After the pain of the World Cup semi-final loss against Australia in Sydney, we had to pick ourselves up to play France in the most pointless game of all — the playoff for third and fourth. I only got on after an injury, and while the game didn’t matter, I was happy to get a run, and a convincing win, 40–13.
After the tournament we were given the option of flying home, or staying in Sydney to see some sights. The majority of the team returned to New Zealand, but a group of us young guys decided to stick around. It was 2003, and 50 Cent’s ‘Get Rich Or Die Tryin’ had come out at the start of the year. I loved the album, and there was a group of four of us who called ourselves the P.I.M.P.s, after the song. Ma’a, Ben Atiga, Joe Rokocoko and myself.
We went out the night before the final, still sore about the loss to Australia, and felt like we should have been playing the following night, not watching the Cup be decided on television. We headed toward Cargo Bar, in Darling Harbour. When we got there the place was packed, and we went in, wondering what had drawn such a huge crowd. Once we got inside it was revealed: Prince Harry was standing there, having a big night out.
Eventually we went across to chat to him. He was pretty pleased with how the tournament was going, and for some reason decided that he wanted us to kiss the rose on his England jersey. That was definitely not going to happen. It was a pretty surreal scene — this prince, out on the beers, trying to get us to bow down to him. Eventually he got bored with the idea, calmed down, and we ended up having a good time. Particularly Caleb Ralph, who got chatting with Zara Phillips, Harry’s cousin, and dated her for a while afterwards.
The following day we watched the final — at a bar. That wasn’t how we’d pictured it when we’d flown over. It was a fun weekend, but tinged with regret at what might have been. I flew back to Christchurch determined that we’d learn from the defeat, and I’d play a more meaningful role next time around.
2003 had already been an incredible year — but more was to come. That summer was when Honor and I first started spending time together, and our relationship began. We were both young, ambitious athletes — she would make her New Zealand debut the following year — and I think that was part of why we clicked, and stayed together through all the stresses of our careers. Being with someone who truly understands the pressures and rhythms of top-level sport, and can relate to the highs and lows, has made each of us so much stronger. So while I didn’t yet know how important our relationship was going to be, I knew that she was special, and what we had was rare. And as my career took off over the coming years, so our relationship grew and solidified.
After the tournament, the old coaches were gone, and in some ways the modern All Blacks were born. With Graham Henry and his assistants came an understanding that the new regime would make changes to imprint their own style on the team.
Being such a junior member of the side, a lot of that either went over my head, or I ducked to avoid it. I was still really shy in group situations, and didn’t feel I had remotely earned the right to speak up about how the team was run. I was 21 and still lucky to be in any team I played for, as far as I was concerned. I might have had certain elite rugby skills by that stage, but by no means did I have enough elite rugby experience to comment, let alone the confidence to do so, even if I had.
So 2004 dawned with me grateful to be back in the Crusaders environment, one with none of the complexity of the All Blacks at that time. Rather than the doubt which I experienced going in on debut, the previous season’s form meant I felt I belonged in the side, and thus enjoyed the pre-season that much more. We had such a strong squad that year — largely unchanged from the previous year — and I felt very, very good about our chances.
I also felt like my own status within the side had begun to shift. No longer would I have to prove myself each time we played — senior players had a good handle on my capabilities, and their growing confidence in me nourished my game.
With that prominence came new opportunity off the field. To this point my attitude towards sponsorships would have been ‘Where do I sign?’ It just blew me away that people would offer me something free. But I’d only had a couple of deals up until then, neither of them particularly important. The first was with Nike, who sponsored Canterbury in 2002. The extent of the deal was: ‘Here’s some free clothing and a few pairs of boots; now you’re a Nike athlete.’ Looking back, I should’ve shopped around, and certainly not signed for any length of time. But I was just happy to be there, and signed off without even putting the deal in front of anyone. With so many things back then I just smiled, shook hands and agreed. Which makes me all the more grateful that the first agents to come in front of me were Lou Thompson and Dean Hegan, and not some of the less competent player reps who do the rounds.
