13
Watching History from the Stands

One of the good things about losing a Super Rugby final is that you don’t have a lot of time to dwell on it — there’s always an All Blacks game the following weekend. This was truer than ever in 2011, when even the warm-up games had an edge to them, with the World Cup imminent, and everyone wanting to book their place in the squad. This was magnified by the compressed international season that year. We had one warm-up, against Fiji, then a shortened Tri-Nations, before rolling into the World Cup in September.

In the week leading into the Fiji game we came up with a leadership group of management, players and coaches to talk about how to prioritise the year’s competitions. We had the World Cup, the Tri-Nations and the Bledisloe Cup. The way we saw it there was one must-win (the World Cup, obviously), one we’d like to win (the Bledisloe) and one we didn’t mind too much about (the Tri-Nations). Funnily enough, that ended up being exactly what we got. Back then, had you offered it to us as a result by the season’s end, we’d have been elated. But I can’t imagine the current All Blacks side conceding the Tri-Nations so casually. Our mindset has changed so much — now we want to be the most dominant team in the history of world rugby. So, if you’re striving for that, you won’t be satisfied unless you win everything.

The Fiji game went well. Having made the Super Rugby final, some of the other Crusaders and I skipped it, and we assembled in Wellington to open the Tri-Nations. There we punished South Africa, 40–7, setting up a good but not great Tri-Nations, one through which we really struggled to maintain concentration. The World Cup, at home, loomed so large we could never quite block it out. Particularly as it seemed likely to be the last for so many of us. A whole generation of guys were at what should have been their peak, and were thought likely to retire or head to Europe in the years to come. As it turns out, a number of them — me, Richie, Ma’a and Conrad among them — would still be there four years on. But we went in as if it were our last roll of the dice. One made all the sharper by being in front of our own fans.

Looking back, we were a different team in 2011 to the side which wears the jersey today. Still number one in the world, and coming off a great season in 2010. But not quite as ruthless as we are today. We conceded the Tri-Nations with the last game before the World Cup, courtesy of a tight 25–20 loss to Australia in Brisbane. It didn’t mean a lot at the time, but we were surprised by how much was read into it by some. There was this idea circulating that it meant we were beatable, whereas others thought it was good to have a loss to sharpen your minds. To us, it just didn’t mean a thing — mentally we’d already moved on.

All the conversation going in was about whether we’d be able to handle the pressure of the public. The international media went so far as to speculate whether it was even an advantage to be hosts. The theory went that because we’re such a rugby-mad country, the pressure would overtake us. That seemed silly to me. We were in familiar surroundings, in front of our own crowds. Yes, there was pressure to perform, but we would have felt that anywhere. Here there was that, but also the indescribable excitement of playing the best teams in the world at our own stadiums.

Leading into the tournament we did a nationwide tour promoting the All Blacks to the nation. We went all over the country to small rural towns and centres, the kind which would never normally get to see the team. It was a fantastic way to roll into the Cup, because we got to witness a level of excitement you often miss in the big cities. They were just fanatical. We would have 300 people following us everywhere we went, every car tooting their horn, people leaning out the side, yelling and every face in town lit up. A few of us went to Te Puke and felt like visiting royalty; we toured schools and the local rugby club, and the whole town just stopped for the day.

After that it was time to head into the tournament. We reassembled, all pumped from having those experiences, and had our final week’s training ahead of the tournament opener against Tonga. As usual, we stayed at the Heritage Hotel, an ornate former department store in central Auckland, a place so familiar it’s like a second home. A fanzone, The Cloud, had been set up not far away on Queen’s Wharf, and we could hear the opening ceremony happening there as we ate dinner. The whole central city was boiling, in a way which I’ve never seen in Auckland before. The following day we tried to stretch out our normal pre-match routine, as the games were starting later to fit northern hemisphere time zones.

We had a pre-match meal four hours out from kick-off. Most of us then went back to our rooms to sleep for a half hour or so. I never have trouble sleeping, no matter what. But today was different — I was so excited, and the noise of the city meant I could never mentally escape what was coming. We assembled at the bus, and drove in along the fan trail. Normally you wouldn’t see anyone until you’re right at the stadium, but this was different. The whole way in was lined with people, on the street or out front of their houses. You couldn’t miss what it meant to the country.

The game itself was a typical Tongan test. They came out with brutal aggression and fire, but we knew that if we could absorb that things would start breaking our way. They did, but the game never really took off. We lacked a bit of cohesion, for some reason. Whether it was nerves, or excitement, or knowledge that we were meant to put on a show for the opening game . . . who knows? Still, it was a comfortable win, 41–10, which was all we required from it. In time that Tongan team would prove themselves one of the surprises of the tournament, which casts the result in a somewhat better light.

