I returned from South Africa with a strange combination of feelings bubbling away inside me. On one level I was petrified, still, by the chaos of the incident at the nightclub. But I also had a newfound confidence and optimism about my career and my prospects. I’d played age-grade rugby for my country, performed well enough to start most games, and well enough to think that I was worthy of playing alongside some of the best young rugby talents in the country. I was feeling pretty good about my progress, and looking forward to a break before summer training. Then I got a phone call from Aussie McLean, coach of the Canterbury NPC side. I heard him say that I had been chosen for that year’s team.
I couldn’t quite process it. I don’t know what it’s like in other regions, but in Canterbury that team is untouchable. We support them with a huge, almost irrational passion. I remember one year in the terraces at Lancaster Park, watching Canterbury hot on attack against Wellington. We turned the ball over, deep in their territory, and Simon Mannix had possession at first-five. Because he was so deep in the in-goal, everyone was throwing Jaffas at him. I’m ashamed to say that I was among them, though none of us got near hitting him. They were all bouncing nearby though, and looking back, it was so disrespectful, so far beyond the way a crowd should behave. But because you’re caught up in the mass hysteria it feels normal at the time. We were that kind of crowd, and the Canterbury team just arouses that kind of response in its supporters. And here I was, just turned 20 and being told I was part of that team. One I’d grown up idolising, without ever imagining I would ever pull on its jersey.
The first time I walked into the dressing-room it was with a curious combination of awe and fear. That team was full of players who were already legends within the region. Justin Marshall. Reuben Thorne. Andrew Mehrtens. They were posters on a wall, images on a screen. Huge personalities with incredible records on field. I was just a kid — what could I possibly say to them?
I resolved to keep my head down and my mouth shut, and try to learn as much as I could. I was like a mute that first season, watching what everyone else was doing at training and trying my best to emulate them. I found it hard to quieten down the voice in my head which kept saying: ‘What are you doing here? You don’t belong.’
When I arrived, most of the biggest names were away with the All Blacks, which made it slightly more low key, though there were still guys like Daryl Gibson in the side. Thanks to the absentees I got some game time, too, which allowed me to bed in a little. We played some lower division sides, which helped, as did playing at 12 as well as 10 — it meant the pressure of piloting the side was alleviated. I came off the bench on debut, against Marlborough, then scored a couple of tries against Mid Canterbury in my first start. They were both Ranfurly Shield games, but on the road.
I played solidly through those opening matches before we came up against East Coast. They’d done well the year before, narrowly losing the NPC second division final to Hawke’s Bay. It was my first game at Jade Stadium. To be honest, though, the great old stadium will always be Lancaster Park to me. I was incredibly nervous running out onto that field, and remained so as the game began. They were into us from the whistle, and the first 20 minutes were hell. I wondered briefly whether we’d even be able to get past them. That’s what the Shield does to a team — everyone goes hard at you.
Then, all of a sudden we figured it out, and I ended up scoring a hat-trick. By that stage I knew I could handle myself at that level. But at the same time, I thought it was somewhat meaningless. When Aaron Mauger and Mehrts returned to join Gibson, the midfield was sorted.
You have to understand how huge Mehrtens and Marshall were in Canterbury at the time. They were like gods to us. My only interaction with them had been a couple of years earlier, when the Christchurch Boys’ backline was called in to help fill out a video the pair were filming, called 9 and 10. After it was finished a friend asked Mehrts if he could have his boots. Mehrts replied, ‘Yeah, sweet.’ Then my mate asked if he could have his socks. So Mehrts takes off his sweaty, smelly socks and hands them over. I was such a fan that I was torn up with envy that it wasn’t me holding Mehrts’ stinking socks.
That was still my mentality at Canterbury that year — a kid happy just to be in the same room as these guys, never thinking for a moment I deserved to be there. But when Aussie read out the team for the first game with the All Blacks back, there I was, still in the squad. My first game of the NPC first division was against a Wellington team which was just rammed with stars. Although Tana Umaga and Christian Cullen didn’t play that day, Jonah appeared on the wing and one M. Nonu was at centre. I tried to tackle Jonah once at full pace and was blown back two metres. That was my one and only contact with the big man on a field — he was an absolute force of nature. I was grateful I never again had to try to tackle that man.