When I made the All Blacks at the end of the previous year they had an override clause, which meant I was back in adidas. That suited me, as I’d been wearing adidas prior to joining Canterbury, from my time with the New Zealand unders, and genuinely preferred their boots. Going into 2004 I thought I’d have to be back in Nike, but Andrew Gaze, a Kiwi who ran international sponsorships for adidas, had seen something in me that previous season. He approached my new agents about getting me an individual contract with the company internationally. This was pretty serious, as it meant being paid to wear their clothes and footwear, and being promoted all over the world. Most All Blacks are simply covered by the NZRU deal, which doesn’t bring any additional financial support. This put me in rare company — only Doug Howlett, Richie and Jonah were on international deals.
Prior to the adidas deal, my biggest sponsorship was with a toy company. It was in the middle of 2003, just after I first made the All Blacks, and the ad involved me and Steve Devine. The object was called the ‘Vortex Mega Howler’, a NERF toy, and the concept called for an established All Black and an up-and-comer. Apparently one of the women at Hasbro liked the look of me — I wasn’t prominent enough at the time to get those kind of deals on merit. But I was young and happy to be asked.
We tossed this thing back and forth for an afternoon, and they made a TV commercial around it. The funny thing is, like the Canterbury NPC contract, it ended up working out really well for Hasbro. The deal allowed them to play the ad for three seasons — 2003 through 2005 — which were pretty good ones for me on the field. So the ad kept coming back to haunt me — every season it would pop up: ‘Hey Steve — catch this!’ ‘Wow — great throw, Dan.’ I had won a Super Rugby title, become the regular All Blacks first-five, won the 2005 IRB World Player of the Year, and the ad kept coming around. My teammates loved to give me shit about it, and I’d beg Dean, my agent, to get it off air. But there was nothing we could do. Still, it was a good lesson in how to structure deals in future, particularly in regard to paying attention to term.
It wasn’t my only learning experience. After signing the adidas deal, I gave all my old Nike gear to Dad. He loved it — the first free gear he’d had in 50-odd years of rugby. Then a shot of him in Nike clothes made the paper, which didn’t impress adidas.
After the adidas and Vortex deals I thought I was beginning to get a handle on the commercial side of things, and enjoying the extra bit of cash that came along. But in truth I knew nothing, which would be proven by the next deal which presented itself in the middle of the year. One which would be embarrassing, ground-breaking, lucrative and, for better and worse, define me for years to come.
The model booker Sara Tetro approached me directly in 2004, saying that Jockey wanted to shoot me in their underwear. They’d gone to Richie first apparently, but that had been a pretty short conversation. I was heading the same way. Then my sponsorship agent Dean Hegan got wind of the deal, so we started to discuss it. There was something about it I found a bit exciting. Mainly that Sara ran a modelling agency, which made it seem more glamorous than it might otherwise have been. So we had a meeting. I was still probably only talking for the sake of talking, not because I intended to do anything about it. But then she put the figure in front of me. And it was big — at least compared to how much I’d been getting, and how little work was involved.
I was still torn, and talking to a few people about it. One of them was Steve Hansen, a new assistant to the All Blacks. He might seem like an odd guy to approach on something like this, but I was so young and so confused that I’d have talked to anyone. He asked me how much they were offering. I told him, and he said, ‘Well, go back and ask them for three times as much. If they say no, you’re sweet, you don’t have to do it. But if they say yes, you’re rich.’
It was great advice, and exactly what I did. Jockey were understandably a bit upset. Who did I think I was? Which it wasn’t about at all — it was more a recognition of just how little I wanted to wander round in my undies in front of a camera. I thought that was the end of the story. But the very next day they came back and agreed to meet the price. You’d think I’d have been pleased at such a big cheque, but it was the opposite. All I could think about was having to tell my parents.
Only the money kept me from backing out entirely. Eventually the big day came. I was following a Jockey Australia ambassador at the shoot. She was just finishing up when I arrived, and made the whole thing look so easy. Sara knew how nervous I was and completely cleared the set, so it was just me, the photographer and a couple of assistants. I took forever to come out of the changing room for the first time — they probably wondered if I’d escaped. But the photographer was brilliant, and before I knew it we were wrapped.
