Garcès, asking him how much time we have left.
This is sensible. But kicking the goal is even more sensible.
Bray asks Stransky what he would do – secure the draw or go for the win. ‘I don’t know,’ Stransky admits. ‘But, famously, Dr Danie Craven once said a draw is like kissing your sister.’
I would happily kiss both my sisters on the cheek to celebrate the most famous draw in World Cup history. But Leitchy, tugging at his cauliflowered ear and thinking hard, has a different idea.
I shake my head at him. He can’t see me. ‘Take the three!’ I shout. ‘Take the three!’ Of course he can’t hear me.
The crowd has gone into meltdown, fuelled by ecstasy and hysteria, as they also understand that Japan are going for the scrum, and the try.
I hurl my walkie-talkie onto the ground in fury. It hits the concrete and breaks into shattered fragments.
I soon compose myself because I know Leitch has shown real bravery, and belief. He is not up for kissing his sister. He’s going for the full-on smacker of an historic victory. He is prepared to risk defeat to get the win.
He has remembered our chat over coffee this morning. He is ready to trust his instinct.
This is leadership. Leitch had once been quiet and subservient. But now he is leading his team towards a courageous and potentially match-winning act.
‘Good on you, mate,’ I think. ‘Go for it.’
Matfield claps his hands. He is not applauding his opposite number as captain. It is his way of urging the Boks to make one last effort to keep out Japan.
‘This would be the upset of all upsets,’ Stransky says.
‘Of all time,’ Bray confirms.
‘In the history of sport,’ Stransky concludes.
The scrum goes down. Two packs of men, soaked in sweat and reeking of desperation, smash into each other again.
Hiwasa puts the ball in and he zips around to the back of the scrum, Du Preez shadowing his every step. Amanaki Mafi, our substitute number 8, has the ball at his feet as the scrum wheels again.
Garcès orders them to set the scrum again. Leitch and Matfield both have a word with him, checking the ruling, knowing that the next scrum will surely be the last of the match. We’re a minute into injury time.
Down they go, again. ‘Crouch,’ Garcès shouts. The two packs crouch and wait.
‘Bind,’ Garcès instructs. Both front rows dig their heads in beneath opposing shoulders.
‘Set!’ The packs engage and immediately, under immense pressure, the scrum collapses.
Garcès whistles and, patiently, he put the tips of his fingers together to indicate that they should try again.
Leitch comes round to talk to his front row, telling them to retain their composure.
The camera cuts away to the crumpled face of a Japanese fan weeping openly with anxiety and, as Stransky says, ‘a huge element of joy.’
I know how this feels. There is nothing I can do but wait, and hope.
‘A glorious performance by the Japanese team,’ Bray says. ‘This is rugby at the very summit.’
They set it again for a third time, and I can hear the bellow of both packs as the scrum locks.
Then, it happens. The ball comes out of the mess of a wheeling scrum. Hiwasa has it with his captain, the imperious Leitch, on his shoulder.
We are on a roll and I sense the truth of it all over again.
This is why we do it. This is when we are most alive. This is it.
Hiwasa darts forward and then offloads the ball to a charging Leitch. Du Preez, my old friend, blocks his path. Leitch is dragged down. Hiwasa is waiting. His captain lays back the ball and Hiwasa funnels it into the arms of Broadhurst. The lock is tackled by two big Bok defenders.
We go through two more phases and South Africa keep us out. Hiwasa changes tack and switches play to the right. His backline is primed and ready. He passes to Shinya Makabe, who is tackled. The ball comes back and Hiwasa plays a clever little reverse pass to Leitch.
He drives for the line and it needs the blond rhinoceros, Strauss, to bring him down.
Hiwasa goes again. He moves it down the line to Tatekawa, who misses two backs with a long pass that hits Mafi running at speed.
‘Here we go,’ Bray screams into his microphone as Sa’u and Hesketh run hard on the overlap.
Mafi throws a spiralling ball to Hesketh who takes it without breaking stride, Sa’u, the outside centre between them, points helpfully towards the try line.
Hesketh does not need any help. He has eyes only for the corner and the gleaming white try line.
I jump as Hesketh dives. ‘History!’ Bray screams as Hesketh scores the winning try.
I am lost in a boiling sea of men hugging and crying. I am smiling and high-fiving rather than crying. We have done it. Thanks to the courage of Leitch, and the bold imagination, resilience and audacity of the players, we have won the game at the death.
‘Japan have been immense this afternoon,’ Stransky enthuses as replays of the try spool across the monitor again and again. ‘They were courageous in not kicking the goal. They went for the try. Mafi showed good strength and timed the pass to perfection. In at the corner went Hesketh to seal the game for Japan. One of the most famous victories in the history of sport – not just in the game of rugby union. And victory it will be for the Cherry Blossoms.’
It does not matter that Goromaru misses the conversion. The final whistle blows.
South Africa 32, Japan 34.
‘Our eyes have seen the glory,’ Bray shouts out to millions of disbelieving viewers around the world as I congratulate my beaming, exultant staff. Our lives have changed in the space of a beautiful, crazy, sun-filled afternoon.
‘It’s a rugby miracle,’ Bray hollers again. ‘Eddie Jones is the president of Japan.’