Every game brought me face to face with guys I’d watched on TV my whole life — a magical time. A year before I’d been playing club rugby colts and working at those weird odd jobs. Now I was playing for Canterbury — earning my living as a rugby player, less than two years out of school. The money was pretty small by today’s standards, but for me, living in my garage, paying $80 a week rent, it was huge. You got $400 per game, with a bonus of $200 for a win and $500 for each Ranfurly Shield game. We had the Shield for a good spell that year, so I was getting up to a grand a week at times, plus all the free sponsors’ gear which comes with being an NPC player.
As you can imagine, for a 20 year old, now with a significant amount more money than sense, I managed to burn through my pay cheques. Every few weeks I’d buy something new for my garage. I would have had the flashest garage in the city by the year’s end: a big double bed, a new stereo, surround sound, a big TV. I completely pimped it out, and still had money left over to shout people drinks whenever we went out.
All over the world, if you want to see how quickly and foolishly a kid can spend, just look for an athlete on their first contract. Given how cautious and investment-oriented I’ve become over the years, I shudder to think about how quickly I burned through that money. It’s something I’ve thought I might like to do when my playing days are over — educate and advise young players about how to manage their finances and leverage their talent in a way that sets them up for life beyond rugby.
Back then, though, professional rugby was so young that none of that infrastructure existed. I didn’t have an agent at that time, and was just happy to be playing at all. I started the season as a fringe player, mostly turning out for Canterbury B or warming the bench, but by the season’s end I was getting some good game time. We ended up losing the semi to Auckland, which was gut-wrenching, and Doug Howlett gave me a brutal serve, calling me out as the game wound down. I was a bit scared — nothing like that had ever happened to me before. It’s funny — we’ve become great friends since, and he still apologises to me. I think the emotion got the better of him and I just happened to be the closest guy to him at the time.
Afterwards we did the typical end-of-year blowout party. I was drinking with my idols, guys whose posters still decorated my bedroom back in Southbridge, for days on end. I couldn’t have been happier.
I began to lose touch with some of my Southbridge mates. Between the Canterbury team and my uni mates there wasn’t much time to spare. I gave them a tonne of free gear that I’d picked up in the various teams I’d turned out for over the year, which was cool. But there was definitely the beginnings of a separation there, which was a little sad, after being so close all those years growing up.
That emotion was completely overtaken by the thrill of being part of this iconic team. Being an NPC player or a Crusader in Christchurch confers a level of local celebrity on you. It’s a bit irresistible — you go out wearing your team blazer or tie and it’s straight to the front of the line. You don’t queue for clubs, or to buy drinks. Once I started appearing regularly on TV, that’s when things got really cool — people were always buying me drinks, or having me behind the bar.
There was a rhythm to life through that first season which felt so great. You’d train really hard all week, usually win on Saturday then head out into town, surrounded by these people who are like gods in this city. I wasn’t very recognisable at the time, so I got to experience a lot of the fun of proximity to fame without any of the downside.
The team was incredibly hospitable. Even when the All Blacks came back, I was still made to feel welcome. It’s such a cliché, but they were like a family. Every team is, but that team in particular was so tight and involving. It’s such a key part of Canterbury and Crusaders culture to make every individual feel valued, like they’re part of something bigger. We all know that it’s only that bond which allows us to ask so much sacrifice and pain of one another out on the field.
After the season I was still basking in the afterglow when I got a phone call from Rob Penney, who’d been my coach at the Academy the previous summer. He told me that Robbie Deans wanted to see me in his office. I didn’t know what to feel — whether to be excited, or if I was in trouble. I sat down, and he asked me, very matter-of-factly: ‘Do you want to be a Crusader?’ It was such an open question that I didn’t quite know how to respond. Was he asking me if I had aspirations to one day make the team, or was he asking me to join the squad for the following season?
Either way, the answer was emphatically yes. I told him it had always been a dream of mine to play for the Crusaders. Ever since the game turned professional, they were the Super Rugby team that I supported, the team I watched and loved at Lancaster Park. Of course I’d love to.
He replied, ‘That’s good, because I want you in the Crusaders squad for the 2003 campaign.’ I was overwhelmed, just as I had been so many times over the past year. First the Academy, then the Crusaders Development, then New Zealand Under 21s, then Canterbury. All in less than 12 months. And now this. I sat there, with a big, stupid grin, thinking that was the end of the meeting. But it wasn’t. ‘Do you think you could start for the Crusaders?’ he asked. I replied no, without hesitation. You’ve got my idol Mehrts and you’ve got Aaron Mauger, I thought. I’m just expecting to fit in and learn.
