Court sessions are part of rugby’s fabric. Like mauls or scrums, outsiders might scratch their heads at them, but those within know what’s going on — and why they matter. They remain a huge part of rugby culture, particularly at club level. I personally have participated in dozens of courts, often leading the charge. We used to have them regularly at all levels, right the way up to the All Blacks. It was part of a wider culture which had hung around from the amateur era. During my early days a keg was often rolled into the sheds after a game, and no one allowed to leave until it was empty. This was seen as a reward for our combined efforts through the week.
That would never happen nowadays. There’s a higher scrutiny, an expectation of performance, and a degree of medical under-standing which simply didn’t exist when I first became a professional. On the rare occasions we have a court today it’s much more controlled, and our whole approach to alcohol has changed, particularly at All Blacks level. That evolution has its origins in that one dark night, on a tour of South Africa in 2004.
It took the Johannesburg court to make both the players and the new coaching staff certain about the need for change within the team. The new coaches, rather than make wholesale changes immediately, watched the way we operated for a while first. That was absolutely the right thing to do — we would rightly have reacted negatively if a group of outsiders with little knowledge of our internal culture started trying to tell us what we were doing wrong. Because, World Cups aside, the All Blacks were still an incredibly successful team by world standards — the best in the world, no question. The problem was that we had developed a habit of approaching the World Cup like it was just another tournament, when it wasn’t. Other teams were treating it differently and beating us consistently. But figuring out how to rewire the circuitry of a machine as large and complex as the All Blacks requires some knowledge of how it operates.
That’s what Graham, Wayne and Steve set about acquiring through 2004. The survey culminated in the ugliness of that court session in Johannesburg. Afterwards, we flew home, nursing hangovers and lingering resentments. But while most of us moved on, the coaching staff set to work on a plan to rebuild this team. They didn’t do it alone. Senior players were intimately involved in the decision-making process, which gave us all a sense of ownership of the outcome.
The first major signal that something had changed came when the squad was announced for the end-of-year tour to the northern hemisphere. There were major changes — a selectorial night of the long knives. Some key players who’d been a big part of the team for years had vanished. Others whose All Blacks careers were meant to be over were suddenly back in the frame. Among those who’d disappeared were the two brilliant first-fives who’d been at the centre of a debate which had divided the country for many years: Carlos Spencer and Andrew Mehrtens. Selected instead were me, Luke McAlister and Aaron Mauger, all three of us able to play both first- and second-five. It was made clear to me, though, that I was picked as the primary 10.
It was a huge show of faith, saying to me and to New Zealand that I was the first-five of the future. I appreciated the gesture, but felt it had come around — like everything in my career seemed to — very quickly. I had grown comfortable at second-five, and thought I’d found a permanent home there. Now I was being asked to drive the game plan, help run the team and be the vocal leader of the backline. I had never had a playbook before, never paid much attention to set pieces. Now, I would have to know the moves and call them based on what I was seeing out there on the field. I’d played almost all my professional rugby at 12 and, when Luke was injured before the first match, I was virtually alone at 10, with four games to prove myself. As usual, my response was first fear, then determination. I respected the hell out of the coaches, and felt like I owed it to them to give it my best.
Just as my role evolved within the team, other returning players helped change the chemistry, too. Most notably Norm Maxwell and Anton Oliver: two tough, spirited forwards with long All Blacks careers which were commonly thought to be behind them. Obviously it meant a lot to all of us to be selected for the team. But for us young guys there was a limit to how much we could value the jersey — it was those who had worn it and lost it who really knew what it was worth. We had that graphically illustrated to us in the hotel, ahead of the first test against Italy. Norm and Anton were openly weeping, overcome with emotion at being given their jerseys again, after spending long periods on the outer. No one in the room will have failed to appreciate the significance of that moment, nor will they ever forget it.
That game was my first start as an All Blacks first-five. I was incredibly nervous beforehand, particularly given how my Crusaders debut at 10 had played out. There was so much more to keep in your head. But very early on I set up Conrad Smith for a good try, in what was his All Blacks debut. I remember thinking afterwards, as we celebrated, ‘This is awesome — I love playing 10.’
