I thought I’d dreamt it. There’d been no prior warning that I’d make the side, let alone start at 10. The remainder of the team went by in a blur, as I struggled to comprehend what had just happened. Then Mehrts walked around, like the perfect team man he is, and shook my hand. ‘Congratulations, mate,’ he said. ‘If there’s anything you need from me, just let me know.’
It speaks directly to his character that when a moment like that came, he didn’t hesitate — he did the right thing without a second thought. It was a small gesture, in the scheme of things, but it really shows what the culture of the Crusaders is like, the place to which it has evolved over the years. It’s been built out of a thousand moments like that, when an individual has been given a choice between giving in to their own feelings or honouring the team. And almost every time, they’ve chosen the team. I believe it’s why the Crusaders have known so much success for so long: we all know we’re part of something bigger, and no matter how much we’re hurting over a particular decision or situation, we’d never dream of putting our own needs above those of the team.
Back in the dressing-room, I was still reeling. It’s impossible to convey the enormity of that decision — you might as well have told me I’d been elected prime minister. This was before rotation, before All Blacks would be eased back into Super Rugby. Mehrts was fit, ready and raring to play. Yet Robbie had picked me over him. I was embarrassed initially. Mehrtens was more than just the incumbent — he was a cult hero in Christchurch. We loved him to a near irrational degree, for his sense of humour, his infectious calm, his outrageous skill, and the way he embodied everything this team and this town aspires to. He was 29, in his prime, and here was this 20 year old, a little punk who barely scraped into the Canterbury team, starting the biggest game of the season. But to his credit, it went beyond the handshake — the remainder of the week he was in my ear, helping me prepare for the game. I will forever be grateful to him for the way he handled himself through that situation. Outside the team, it wasn’t nearly so orderly.
Talkback ran hot, and Robbie took a huge amount of criticism for it, which is understandable. The weirdest thing was that I hadn’t played much 10 at any serious level. Nearly all my Canterbury rugby had been at 12, and that was clearly where Aussie McLean saw me. In years to come I would grow to love 10, the responsibility and control you have over the game from there. But at the time I had no sense of where I was best deployed, and was simply happy to get a run anywhere.
The whole team was supportive, congratulating me and giving me a fair run. The only guy who didn’t seem completely comfortable with the decision was Justin Marshall. Justin’s an extremely forthright guy; you won’t die wondering how he feels. And he had developed an incredibly tight bond with Mehrts over a full decade playing alongside one another. There’s a huge amount of trust that gets built up in the relationship between a halfback and a first-five. A break in that can really destabilise a team. So I can completely understand his reticence — he was sticking up for a mate, and trying to maintain a very successful partnership. It shows his fierce competitiveness, and great loyalty. But it certainly made my job more difficult.
It manifested itself in a few different ways. He would make on-field calls that would normally fall to a 10. He would back himself to make kicks during the run of play in situations where you’d have expected the ball to come back to me to clear. I’m not even certain whether he was aware he was doing it at times. I am sure in his mind he thought it was what was best for the team, that rather than have an untested debutant having too much ball, he’d take over that responsibility. I found it pretty unsettling, though. Add that to the pressure of starting ahead of my idol and I was a mess of nerves heading into the first game.
I don’t remember any of my media interviews from that time, which is just as well. I’m not known for my eloquence even now, but back then I could barely get a sentence or two out. I would get so wrapped up in my thoughts that I was persistently conscious of thinking about having to talk, while speaking, but having no idea what was coming out of my mouth. It was such an unnerving situation, finishing televised interviews with no idea what you’d said. I hadn’t had any media training, and wouldn’t have any until I made the All Blacks — I really hope any footage from that era has been lost, because I must have been such a shambles.
Somehow I made it through the week, with all the attendant pressure, and we stood in the changing room before running out onto the field at Jade Stadium. I was swinging my leg, back and forth, in a kicking motion, without being aware of what I was doing. The team huddle started, and there I was, still swinging away, in a kind of catatonic state. I remember looking up and thinking, ‘I should probably go and join the huddle.’ I did, and soon we ran out onto the field and kicked off. The first 20 minutes of the game went by in a blur. There were two penalties early on. Easy shots, both. Perfect kicks to settle you down early on.
I missed them both. After shanking the first, I felt pure dread when the second came up in a near-identical spot. I knew I’d miss it. Afterwards you could start to feel the home crowd draw breath, worrying about what this kid was doing out there, how much damage he’d cause before he got subbed. Then Mauger got injured. Mehrts got called on, to a massive, booming ovation. He slotted into 10, and I moved out to 12 to replace Aaron. Mehrts, ever the gentleman, politely asked if I wanted to keep kicking. I practically begged him to take over — I was in a serious panic. At that stage I was on pace to have one of the great disasters on debut.