That was only the beginning of the drama. The billboards were up within weeks, in all the test match cities. I walked into the All Blacks team room on one occasion and someone had put a poster up on the whiteboard. I tore it down, burning with embarrassment. To this day I don’t know who put it up. But if I had to guess, I’d go with Justin Marshall. The Crusaders team had a culture of practical jokes back then, and Justin was an absolute master. There were holes cut in socks, shirts dyed pink, jandals sliced up — nothing was safe. So the poster’s appearance was to be expected really.
And anyway, I was hardly blameless when it came to practical jokes. One of my favourites came early in my career. The Crusaders were staying in Johannesburg, with most of our rooms in a row on a single corridor. We were deep into the Super Rugby season, and some of that road boredom was setting in. One evening I was hanging out with Aaron, and I got dressed in full compression skins, and told them I was a superhero, out to take down the whole forward pack. Aaron bought in, and got into his skins too. Then we started our mission.
The first door we came to was that of Brad Thorn and Greg Somerville — two of the biggest, toughest guys in the squad. We threw ourselves at them, and started wrestling with all our might. From memory, Greg didn’t love the idea, but Thorny was more than game. We came off second best, unsurprisingly, but I think he was impressed we were willing to have a crack. We worked our way down the hall, causing chaos, but apart from Brad we pretty much dominated the rest of the pack, from memory. It was a lot of fun, and typical of the kind of boredom-busting prank that will occasionally rear up on tour. Whenever they arrived, I’d always be keen.
The Jockey deal opened me up to all kinds of jokes from my teammates over the years — though now half the team’s in the campaign. This is a big change: back then All Blacks just didn’t do that kind of thing — not because they didn’t want to, but because the opportunity simply didn’t exist. Apart from Jonah’s various deals, and Carlos with Toffee Pops, there were virtually no individual All Blacks endorsements. The Jockey deal would come to be seen as opening the door on what is now an important income stream for players.
I didn’t enjoy the notoriety one bit. Mum was horrified, and I literally changed my commute in Christchurch to avoid having to look at the billboard. But I’m glad I stuck it out. It’s become the base of my commercial relationships, and was responsible for changing the value of endorsements, and the way brands saw rugby players, which has had a positive impact on the whole sport. It also helped me get over my fear of cameras at a young age, which would prove very useful in years to come.
The Jockey sponsorship really has become a big part of my life, and helped set me up for my career post-rugby in a way which wouldn’t have been possible in the amateur era. Even today, at 33, I’ve stayed with Jockey — I’m still an ambassador.
Everything else has flowed from there, including some which have had real prominence internationally. Adidas and MasterCard have used me internationally, and Gillette booked me for a global campaign alongside Tiger Woods and Roger Federer. It ended up falling over, but the process of negotiating at that level was an education in itself.
My commercial experience has also helped me leverage my profile for charities, Canteen in particular. When I was first starting out in the Crusaders, a pair of young fans with cancer came to every practice. I struck up a friendship with them, and was devastated when they died. I found out that they’d been taken to the sessions by Canteen, and decided to work with the organisation however I could, and have found it the most affecting and satisfying work of my career. It’s very different work to the commercial side, but each nourishes the other, one teaching skills and giving profile that I can exploit for both myself and for others in much greater need.
I’m incredibly fortunate to have lived through this era, but I also feel like I’ve helped shape it in some way. Somewhat surprisingly, despite being a country boy, I found myself enjoying figuring out how to navigate this new world. What I’ve found is that often it comes down to amplifying existing NZRU contracts. Which is great for guys like me and Richie. But I do feel for some younger All Blacks, or guys who play less high-profile positions. The sheer number of sponsors that the NZRU signs on, across so many different areas, means players’ ability to maximise their incomes is quite limited. I’ve been so fortunate having such a long career, and one with some prominence. For more fringe All Blacks, the window is shorter and smaller, and after I retire I’d love to be able to help with advice or opportunities to better equip them for life after rugby.
The adidas deal was part of what made the summer of 2003–2004 more relaxing than the previous two. I was finally starting to become comfortable with my position in rugby’s ecosystem, to understand that I was there on merit and this life wasn’t likely to be yanked away from me any minute. I’d barely had pause to breathe since making the Under 21s two years earlier, and had played a tonne of games through that period — more than anyone would be allowed now, in all likelihood. It had done wonders for my game, but I was due a break to refresh, to think about what I’d accomplished, and where I’d like to push on to in the coming year. I spent the summer reconnecting with family and old friends I’d lost touch with. We had some good times, but always in the back of my mind was the idea that in 2004 I wanted to grow, rather than standing pat.