That feeling never really left. It helped that just as I was learning this new position, the All Blacks were building a new culture. There was a spirit of rebirth throughout the squad, which meant we were all more open than usual to learning and growing. Because it wasn’t just about moving on from court sessions; it was about looking deep into the history of this team, what it had done and what it meant, and finding ways that we could write our own chapters to that story. Respecting and acknowledging the history, without feeling constrained by it.
A lot of that was driven by Tana Umaga, who I thought of very highly as a leader and a man. We had been captained by Reuben before then, who was in that traditional stoic mould — he didn’t say a lot, but when he did, you listened. I really rated Reuben — he was the epitome of the Crusaders man in his work ethic, enjoying a beer and always putting the team first. When Tana superseded him as captain at the start of 2004 he brought a different approach to his leadership. It was as much cultural as anything else, with his Samoan ancestry dictating his style to an extent. He was almost like a god to the Island boys, but then that was true for most of us. It certainly was for me.
Tana had a presence about him which was just so powerful: that rare type of man who made you want to lay everything on the line, because you watched the way he always, always put the team at the heart of every decision. That wasn’t just on the field — he really held the line for his players in the commercial arena, too. There’d be situations with sponsors where you were drained and getting nowhere, after a long day’s shooting. He’d walk in and just pull us all out. That might have made life difficult for the NZRU — we’re certainly a bit more accommodating today — but it sent the most powerful message to us as a team, to always put rugby and player welfare first.
We loved him for that. So whatever he did, you followed, knowing it was the right thing. It was through this period that Richie was beginning to get a bit more prominent, too, becoming part of the leadership group. He made his debut as captain against Wales, leading a very young All Blacks side to a narrow but exhilarating win. From that day on, despite his youth, we knew he was captain in waiting. We’ve become close friends over the years, and my leadership role has grown out of wanting to support him — you see how much he sacrifices for his teams, and want to do what you can to help. But it took me years to imagine myself as a leader, whereas he was born to it. What impressed me was the way he stepped into that role so easily against Wales — he was leading players in their late twenties and thirties, and commanding their respect. Nothing changed about his demeanour — he was still just the same old guy that I’d known for the last couple of years.
I often hear talk about Colin Meads or Michael Jones, but I never got a chance to play with those guys. Maybe it’s me being biased toward my own experience, but I think Richie’s better than anything we’ve ever seen before. No one else in world rugby has stayed at the highest level for so long. Even the best guys will have a few great years then come down. It’s natural — you get injured, or go missing for a couple of years. I certainly have, more than once. But Richie has been the best player in the world for well over a decade and the record goes to show that. It’s just freakish. It was 2004 when we first started to see that side of him. We were so fortunate, through that period, to have those two incredible leaders within the side, and I’m sure he learned a lot from Tana, who had the vision for so much of this new All Blacks culture.
This era also gave birth to our beloved ‘Kapa O Pango’ — a new haka for a new team — and the start of a period where we valued the haka highly. Not that we hadn’t in the past, but it was more a method of firing you up than something from which you drew strength and pride. Derek Lardelli, the composer of ‘Kapa O Pango’, came in to teach us the meaning behind the haka, so we could bring that out through our performance. He taught us how we were bringing the spirits up through the ground, the energy that we absorbed, the meaning of pukana — the eye dilation. The first time we tried out the haka after that lesson was in Italy, and we all felt different — like the true nature of the action was present in us on field.
On the tour we started to talk so much more about the All Blacks legacy. About how it was our job not just to play for the All Blacks, but to add to that legacy. You had to leave the jersey in a better place than you found it. That was your aim. It made being an All Black so much more meaningful. When I think about the modern All Blacks, what we strive for, the standards we set ourselves — so much of that grew out of that tour and the conversations we had with one another.