In the days which followed we started to deal with the typical problem of World Cups — maintaining your momentum. Six weeks is such a long time to be in the midst of something as consuming as this tournament. You have to be constantly building to a peak, rather than ebbing and flowing. The end-of-year tours are four or five weeks long, and often the last two weeks you’re just counting down the days, which is why you’ll sometimes see us slip up in the last or second-to-last game of a tour. Guys are just spent by then. So the World Cup, at six weeks, is a real challenge mentally. That’s where the depth of your squad comes in, and your creativity within the team, with elements such as the entertainment committee. That, and taking advantage of your days off. That was another plus of being in New Zealand: if you were in your home town on your day off you could see friends or family. That’s what I’d do: go home to familiar surroundings, see Honor and avoid that staleness which comes with living hotel life for too long.

I sat out the Japan game in Hamilton, which was always the plan. During training that week I tweaked my back doing squat jumps, so back spasms restricted my training. Your back’s a funny thing — it’s really hard to know how serious an injury is. It was sore, but very manageable, and I wasn’t particularly concerned. I was at a public event in Hamilton when all that changed. It went into spasm so badly I could barely move. I ended up having to take a lot of tramadol to get enough pain relief to calm it down. It remained tight, and I started to get anxious about it coming right ahead of the pool game against France. That was our one serious hit-out ahead of the knockout stages, and I needed to play it. I was still taking lots of tramadol leading into the week, but thankfully it began to settle down as we approached the weekend.

I remember being so relieved. Given the history between the sides it felt so important that we execute it right. And we did, emphatically, in a 37–17 win. Izzy Dagg was unstoppable, and the whole team gelled in a way which gave us a tremendous amount of confidence. I felt my running game was as good as it had ever been, and the game was the best I’d played in three World Cups. The only black spot was Richie’s foot. It would be a problem throughout the tournament, but it’s a sign of his mental strength that even though he couldn’t train, and could barely run, he never seemed to consider quitting the team. Like me, he’d skipped the Japan game, and it was clear that it was really bothering him. He gutsed out the game against France, but was touch-and-go for Canada.

Coming off the French game I felt so buoyant heading into the Canada test. It was a Sunday game, which is unusual in New Zealand. Normally the day before a game involves some promotional work, but I’d been given the Saturday morning off, so had a lie-in. We were staying at the Intercontinental, in downtown Wellington. Ma’a and I went off to his local café in Lyall Bay, trying to avoid the crowds. We were sitting having a coffee when I got a phone call from Darren Shand, our manager. He told me that Richie’s foot hadn’t come right and he was pulling out of the game. Shandy told me I’d be captaining the side, and I was needed back at the hotel to do media. I hung up, momentarily stunned, and told Ma’a what had happened. He drove us back into town.

I’d been vice-captain since 2009, around two and a half years by that point. But I’d never captained the All Blacks, because Richie and I had always played together through that span. The games he missed, I missed too. So Mils Muliaina got to captain the side, as did Kevvy Mealamu, in the pool match against Japan. While I never begrudged them or Richie, I was so happy to be finally getting the honour. I called Dad, who was incredibly proud, and headed off up to the press conference. There were a bunch of questions, asking how it changed things, and I gave stock answers. It truly didn’t change much at all. I’ve learned so much from Richie over the years, principally that captaincy is driven by your actions on the field. As first-five you’re already a big part of tactics and strategy anyway, so there were no nerves to speak of. I was just tremendously excited about the opportunity.

After the press conference we had lunch together in the team conference room. Richie’s injury wasn’t thought to be too serious, so there wasn’t any major concern in the air. Management explained that I was now captaining the side, and we talked about how the captain’s run would play out. We’d warm up, play a bit of touch, do the captain’s run, then we’re done. We didn’t need a big session that deep into the tournament, when your preparation is already well advanced. The only unconventional part was that as Westpac Stadium was occupied that evening, we’d do the run at Rugby League Park, in Newtown.

The ground was stickier, which isn’t ideal, and the conditions naturally somewhat different. But it didn’t seem a huge deal. I felt good throughout the warm-up, then rolled my ankle a little during a game of touch rugby. We were only running at half pace, but I went to step and it rolled. So the rest of the game I hung out on the wing and tried to run it off. I could still feel it during the captain’s run. It was a short and sharp pain, and refused to come right the way these kinds of minor tweaks tend to. But I didn’t want to disrupt my routine, so when the run ended I thought I’d go through my normal kicking session before I saw the physios. After a captain’s run I’ll always do 15 or 20 goal-kicks, and a few drop-kicks. But because my back had been tight, and my ankle a little soft, I thought I’d limit it to four goal-kicks, just to make sure I had my timing down. My plan was to do two from right in front, then one each from either side, 15 metres in from touch.

The two from out front felt fine. My dodgy ankle was on my plant foot, and it wasn’t 100 per cent, but I was certain it would settle down ahead of the game. As I prepared for my third kick, I put the ball down, and knelt on one knee to place the ball on the tee, before pushing up with my left foot. It’s the kind of ritual that all kickers have, and this was no different to thousands I’ve run through before. Just as I stepped up with my left foot I felt my groin twinge a little bit. It was odd, and a little unsettling. But bodies are always giving off phantom messages, so I didn’t think too much of it. I stepped back, ran in and kicked the ball. Black dot. No problem.