This was driven home by a media interview in the pre-season. One of the Press reporters persistently asked me about second-year syndrome. It wasn’t a term I’d heard before, but the guy was so dogged that it felt less a possibility than an inevitability. Like a disease or illness I was destined to catch. He talked about the amount of time my opponents would spend analysing my game, and how they’d have worked out my tricks. In a funny way it made me more determined than ever to be different, and to prove to those waiting for me to fail or fall back that I would do the opposite.
To a certain extent he was right. Coaches and opponents do study your game. They’ll know that you’re defensively stronger on a particular shoulder. I’ll even hear them on the field, saying, ‘Watch his left-foot step,’ ‘Watch his right-hand feed.’ Those are go-to moves for me, and I’d find myself getting annoyed — ‘That’s my secret!’ But it’s inevitable. We’re on TV, for all the world to see, slow down and pick apart. That interview made me realise I had to keep evolving, to work hard to be more elusive and unpredictable.
That’s something all players do, but one thing I’ve paid a lot of attention to is less obvious, and came from Wayne Smith. He’s a coach I consider one of the true geniuses of the game. It was around 2004 or 2005 that he told me to not just work on my weaknesses, but my strengths, too. That just because someone knows something is coming, doesn’t mean they can stop it. So if you have a strong left-foot step, double down on that and make it that much faster. If you’re a good tackler, work hard to become a great one. It’s something I’ve always kept in mind — the power of improving elements of your game you already rely on.
Knowing that there was a contingent expecting me to find the second year far tougher than my first made me determined to enter the season in perfect condition. I retreated to my work ethic, that Canterbury mentality: ‘hard work conquers all’. So if I was pushing a specific weight last year, then I’d need to do 10 per cent more this year. If I was running a particular time, I needed to be 10 seconds faster. I had to kick more balls, run more laps, lift more weights and generally destroy myself in the pre-season to make doubly sure I would avoid losing momentum.
It wasn’t just physical, either. I knew that my first year I’d been quiet to a fault, especially for someone playing in a backline position which requires some leadership. And while part of that came from wanting to watch and learn, to earn respect rather than demand it, I knew that it also came down to shyness, and being naturally deferential. It was simple: if I wanted to continue to grow as a player I would need to find my voice on the field.
It took a while, but eventually it came. I think now it’s an area the academies really stress with young players: the need to speak and communicate well. For the most part that’s a great thing, as you have guys coming into the top rugby environments with no hesitation about speaking up, even to some of the most senior members of the squad. They can bring new insight into what can be settled patterns of thinking. But it can also cross the line into cockiness. Sometimes you see them challenging a captain before they’ve begun to earn their place in the side, in a way which would have been completely unthinkable 10 or 15 years ago. But for the most part we have more debate over game plans and strategy than at any time in the past, and that’s a very good thing.
Once again I came into the Super season playing at 12, arriving with a head of steam. It was a dream season: my body felt great, and I missed just one game. Inside me in the backline was a different story. Aaron Mauger started the first two games at 10 with Mehrts relegated to the subs’ bench. Later, Cam McIntyre battled Mehrts for the position. There was destabilising flux at first-five, but I felt very secure at 12.
The drama was unfortunate. Mehrts was never anything less than a gentleman to me, for which I’ll be forever grateful. But his relationship with Robbie really deteriorated as the season progressed. It was sad to watch, Mehrts being pushed out of a team which was his heart and soul. And Robbie unable to cope with a senior player’s needs in the same way he could brilliantly nurture his young talent. It really was unfortunate. I think Robbie is probably the best coach of young players you could hope to find. He sees talent early and nurtures it as well as anyone. But once that talent gets older, and develops their own voice, he can be a little inflexible, unable to adapt the relationship to reflect the player’s evolved skill-set and perspective.
Despite the personnel issues we were still a spectacular team, with talent right across the park. We made the final and faced the Brumbies, who were exceptional around that time. In the final Cam started, with me and Aaron around him at second-five and centre. And we got absolutely drilled. We were just over-awed by the occasion, and completely lost our composure. Within the first quarter of the match they’d scored five tries. We were down 33–0, and the match looked like it was already over. To his credit, Robbie took drastic action, and put Mehrts on for McIntyre.