As much as it was exciting, with this new team and new values, it was hard, too. No Carlos or Mehrts for me to lean back on, and a group of youngsters who were forced to shoulder major responsibilities without the mentoring and support of older players, which might have happened in a more orderly transition. We all knew, though, right from the start, that it was the right thing to do. The 2004 northern hemisphere tour stands out in my memory as the most critical period in the evolution of the modern All Blacks.
Despite the turmoil and ugliness of 2004 at times, thanks to that tour there was an optimism in the camp as we came into 2005. That was partly due to the new values the coaching staff and senior leaders had inculcated, but mostly driven by the looming Lions tour. They come around so infrequently that it’s easy to miss their significance. The last time they had visited rugby had been an amateur sport — I was 11 years old, and only dimly aware of the visit, and what it meant. It’s only as you get older that you start to appreciate the significance of the event, which is directly derived from its scarcity. Whole careers can occur without experiencing a Lions test, and they have a sense of history that goes right back to the dawn of rugby in New Zealand in the nineteenth century.
It wasn’t until 2004 that I started to appreciate that, when the world champion English side toured to open the international season. Among the English players, fans and press the tour was seen as little more than a reconnaissance mission for the Lions series to come the next year. As a young All Black, hearing about the team for the first time, you started to get a sense of what it really meant. International rugby is a relatively limited game. We play the same two or three teams a number of times during the New Zealand winter, and the same half dozen at the end. So, to have a brand-new team appear on the horizon made us very motivated going into the new year.
It also focused my mind. On the previous northern hemisphere tour I’d finally started to feel comfortable in the All Blacks environment, to have a sense of belonging. That allowed me to set concrete goals for the first time since high school, covering what I’d like to achieve. I knew that the only way I could guarantee a place in the side to play the Lions was to dominate Super Rugby. And we did, winning the competition for the first time since I’d joined in 2003. For the first time I played the bulk of the competition at 10, and was again nominated for Super Rugby Player of the Year. I was now feeling more than comfortable with the responsibility and control of the new position, and looking forward to transferring that to the All Blacks.
The first game of the international season was against Fiji, who we cleaned up 91–0. Sitiveni Sivivatu had a ball, scoring four tries on debut. Then the Lions arrived, and with them the biggest contingent of fans I’ve seen outside the World Cup. The first test was in Christchurch, and walking into the Square that week you’d have thought it was their home game. They just took over the central city, which meant the atmosphere was as electric as I’ve ever felt going into a test. When we arrive at a stadium ahead of the game it’s normally a quarter full, and pretty quiet. This time I put my kit bag down and headed out and was shocked to see it already packed, an hour out from kick-off. We were so up for the game, ready to put on a show for the crowd.
Then the Christchurch weather closed in, just in time for kick-off. It grew bitterly cold, with rain and sleet going sideways — some of the worst conditions I’ve had to play through. It was frustrating, because we were way up for the game. Their team was outstanding — so good that Jonny Wilkinson, who’d led England to the World Cup in 2003, was shunted out to 12 to make way for Stephen Jones. All we wanted was to test ourselves against them. It wasn’t going to happen. I managed to slot a couple of penalties, and make a break, but we were all so limited by the weather. At halftime I had to stand with my fingers under the hot tap for 10 minutes just to thaw them out and try to get some feeling back.
The second half was no better. We won, 21–3, and played well, given the circumstances, but the weather ensured there was no chance of us showing the kind of running rugby we had wanted to exhibit. Instead the game is remembered mainly for Tana and Keven Mealamu’s tackle on Brian O’Driscoll which put him out of the tour. Because the match was otherwise somewhat colourless, it became the dominant storyline, and Tana in particular was hung out to dry. Within our camp, though, it became a source of strength. He was our leader, and a guy who inspired awe among our team, so we rallied around him that week. We didn’t talk about it much formally as a wider group, but between players when we met socially there was little else discussed. Thankfully Tana was cleared by the judiciary, and we approached Wellington with an edge. We knew they’d come at us, but were quietly confident we could absorb it.