But Mehrts’ arrival seemed to lift all the pressure off. Marshall was happy, because he had his 10 back, and the crowd palpably relaxed. I ended up having a great game, scoring two tries and picking up man-of-the-match. It’s looked back upon now as a dream debut, which I suppose it was. But the first 20 minutes were pure terror, and were it not for Mehrts’ calming influence, it could all have turned out so differently.
After the game I spoke with Ma’a Nonu, who’d also made his Super Rugby debut. I’d met him the previous year, at the Under 21s trial. He hadn’t made that team, but was back with a vengeance now. His debut was similar to mine in a way — people were asking who he was, and where he’d come from. It’s bittersweet to look back on that game now, a dozen years on, and think about how few of us there are left still playing. Ma’a and I became friends that year, bonding over the shared experiences we went through, and remain close to this day. You tend to get and stay tight with the guys you come in with. That’s why whenever I play for the All Blacks it never feels quite right if Richie, or Ma’a, or Conrad, isn’t there.
The rest of the campaign was much more manageable. Later in the season Aaron was out for a few weeks. Mehrts naturally slotted in at 10 and I moved out to 12. The three of us grew comfortable playing alongside one another in differing combinations. I played every single game, and I’m not even sure if I ever got subbed. I loved every minute, and felt like I could run forever at that age.
We played well enough to meet the Blues in the final. They were coming to the end of that dominant period they had, and adopted a contrasting style to us. They had pace to burn, with Doug Howlett at fullback, Joe Rokocoko and Rico Gear on the wings and, in Carlos Spencer, an absolute freakish attacker at number 10. It was a brilliant game, and we did enough to put ourselves in a position to win. Hammett scored two unbelievable tries, the first a lineout set piece, the second off a Carlos Spencer knock-on from the kick-off, which was pretty sweet. But they were at home, a packed Eden Park, and came back with Howlett and Daniel Braid crossing. We hit back with a try to Caleb Ralph in the dying minutes, but by then the game was just out of reach. I wasn’t happy, but to reach the final in your first campaign was nothing to cry about. Our team was incredibly strong — of our first choice XV, only Brad Thorn and I hadn’t yet played internationally — so we felt confident that even if we’d come up short this season, we were well-placed for the future.
That night we went out and had a few beers — nothing too serious, but a good night. The following day was scheduled for a post-season blowout. Something like league’s Mad Monday, a way of celebrating the hard work and sacrifice of the season gone by. It started at 3 pm, and was the only thing I had scheduled that day. We were back in Christchurch by then, and I was out with a couple of teammates shopping for fancy dress. You had to go as something which began with the same letter as your surname. So I was looking for cowboy gear — that’s as creative as my hangover would allow.
I was dimly aware that the 2003 All Blacks side was announced at midday, but hadn’t paid any attention. My thoughts were on having fun with my teammates, so I headed to Camelot Costume Hire on Riccarton Road, renting the stupidest outfit I could find. My phone rang, and it was my old man. I wondered dimly what he might want, and headed outside to take the call.
‘Congratulations,’ he said.
‘For what?’ I replied, confused.
‘You made the All Blacks!’
I thought he was having me on. The sentence seemed ridiculous. But he’d been listening to the team announcement, and had heard my name called. So that was how I found out I’d been selected. It might seem crazy, in this era, that the team is still named in such a secretive way. But it is — you literally find out by listening to the announcement. As soon as I got off the phone it started blowing up with messages and calls. As with every other selection, it seemed unreal. But this one in particular felt like way too much, way too soon.
What on earth was going on? In less than two years I had advanced from club rugby colts — one of the most marginal levels of rugby’s ecosystem — to its pinnacle. It had all happened so quickly. Before I really had a chance to get comfortable at any level, I was on to the next.
My flatmate and I drove back to the house, my head still struggling to process what had happened. When I arrived the phone started ringing. The Crusaders comms people wanted me down to the club headquarters to do some media. It was the last thing I felt like doing, but I dutifully turned out for a 2 pm press session. My hangover was still rattling around, but thankfully Brad Thorn was there to deflect some of the attention. His selection was arguably a bigger deal than my own, given that he’d turned down a spot in the All Blacks in 2001. We had been the last remaining Crusaders starters without an All Blacks jersey. No longer.