What followed was one of the greatest comebacks I’ve ever been involved in. We scored two tries before the break to go in at 33–14 with the faintest glimmer of hope. That promptly dimmed when they scored near the start of the second half. We battled hard, despite the margin, and ended up losing a very entertaining final 47–38. The first 20 minutes aside, we dominated the game, but it was simply too far gone by then. What I’ll always remember is Mehrts’ performance. He wasn’t in his best shape, and had endured a pretty troubled season. But you saw all his poise, his intellect and his tactical skill in that last 60 minutes, and what a true champion he was.
For any other franchise, two straight trips to the final would probably have been cause for celebration, and enough to get the coach a new contract. In Canterbury and with the Crusaders, our standards are so high that we were crushed. The mentality is such that we demand more from our team than that. I didn’t quite appreciate that the first two years. I was still young, and subconsciously I still felt this was someone else’s team. That it wasn’t to my credit if we won, nor my fault if we lost. But by the year’s end I was starting to understand what it was to be a Crusader, to adopt that rugged mentality.
Guys such as Reuben Thorne, Justin Marshall, Greg Somerville, Aaron Mauger and, increasingly even then, Richie — they had such a fierceness about them. A hardness. They almost seemed to relish the game getting tough, and have a level of self-belief that no matter how daunting the situation we could still pull it out. So, despite the team having just missed in both those finals, I believed in those guys and that team, and wanted very badly to join that group and embody the same attitude and ethic.
Coming out of Super Rugby I knew the All Blacks team was imminent, and after the way I’d played that season I was confident I’d get picked. I was named Super Rugby Player of the Year, and had collected over 200 points to be the competition’s top scorer. I thought there was a good chance that I’d start and, sure enough, I was named at 12 in the Probables side to play the Possibles at Eden Park.
That kind of game has gone out of fashion now but that year it had a real edge to it. The Possibles were very strong — I was up against Sam Tuitupou, who had been outstanding all year. Our opponents were all trying to steal the jerseys off our back. It was really close at the end when they were penalised. Even though the etiquette is to ignore penalties in those games, we wanted to win, so elected to kick for goal. I put it over from 40 metres to seal the game.
It was a very physical way to start the international season, but we needed it. Our first opponents were England, fresh off their World Cup win, and without doubt the standard by which all other sides would be measured. These were our first games under the new coaching regime, though, so there was a sense of optimism through the camp, and a hunger derived from the knowledge we’d lost when it mattered at the last World Cup.
This was my first contact with Graham Henry and, if I’m honest, I was shit-scared of him. I’d never met him before, but watching his interviews and seeing the way he handled himself, he looked a real hard bugger. You could tell he’d been a headmaster, let’s put it that way. But after I’d gotten over my initial fear, I found the change of coaching personnel refreshing. With Robbie so integral to Mitchell’s set-up there hadn’t been a big difference stylistically between the Crusaders and the All Blacks. Henry was a good guy to be scared of — if you got out of line, you’d hear about it. He’s old-school like that. But between him, Steve Hansen and Wayne Smith there was a new set of voices and perspectives coming through, and as a young guy who was still learning every day, I revelled in it.
Henry turned out to be slightly different to what I’d assumed. At times he’d be as serious and awe-inspiring a guy as you’d ever meet. At others he’d surprise you with practical jokes or unexpected flashes of humour. Beyond Graham, Wayne Smith was someone I really bonded with. He’s very analytical and structured, which took a while to absorb, but was a marked and welcome contrast to the more free-flowing, instinctive style of Robbie. Prior to that regime, I’d never spent time on computers. I hated it at first, the repetition of the video. And not whole games — very specific and finely cut sections of play. It was broken down into pieces so small you wondered whether there was any real use to them. Now I see that Smithy was way ahead of his time.
We went in to the England series determined to atone for the previous year, and did so pretty comprehensively. I kicked incredibly well, missing only once as we swept them in the two-test series. Although it did little to make us forget the lows of the World Cup, it still felt good heading into the Tri-Nations, which we’d won the previous year.