Once again the stadium was extraordinary, in full song well ahead of kick-off. Our fans took it as a good-natured challenge, and responded with songs and chants of their own. It was one of the best home crowds of my career. We really fed off the atmosphere going into the game. As predicted, they threw themselves into us from the first whistle, and scored within the first five minutes. We seemed flat, and found it difficult to respond. That changed around 15 minutes in, when our forwards seemed to lift palpably, as if they sensed the Lions had exhausted themselves a little with their opening thrust. That’s all you need as a first-five — from then on it felt like I had the ball on a string, and all the time in the world to make decisions.
As the game wore on I knew I was performing well, but it felt like it was driven by the whole team’s strength. I had no sense that it was particularly out of the ordinary. I was conscious, though, that there was a flow to the game which I hadn’t experienced much before, and that almost everything I tried was coming off. Breaking the line felt effortless, passes perfect, tackles solid. It was a good enough game that, when I missed a kick at goal — my only miss of the day — I remember being particularly disappointed, like I’d messed up my day statistically. Right near the end I was tackled and did my AC joint. It was the seventy-eighth minute, so I thought I’d take the shot at goal anyway. It sailed over from the sideline. I watched it go, then went off to have the injury attended to. Thankfully, the game was so comfortably in hand that there was no need for a replacement. We’d already emptied the subs’ bench and we played the last couple of minutes with 14.
After the game I was told to go and do media. That wasn’t an unusual situation — a few players do it, and it’s often first-fives who are requested. But when I arrived they were asking questions which implied something out of the ordinary had happened. They told me I’d scored 33 points in our 48–18 win, which sure sounded like a lot — before then I hadn’t been aware of my own tally. That was my first inkling that it had been a particularly significant game. I returned to the changing room afterwards, and turned on my phone. Back then Ma’a and I had a little competition between the two of us, to see who got the most texts after games. We used it as a way of measuring who’d played better. Nowadays I’d be happy to get two or three, but back then you’d get 10 or even 20 if you’d had a seriously big game.
I turned on my phone, and it just kept vibrating. I think the final number was in the seventies. They were all the same: ‘best game ever’, ‘greatest game’ — that kind of thing. That was when I sat back and thought about it, and started to realise what had happened. (The thing was, for all the praise that was being heaped on me, my shoulder was still wrecked. So while the rest of the team celebrated the series win, I sat with medical staff and had my injury assessed. I didn’t even have a drink.)
It’s now considered my signature game, one which cemented me as the ‘best first-five in the world’, and all kinds of other superlatives besides. I read that stuff in the days to come, and enjoyed it in the way that everyone enjoys being praised. But I didn’t take it in. To me it was too much — it was just one game, and only my sixth time starting at 10 for the All Blacks. The big thing for me was that it had happened against the Lions. To perform like that against such a strong team meant something, in a way that it wouldn’t had it been against a second-tier nation.
Regardless of my own conception of the performance, it resonated within the team and beyond. It seemed to mark a transition for me, from being a junior member of the squad to one whose opinions were sought out and valued. Sponsors had noticed, too, and I suddenly found myself far more in demand from a commercial perspective. The media seemed to go into a frenzy about my performance, and I couldn’t resist reading all the pieces which were published about it. It was pretty seductive, to read all those hyperbolic words about yourself. Especially when coupled with all my friends and teammates echoing it, I found it difficult to avoid letting it go to my head a little.
I was so engulfed in all of that I started to think I was a bit invincible. It probably wasn’t helped by the fact I was rehabbing my shoulder, so didn’t get sucked back into the grind of training and playing right away. It didn’t take long to get that mood smacked right out of me.
We played South Africa and got beaten in Cape Town, 22–16. It knocked my confidence, though at the same time I didn’t go right back to square one and start doubting myself. Those experiences seem to come along when you need them, and got me back to those fundamental questions: What are your goals? What are you trying to get out of each game? It was a bad game for the team, but good for me in the long run.
We managed to finish the home season off strongly, and won the Tri-Nations. I played well enough, despite being injured again and missing one match in particular which I’d been anticipating for a while. When we met South Africa again at home in Dunedin, we debuted the new haka, ‘Kapa O Pango’. I’d been a part of its development, and wished I could have been out there, performing it for the first time. But it was inspiring sitting there watching from the stands too, and feeling like I’d played a role in creating something historic.