Once I’d limped through my media duties I rejoined the team for our session. It was a pretty surreal day. I remember being briefed on what being an All Black entailed, but I just became numb, hearing about my new responsibilities and opportunities. One thing which made me laugh was being told I could go to the local dealer and pick out a Ford. For free. Only a couple of weeks earlier I’d finally gotten tired of driving around Mum and Dad’s old Pulsar, which was returned to my folks (it was retired only very recently, with 375,000 km on the clock). I’d gone down to my local Subaru dealer and bought an Impreza WRX, which was the hottest car around at the time. Scribe bought one not long after — it was just something Canterbury boys did when they got their first big cheque.
Three weeks later I was at a Ford dealership, being given the pick of the yard. I chose a Falcon, with only 10 km on the clock, which was cool. For reasons I still can’t quite fathom, I picked out a hideous greenish-yellow colour. Lightning Strike, it was called. I drove it home to my flat, feeling completely overwhelmed by what was happening to me. Inside I still felt like the shy country boy from Southbridge. But my life seemed to be stuck on fast-forward.
It was only a few months since I’d turned 21. I had two twenty-firsts — a family-friendly one and one for my mates. The family one happened on a Saturday. We’d played on the Friday night and I booked out Riccarton Racecourse for all my friends and family and had a big party. It was an awesome night, but I remember being frustrated by one thing: the racecourse guys wouldn’t let me do a yard glass. It was a hard-and-fast rule. I wasn’t going to miss out on that particular rite of passage, though. The following week we had a bye, so I organised a party at our house. There were a couple of us who had turned 21 and hadn’t done yardies, and so decided to fix that.
I did mine in 1 minute 15 seconds, and somehow didn’t throw up. Afterwards I was a bit drunk and turned into a bit of a show pony. I climbed up on the roof and started sculling cans. I sculled the first one and still didn’t throw up. This annoyed me, for some reason — it felt like part of the process. I decided that I wanted to spew off the roof. And on the second I felt it rising. I had a whole yardie inside me, plus the cans, and performed an amazing power chuck off the roof. Everyone on the ground was cheering me on. So juvenile, but so much fun. That’s what I remember of my twenty-first — the grungy party the following week, more than the event itself.
We had some pretty good parties around at the house, helped by the fact I was starting to earn a bit of coin. People began to recognise me around town, and I enjoyed that first little bit of fame. I was still lucky enough to be hanging around with friends that knew me before I was in the Crusaders, which helped keep me grounded during a time when it would’ve been easy to completely lose my head. Your old friends are great like that — keeping watch for the slightest hint of ego, so that they can slash you back down to size.
There was no time to enjoy the afterglow of the selection. Because we’d made the final, camp came straight after our end-of-tournament celebrations. The Crusaders had a huge presence in the squad, which helped ease the transition, but, still, when I walked into All Blacks camp for the first time it was incredibly intimidating for someone so young and so green.
The two major groups in the team were the Crusaders and the Blues. Obviously I was very comfortable with all the Canterbury guys by that point. But the Blues were a different story. Mehrts hadn’t been selected, controversially, so this was definitively Carlos Spencer’s team. He had been in incredible form that year, and the Blues were champions, so it was well-earned. But going from playing alongside someone as supportive and welcoming as Mehrts to Spencer was quite a shock. He’s like me — a naturally shy guy, and we were a little wary of each other back then. It wasn’t open animosity — I was so obviously the junior — but it was quite different to the way Mehrts and I had clicked.
I was selected at 12, and at that point was hooked on the position. After my year with Canterbury and then the Crusaders, I felt like this was my spot. There was far less pressure, and you scored more tries — a win-win. 12 felt like a more open position, as we had so many great 10s in New Zealand at the time, from Spencer to Mehrts to Tony Brown. What with it being a World Cup year, everyone was that much more keyed up about job security, so I was happy to stay out of the first-five battle.
We finished up our camp at Mount Maunganui, and within days England had arrived, as part of their Australasian tour. They were a very strong team, led by the guy who was probably the best first-five in the world at that point, Jonny Wilkinson. I was selected on the bench for the first test in Wellington on 14 June, which was an honour — but also a reflection of my ability to cover two positions. I didn’t get on, and we lost. My first game with an All Blacks jersey on my back, and it was a loss to a team to which you really, really don’t want to lose. Wilkinson was incredible that night. He was in his prime and tactically out of this world. He kicked us out of the game, scoring all England’s 15 points, for a 15–13 result.