He was speaking in a calm, unemotional way, but voicing the most unbelievable ideas. That if I worked hard enough, I could be starting for the Crusaders.
I thought, ‘What is he saying?’ There was no way I could do it. But at the same time I looked up to this coach so much. He was giving me an enormous opportunity. So I promised myself I’d work harder than I’d ever worked before in my life, to avoid letting him down. There’s something about Robbie — he really brings the best out of younger players. Just by giving them that motivation, that vision of what they might become should they put their mind to it. So much of your ambition as a young athlete is governed by the limits of your imagination. It’s Robbie’s great strength that he finds a way to make those ideas dance in your mind. That helps immeasurably with the volume of hard work you need to push from good to great as an athlete.
As I left the meeting, barely feeling the ground beneath my feet, I still didn’t think that I should or could be starting ahead of Mehrts. But I thought that I’d do what Robbie said, and work harder. It seemed ridiculous, particularly given my living situation. The Crusader living in a garage? That didn’t sound right. But I’d give it a shot. What did I have to lose?
I was now a professional rugby player. Super Rugby players earned $65,000 a year as a base salary — a vast sum for a small-town boy like me. That came on top of the $10,000 a year base salary I was getting from Canterbury. I signed that deal for three years, which seemed pretty amazing for me at the time. I was still surprised that anyone wanted to pay me for playing the sport I loved. In three years’ time, when I was an All Black and was starting to be pretty well known, that $10,000 contract would look like a bargain.
I also didn’t have anyone advising me yet. Remember that rugby was still a baby when it came to professionalism. Along with the Canterbury contract, I was also offered a deal to play semi-professionally in Ireland. A friend of Dad’s was working over there, and had found some Irish blood which allowed me to turn out for them. Luckily the Canterbury deal was a little closer to home, otherwise who knows what colour jersey I’d have ended up wearing?
While the Super Rugby signing was a huge deal to my family and friends, it didn’t rate a mention in the media. I was just one of those fringe players, making up the numbers, on the Super Rugby version of minimum wage. That meant there was nothing to negotiate — you either signed the contract and played, or didn’t and watched. And I wanted nothing more than to play.
Even though there was no need to negotiate, it was becoming clear that I might need some help with off-field work. Around this time, after the Canterbury deal, but before the Crusaders, I met with Lou Thompson, a young player agent from a company named GSM — Global Sports Management. Lou met with my parents — he’d actually played against my dad at club level — and seemed genuinely interested in me and my career. He was the first agent I had met, and 13 years on is still one of the guys I trust and respect most in the game. GSM is now known as Essentially, and Lou and his company remain my off-field team.
I feel incredibly fortunate that they found me. When I hear stories about what can go on with other young players, it breaks my heart. It happens less here than overseas, but so many have been ripped off, or signed contracts which turned out to be terrible. Your sporting life cycle is so short that a bad agent can have a huge impact on how the rest of your life plays out. So I was lucky that in Lou Thompson, Dean Hegan, Simon Porter, Warren Alcock and the rest I’ve found a team who’ve become great friends as well as partners.
With the contract signed, I threw myself into my work. Starting that December, I began training with Robbie and the rest of the team. It’s the last full pre-season I ever had, and I relished it, despite the exhausting, relentless nature of the training. In the past it had been broken up into morning and evening sessions, but now we trained all day. I would barely make it home before collapsing into my bed.
The amount of time I spent sleeping focused my mind towards my living situation. It didn’t seem right that a Super Rugby player should be living in a garage. At around the same time, I’d met Honor, and while we weren’t together yet, I could tell that she was someone pretty special. And I didn’t think she, or any girlfriend, would love the prospect of spending much time in a chilly, damp garage — no matter how much I’d spent sorting it out.
I found a flat, a modern townhouse, with Doug Tausili and Ben Jones, my mates from Christchurch Boys’. A friend from Ellesmere, Nick McKay, and Emma Lawrence, a friend of a friend, rounded out the flat.
I paid $150 for the master bedroom, complete with en suite. It was probably more than I needed, but given the amount of sleep I required post-training, it was good to have a more luxurious home.