The last remaining task for the year was our northern hemisphere tour. These are always the highlight of the year, and the most difficult tasks, playing less familiar opposition while away from home for such a long period of time. In 2005 the expectations felt heightened on a number of levels. Firstly, it was a chance at a grand slam — games against all four ‘home nations’ — my first as an All Black. Secondly, the reasonably emphatic victory over the Lions meant all the home sides were wanting to avenge the defeat, particularly Ireland, who were still in full fury over the O’Driscoll tackle. And, lastly, the press were talking me up as the best player in world rugby, which meant there was an unbelievable level of pressure to perform. No matter how much I tried to put that stuff out of my head, it was hard to entirely escape it.
Ahead of the tour we assembled at the Heritage Hotel in Auckland. Before we flew out we went to Eden Park to try to clear our heads and focus on the enormity of the task ahead. To us a grand slam tour was similar to a Lions tour — the opportunity didn’t come around often, and the feat had only ever been achieved once before by the All Blacks. That meeting at Eden Park was something the management team arranged, part of their newfound emphasis on valuing the jersey and taking pride in what we were doing, the legacy we were drawing on and building. It really focused our minds on the challenge and opportunity which awaited us. But as much as I thought my head was focused on the task ahead of us, the tour would prove that I still had some growing up to do, as shown by one last big slip-up.
Wales were our first opponents. We landed on a Friday, a week ahead of the first test on 5 November. We trained on the Saturday, but had Sunday off, so went out on the Saturday night as a team for a few beers. I was feeling pretty good at that point. At 23, I was the unquestioned first-five for the best rugby team in the world. Over the previous 12 months I’d won my first Super Rugby title, had what was being called a perfect game against the Lions, and won the Tri-Nations. I was routinely being called one of the best players in the world. And I liked a beer.
That night we went out, and when the bars closed headed back to the hotel to keep drinking. About 5 am there was a hardcore group of us still left: Piri, Jimmy Cowan, Aaron Mauger, Leon MacDonald, Jason Eaton and me. One of us — I can’t remember who — had the bright idea of going to London in a taxi. We got obsessed with the idea of going to The Church, the London pub which became a New Zealand institution. It only opens for four hours, from midday on a Sunday, and is filled with Aussies, Kiwis and South Africans. It closed recently, which is probably a good thing for touring sports teams. But while it was open they delivered very lowbrow fun, with sawdust on the floor, drinking games on stage and six-packs of Foster’s over the bar. All our London mates went there regularly, and a bunch of us had been there after the previous tour and had a ball. Hitting The Church is a great way to cap off a successful tour, but a ridiculous way to begin one.
Obviously we weren’t thinking clearly, but the idea was infectious, and we eventually found a cabbie mad enough to take us. We gave him £300, grabbed some mix CDs and a box of beers and were soon speeding towards London. The sun came up, and we quickly got through our beers. Slowly the first shards of doubt started to enter our heads. Maybe this wasn’t the greatest idea we’d ever had? Still, we were in too deep to turn back.
We entered the city around 8.30 am, and the driver was soon profoundly lost. Being Welsh, he wasn’t overly familiar with London. The only place we could find was a hairdresser, which was randomly open before 9 am on a Sunday. A couple of us went in there to try to rustle up another cab, while the remainder went next door to eat some Subway. We were still trying to push through encroaching sobriety and make it to midday, but it was an uphill battle by then.
Eventually we found a cabbie who knew where The Church was, and he dropped us there at 10 am. We were four hours into our odyssey, but still two hours ahead of doors opening. A security guard told us to head to a McDonald’s round the corner. We trooped in, ordered our food and sat down to eat it when the penny finally dropped. ‘What the f . . . are we doing in London?’ asked Aaron. ‘We’ve got to get out of here.’ He was right. We instantly realised what fools we’d been, and completely panicked.