Afterwards there was an incredibly dark feeling in the changing room. I wasn’t feeling it to the same extent, because I didn’t get on, but you could sense the hurt in everyone: from players to coaches to management. That’s when I first realised that All Blacks teams just can’t lose. Especially not at home. Especially not to England. It was a horrible sensation — dropping our first game of the year, and doing it at home, to England, in a World Cup year.
I looked around the changing room and everyone’s head was between their legs. No one spoke, and I kept even quieter than usual. I was paralysed by the silence, and resolved to sit there until someone else made a move. It took 20 aching minutes before the first people started stirring and having quiet conversations, and with that the tension began to ease off. Everyone was just bracing themselves for the press and the public. It’s bad after any loss, but we knew that one would be particularly gruelling.
The following day we reviewed the game, an excruciating process, before one of the coaches approached me, and quietly told me I’d be starting the following week. I was incredibly happy. In an instant any residual disappointment from the game was gone. Even though the rest of the team nursed the loss for days afterwards, I was floating just to know I was playing the following weekend. In a horrible way the loss made it easier, too, because we could hardly do any worse than we’d done in Wellington.
Next up on 23 June we had Wales at Waikato Stadium, a tough but much more manageable assignment. Hamilton’s a rugby town, and the whole city was humming. This doesn’t always happen in bigger cities, where a test can get a little lost. My parents, aunt and uncle flew up for the occasion, which made it all the more special. Brad Thorn was making his debut, too, and he was carrying some anger about not having gotten on the previous week. The pair of us were seriously up for the game.
I was given my jersey by Leilani Joyce, one of the world’s finest squash players of the time, in the early afternoon. I remember racing back to my room and perching on the end of my bed and just gazing at the jersey. It’s such a dreamlike situation, your first All Blacks jersey: the whole country grows up wanting to earn one, and here was mine. Stencilled on the sleeve was the date, the location and the opponent.
For some reason I was more relaxed heading into my All Blacks debut than my first Crusaders game. Maybe it was the Mehrts situation, or because we were coming off a loss. But I didn’t feel the same burden of expectation, and instead relished all the theatre. The fireworks, the anthems — and the haka. I snuck to the back, as I wasn’t very confident. Even though I’d been doing it in the mirror since I was five years old, there’s nothing like doing a haka in front of a sold-out stadium to test your technique. Nevertheless, it was an unparalleled thrill; every All Black loves the haka, and knows what it means to the team.
You’d think my memory of my All Blacks debut would be really sharp, but it’s anything but. I remember kicking off — then suddenly the match was over. I got to the end and thought, is that it? I was so focused on the moment that I barely registered the wider game itself. Whatever happened, it didn’t affect my performance. I scored a try, kicked most of my goals, and ended up with 20 points. A dream debut, with a 55–3 win.
I got my jersey ripped early in the game. That was the early days of the new tight-fitting All Blacks jerseys. So I actually played most of the game with number 26 on my back. Then I was given a replacement after the game. For your first test match you play in one and then you’re given another to swap with the opposition, because you never want to swap your very first.
But Steve Hansen was the coach of the Welsh team, and he’d been following my progress, so he made their number 12 give me his jersey without expecting one in return. So I’ve got my ripped one, which got repaired, my spare one, and my number 26 jersey. They’re part of my memorabilia collection at the Southbridge club now — part of a whole walk-in cabinet dedicated to me and Alby Anderson.
We had an after-match function at the back of the casino. My parents were there to see me get my first cap, receiving one alongside a good friend in Brad Thorn. It was just the most amazing night.
I came back to earth the following week. We played France in Christchurch and won narrowly, 31–23, thanks largely to Joe Rokocoko having one of the most extraordinary games a wing has ever had. He scored three tries, and essentially single-handedly saved us.
Going into the Tri-Nations we felt incredibly insecure as a result of the loss to England, and the near-miss against France. It was a truncated tournament, thanks to the World Cup, but we came in with real intensity — with something to prove. That manifested itself in two of the most brutal and comprehensive wins of my career. We put 50 points each on South Africa and Australia in consecutive weekends, both at their fortress-like home grounds of Loftus Versfeld and Telstra Stadium.
That got our wind back, and while the next two games were far closer, we still did enough to win both the Bledisloe and Tri-Nations — the perfect way to close out an otherwise problematic build-up to the World Cup.
Within the team we felt confident, and I was still fresh off the boat and just happy to be there. But unbeknown to me, the side was experiencing some growing pains because of the transition from amateurism to the professional era, which would become apparent before the tournament was finished. In time they would lead to a cultural sea-change which still echoes in the side today.