The tournament began reasonably well, with tight wins over Australia and South Africa in July. But in August things started to turn. We lost a close game to Australia in Sydney, during which we failed to score a try. I’d been playing fairly well, but rolled an ankle and hobbled through until just after halftime, at which point I checked out of the game for good. Carlos was pulled as well, so the second half finished with Mehrts and Sam Tuitupou at first- and second-five — quite a different side and style. The changes made no difference — we lost 23–18.
Heading into the final game against South Africa I was desperate to play. I had hated watching us lose to Australia, and thought the injury was marginal enough that I should at the very least be given the chance to prove my fitness. I was starting to feel comfortable in the team. But my mood changed when the team was read out for the weekend. I was furious when I was omitted — it was the last game for some weeks, and we still had a real shot at winning the competition. I didn’t feel like I was being given a decent chance to prove my fitness.
I responded in a very immature way, typical of a 22 year old. I drank, pretty heavily, for most of the week. Me and the rest of the DDs (Dirty Dirties — rugby slang for non-playing reserves) would have a couple at the hotel, then head out to bars and have a fair few more. It was just considered normal back then, but would never happen today. Nowadays everyone has to be ready to play. And if you’re injured then you’re rehabbing, and likely not drinking at all.
But those of us who weren’t playing were just having a good time. We were out until two or three in the morning on the Wednesday or Thursday before a test. We weren’t thinking about how we could help the guys who were playing. Instead, we were just concentrating on enjoying ourselves, and not so subtly saying to the coaches and management that if we weren’t playing then we would do whatever the hell we wanted.
It wasn’t out of the ordinary. Those coaches had played and coached most of their lives in the amateur era, when tours and standards were very different to today. So had some of the senior members of our squad. There are things you can demand of a salaried professional that you cannot ask of an amateur who is taking time out from work and family to be there.
The social side of the sport was a definite attraction for players back in the day, as it remains. But there was a period of adjustment, whereby some of us professionals were wanting to have our salaries, but keep our amateur-style socialising, too. The coaches didn’t seem particularly worried. But it certainly didn’t help, and may have contributed in some small way to what happened on the field.
Which was a bloodbath. South Africa ran rampant, putting 40 points on us at Ellis Park in what remains one of the most lacklustre All Blacks performances during my time with the team. Centre Marius Joubert scored a hat-trick, and Percy Montgomery was kicking goals from all over the field. It was dismal, and rather than the sadness or anguish which normally accompanies a loss, there was an anger — a much uglier emotion — in the air.
That night we had a court session. These exist to air any grievances in a controlled way, and are mostly light-hearted team-bonding exercises. It’s a mock judicial scenario, in which minor infractions are described and a few beers are drunk as sentences for ‘crimes’. We all get a bit pissed and everyone goes to bed happy. A court session is supposed to be fun, and for the most part they are. Even though there are punishments dished out, they almost function like a reward at the end of a season or a tour.
This one was very different. It happened in a small, drab conference room at our hotel. The mood wasn’t great to begin with, with the loss still hanging in the air, and swiftly got pretty dark. Players were angry, and the kind of accusations flying and sentences imposed were so much harsher than usual.
Instead of beer, it was spirits being doled out. People were absolutely hammered, throwing up everywhere. It just got completely out of control. We didn’t look like the world-class sports team we aspired to be. We looked like a stag do gone wrong.
I felt it particularly acutely, as I had to apologise to the whole team on behalf of the DDs. Graham had found out we’d been going harder than we should have, and it was felt we needed to own it in front of the group. As a young guy, and a shy one at that, I found it intensely humiliating. All the DDs felt terrible, like we’d devalued the jersey, and bore responsibility for the nature of the loss. The whole team ended up getting into it — from doctors, to management, to coaches. And rather than a few hours, it went on the whole night. Even when I left for the airport the following afternoon, some of the guys were still on it.
I’ve never been part of a more raw and ragged court session. You could sense it was not sitting at all well with some people. Wayne Smith in particular seemed appalled at the state of us. You could sense him thinking: ‘What the hell is this team?’ Afterwards, I think he was ready to walk away. When we woke up the following morning — or afternoon in some cases — we all knew that what had happened wasn’t right. That something had to give for us to become the kind of team we aspired to be. And to ensure a night like this never happened again.