In the mad rush to get back to Wales, we split into two groups. Our group aimed for the train, while the others were set on getting another cab. Our group made it to Paddington Station at 11.55 am, just in time for the midday train to Cardiff. Our elation at getting there in time turned to despair when we saw an enormous line for tickets. Just as we were about to trudge off and try to figure out a plan B, we saw the rest of the guys at the front of the line. Somehow we got the tickets and scrambled on board, just as the doors were closing. But after the adrenalin of making the train, reality bit again. We sat, heads down, wondering what the hell had gotten into us. Worse was to come. I’d had my SIM card in Leon’s phone, texting my London friends to meet us at The Church. But when he put his in again, it started to vibrate with texts from our manager, Darren Shand. ‘Where are you guys?’ ‘Are you in London?’ We knew then the game was up. There was no escaping this — we were just going to have to wear it.
Eventually the train got back to Cardiff and we taxied back to the hotel. We snuck back to our rooms, and stole a couple of hours’ sleep, before being awoken by a text about a team meeting that evening. We knew we’d been caught, and had no choice but to face what was coming.
The timing couldn’t have been worse. We’d violated all the team’s principles, everything we’d created from that year before. We weren’t living the All Blacks values, and we’d let our teammates down badly. It was just an awful decision. When we arrived at the meeting we looked around and it was just players, no coaches or management. This was what the new era was about — imposing discipline on ourselves. Which made it so much worse — failing your friends, your peers.
Tana absolutely ripped into us. ‘That’s not good enough,’ he said. ‘You should be sent home.’ Jason Eaton hadn’t even played a test, hadn’t even played Super Rugby. Tana really got stuck into him, asking him who he thought he was, pissing on this amazing environment. Same with Leon and Aaron, who were part of the leadership group, who were meant to impose discipline, not need it. Piri, Jimmy and I were lucky in a way, caught in between. It was an absolutely brutal drilling, and as low as I’d felt as an All Black.
The following week was awful. Every night I went and saw mental skills coach Gilbert Enoka, trying to avoid drifting into black thoughts. He was invaluable at times like that, when you were vulnerable and away from home. But aside from getting a barrelling from Tana, that was the end of it. I think everyone knew that we’d heard the message. Our effort at training showed how sorry we were.
The only way out of it was work. We trained like dogs, buckling down and working harder than ever. When match day came I was more nervous than usual. I was just so keen to have a great game to blast away those bad thoughts. Before then I’d only ever had good press, and had started to feel a little untouchable. The trip to London ended that in a hurry.
Thankfully, the game went brilliantly. I scored two tries and kicked a pile of goals, and became the All Blacks’ record points scorer for a single game against Wales in a 41–3 victory. It was a long-standing record, which had belonged to the great Canterbury fullback, Fergie McCormick. Mehrts, who had also scored heavily against Wales a few years earlier, sent me a typically smart-arsed text of congratulations.
The rest of the tour went much more smoothly. We comfortably beat Ireland, 45–7, then won a tight game against England 23–19, and I was named man-of-the-match. The last game of the tour was against Scotland, for a 29–10 win. A number of the first team and I had the game off. I remember being surprised that Tana was playing, given that he’d had a few tough ones leading into it. It became clear why he’d turned out in the dressing-room afterwards, when he announced his retirement out of the blue.
It was a shocking moment. No one saw it coming, and he’d told no one except management. Afterwards, we didn’t breathe a word, and it didn’t come out until the following year. Most retirements nowadays are so managed, almost choreographed, but it really speaks to Tana’s values and priorities that he did it with so little ceremony, telling his teammates and coaches directly, before anyone else. I don’t think we’ll ever see his like again.
After the tour there was one last event to attend. I was nominated for the IRB World Player of the Year. The event was in Paris. I was excited just to be nominated, at 23. Then I won. It felt like the culmination of a crazy few years, all capped off by being named the best rugby player in the world. There had been some rough moments at times, but that night flushed them all way. All I could do was sit there, thousands of miles from Southbridge, and let it wash over me.