None of us knew that at the time, and we commenced the final stretch of pre-Cup preparations in earnest. After the Tri-Nations there was a month’s break, during which a series of camps were held around the country. Each one was capped with a Possibles-Probables game of escalating duration. These were the closest thing to a real match we’d get ahead of the tournament, and even by the normal standards of such games they were particularly difficult. I was on the Possibles, a group of young guys with nothing to lose — we went really hard to try and make an impression on the coaches.
The final matchup went for 60 minutes, with Steve Walsh brought in to ref, to try and provide as close a simulation as possible of a real test. He and Carlos never got on at the best of times, and Walsh ended up sending him off for too much chat, which says all you need to know about how niggly those games got. I knew I hadn’t done enough to change the starting line-up, but I enjoyed the battle regardless.
Once the camps were over we flew across to the tournament. I was still essentially a passenger, still watching and learning. But I could sense how much it meant to the senior players in particular, how excited they were to approach the tournament. When we arrived, though, much of that excitement disappeared. We were based in Melbourne, an AFL-mad city where you could easily have been unaware the Cup was even happening.
That was vividly illustrated to us one evening, when a group of us were in a taxi on our way to dinner. The driver asked us what we did. I told him we were rugby players, in Australia for the World Cup. He had no clue that there was a World Cup on — or even what rugby was. He kept going on about the Melbourne Storm. It was a little deflating.
We stayed in Melbourne for almost the entire tournament, only leaving for a couple of days when we had games in other cities. The thinking was that we’d be well-insulated from the hype, and better able to focus as a result. It was a nice idea, but I’m not sure if it had the desired result. We were housed in apartments away from the city, and started to get seriously bored.
That wasn’t the only thing which was wearing on us. There was a team song which we had been singing all season. At first it got you excited, but by the end it had lost all its meaning. As a team, we thrived on new experiences and challenges. Unfortunately there weren’t a lot of those, with the way the ’03 tournament was organised.
On the field, things were more exciting. I had entered the tournament just making up the numbers, behind Tana, Aaron and Carlos in the competition for the first- and second-five positions. But an injury to Aaron meant I played three games through the pool stages, and I was enjoying the game time immensely.
Aaron was fit again by the time the quarter-final came around, so I returned to the bench. This felt like the start of the tournament proper, and we played brilliantly in beating South Africa. There was a lot of adrenalin around afterwards, as we headed back to the hotel. I assumed we’d have a couple of drinks and call it a night. That wasn’t the way it played out.
We ended up having a little court session in the team room, and a group of us went out on the town afterwards. At the time, while I enjoyed the night out, I remember wondering what the hell we were up to. I was just a young fella, so I wasn’t going to question it. It wasn’t a huge night, and we scrubbed up fine. But it’s not something which I could ever conceive of happening mid-tournament today. It was another piece of evidence, perhaps, of the level of confidence and relaxation within the side. We simply hadn’t been put under much pressure throughout the year, and subconsciously that starts to affect you as a team.
After the win over the Boks we finally said goodbye to Melbourne for good, packed and relocated to Sydney for the semi against Australia. Suddenly the hype arrived, and we were absolutely aware that not only was the World Cup on, but that it was reaching its conclusion. We were stoked. We’d put 50 points on the Aussies in Sydney a few months before, and had been killing most teams. We had been playing an exciting, overwhelmingly attacking style of rugby, which had been working in our favour all year. We had every reason to think we could handle Australia.
If we’d known to look, there were little signs that it was going to be tougher than we thought. Most pertinently, Tana was out of the tournament. He was immense, one of the real leaders of the team. Leon MacDonald, who hadn’t played centre all year, was filling in, and kicking goals over Carlos. Nothing seemed to matter though — we had huge self-belief.
We started the game well, and were putting them under real pressure. I watched the game for the first time in years recently, and was struck by how much ball we had, how attacking our style was. But Stirling Mortlock scored an intercept try against the run of play, which felt like a 14-point swing. A couple of subsequent penalties meant that Australia were playing at home, in a World Cup semi, with scoreboard pressure on their side. They tackled incredibly well, and I watched, increasingly tense and despondent, as they took out a deserved win, and ended our hopes in the tournament.
In the sheds afterwards the silence was prolonged and heavy. I saw the hurt on players’ faces, and belatedly realised exactly what the World Cup meant. It was that precise moment which made me determined to be there for the next one. I almost think of myself as starting my preparation that day, knowing that I’d be in my prime come 2007, and desperately wanting to go into the same situation and find a way to create a different outcome.