We had a lot of fun there, and there was a crew of young rugby players who’d hang out. I met Scott Hamilton at one of the first Crusaders Academy training sessions. It was his debut year as well, and we hit it off. Scott became a fixture on our couch, eventually moving in the following year.
That summer I trained the house down. We’d do three-kilometre runs to test where we were at, and I was always in the top two, just behind Caleb Ralph. Our trainer was a lean machine named Mike Anthony, and Caleb and I were always barely hanging on to him as we smashed out hill sessions and whatever else he decided to throw at us. I found that I loved doing weights, and finished the summer able to bench 140 kilograms, along with squatting some pretty serious numbers. I loved that side of rugby — the discipline and conditioning, and the sense of earning your weekend through sheer hard work.
The weekends were something we all looked forward to, and thanks to my contract we hit town whenever we could. I never even contemplated saving, and just shouted drinks all evening. We’d hit the strip in the central city, back when it was really pumping. Those were incredible times. But as much fun as we had, it was only fun because we’d worked our butts off all week. As December became January the All Blacks drifted back into camp, and we became keenly aware that there were serious games looming, and my first taste of senior international competition as a professional.
We played pre-season games in Greymouth and Nelson, but the most memorable trip was across to Australia, where we faced the Waratahs, up in Newcastle. We stayed in Manly, and the team bonded beautifully. The game went to plan — I played very well in my minutes and came off the field elated, despite having sustained a haematoma at the start of the game. It wasn’t very serious, but the doctor told me not to drink. On the bus trip back from Newcastle to Manly I saw the rest of the team having a couple of beers, and I thought I’d just have one — that it couldn’t hurt. I didn’t think much about it at all.
Then the back-seat crew saw me with my beer. They hauled me down the back to face them. It’s one of those things which might seem strange to an outsider, but within sporting sides the bus has a very strict hierarchy to it. It’s driven by seniority, and those at the back are responsible for enforcing discipline. This is not negotiable, or something only certain players care about — it’s the foundation of the team’s structure. So to be called back to face the senior players in my first season was mortifying, particularly on our first trip away for the year.
If there are more frightening sights I’ve faced than Justin Marshall and Mark Hammett on that evening then I’ve forgotten them. ‘Are you having a beer?’ Justin asked.
‘I’m only having one.’
‘Did you get injured today?’
‘I got a haematoma,’ I said.
‘What did the doctor say? Don’t drink,’ said Justin.
‘I’m only having one,’ I repeated, foolishly.
‘Right,’ said Marshall. ‘Chop it.’ I sculled it back. ‘Chop another one,’ I was told. I was racing someone, one of Mehrts or Aaron Mauger, which made it doubly humiliating — being punished by and in front of my heroes. It kept going until I’d had four beers in no time at all. I was half cut and entirely embarrassed. Finally, they let me go back to the front of the bus. I sat, dejected, at the front, thinking about how a week out from my first proper game of Super Rugby I’d jeopardised my recovery and ended up looking a fool to the rest of the team. I made doubly sure to follow doctor’s orders from then on.
When people outside of rugby hear about incidents like that — and, believe me, that’s mild compared to what went on in the past — they often think it’s evidence of rugby’s barbaric nature. At times they’re right. In the past, sometimes it did go too far, and became unnecessarily violent or rough in its hazing of young players. But personally I think those aspects of team culture and hierarchy are more than compensated for by the good they do.
The breaking down of teams into various committees, and the bonding which occurs among different facets of the organisation, are things many companies could learn from, I feel. Similarly, the team enforcing its own discipline can be a fantastic thing. You realise that it shouldn’t be up to management to dictate behavioural standards and protocol. If the whole team is seeking the same result then we should all buy into the disciplines required to achieve it.
It took me a while to shake off that feeling, the shame of having let my team down before I’d even begun to earn my place in it. All week I trained myself to a standstill, as a way of trying to atone for what I’d done. The week ended with the announcement of the team to play the Hurricanes in round one. In my head I had no chance of making the 22 after what had gone on. Even if it wasn’t enforced by management, they were surely aware. And, besides, I’d done nothing to deserve it — the best 9, 10 and 12 combination in the world were set and cemented, with Mehrtens in my position, and unquestionably the best player on earth there. That was my mindset when our manager began reading the team-sheet. He went through these familiar names: Number 2 — Mark Hammett, Number 6 — Reuben Thorne. Number 9 — Justin Marshall. Then at number 10 he paused, and said: ‘Dan Carter’.