One more kick, I thought, then I’ll go and get that ankle seen to. I went through the same routine, and as I got up I felt my groin twinge again. Not enough to worry, just enough to be aware of it. I shrugged the sensation off, and stepped to the back of my run-up, then paced in to kick the ball. I approached and swung through my kicking arc, just the same as ever. Only this time the result was very different. At the moment of contact, when my foot struck the ball, my leg just buckled beneath me. I felt this pop from within, and collapsed to the ground, screaming in agony. The ball dribbled 10 metres in front of me, and I lay there, crumpled in a heap.

Everyone around me assumed it was a joke. It was such a routine kick, and I have a reputation as something of a practical joker, though I’d never do that in such a serious situation. I stayed down, clutching my groin, and soon people surrounded me. Deb Robinson, our doctor, asked what had happened. I was in such acute pain I could barely speak. I just stammered out that it was my groin.

After the captain’s run the backs do their kicking drills and forwards do lineouts. Then the media come in. Deb realised that media would be there any minute, and wanted me off the field and in the changing room before they arrived. She asked if I could walk. I tried, but couldn’t, and had to be helped off the field. When I sat down, I was in shock. It didn’t seem possible that it could be happening — again. I looked down at my groin and it kept moving, grotesquely, in spasm. Deb felt around it, and I sat there mute. I was in so much pain, and the potential implications for the game and tournament were just starting to dawn.

The rest of the team slowly finished training, and began to filter into the room. I had questions running around in my head: how serious is this? Is this my World Cup over? I had no way of judging the scale of the injury — whether it was just a tear which would heal in a couple of weeks, or a complete rupture. I just didn’t know.

Deb is outstanding in these kinds of stressful, emotional occasions. She has an infectious calm about her. She told me not to jump to conclusions; that something had happened, but that we should wait until we’d had scans and a firm diagnosis before we figured out what to do next. I called Honor, who was in Wellington for the game, to let her know about the injury and that I was going to get a scan. Then Deb and I headed back to the hotel to wait until an appointment could be procured. I sat, trying not to worry, until the phone rang that evening, and we headed across to Wellington Hospital, passing waves of supporters on their way to the stadium.

After the scan I sat in the waiting room while Deb and the specialist went through the results. I didn’t want to be involved in the conversation; I just wanted to know if my Cup was over or not. I’m not a religious man, and never have been, but I was praying that it was just a partial tear, that I might somehow recover in time for the final. Eventually they called me through and pulled images up on the screen, and told me the news I’d been dreading: a torn adductor muscle in my groin. It was the adductor longus, a key stabilising muscle which runs from the pubic bone down to the thigh. It would have been a major injury for anyone, but it was particularly serious for kickers — our accuracy relies on the repetition of a very specific action. The longus is the source of a lot of the thigh’s fine motor control. Mine was shot — the MRI showed that the muscle had torn clean off the footplate.

I asked if that was my World Cup over, already knowing the answer. They confirmed it was, that three months was the most optimistic recovery timeframe. My heart sank. I said nothing at all.

We got back in the car. Deb sat up front with the liaison officer who’d driven us there. I leaned back and welled up with tears. All my questions were whys: Why here? Why now? Most of all: Why me? This tournament had meant so much to me, and had just been wrenched away doing something so ordinary, something I’d done dozens of times a day for virtually my entire life. It was a freak injury, one which could’ve happened at any other time and had no impact on my World Cup. Kicking a ball, the action which has brought me so much joy and opportunity, had now snatched away a dream I’d been working towards, in one way or another, my whole career.

We arrived back at the hotel, and they snuck me in the back entrance. The media knew something was up. I was a wreck, so it was some small solace to be able to avoid the scrum. Partners aren’t allowed to stay with players at the hotel, but Shandy said Honor could come in for the night. She was waiting for me, and comforted me through that long night. Over the course of the next few hours some key people came by to see me: Graham Henry, Wayne Smith, Richie, and a few of the other leaders. They made a point of keeping most of the team away, for which I was grateful at the time. Because none of us knew what to say. There was nothing that could be said. Facts are facts: I was out. I tried to make light of it, to crack little jokes, but my heart wasn’t in it. I still believed in the team, thought they would win the whole thing, and I wanted them to know that. But as soon as they’d leave the room I’d crawl back into my hole, cursing my luck.

I barely slept that night. I was in a lot of pain, and on a lot of painkillers.

When I woke up the next morning my first thought was about how I’d get right, how I’d fix the injury. I wanted to be proactive, not just sitting there, broken and useless. For a week the debate went back and forth among medical personnel and specialists: should I have surgery to get my adductor muscle reattached, or should I let it heal on its own? One opinion was that letting it heal naturally might result in a loss of kicking power, and that surgery had proven successful for some AFL players, who kick far more than we do in rugby. I was scared of losing kicking power; it sounded like it could limit or end my career. So even though there were some key people opposed to the surgical option, I elected to travel to a specialist we’d been recommended in Melbourne as soon as possible, and have it reattached.

The next day I stayed anchored to my room. I watched the guys tear Canada apart. I watched numbly as Colin Slade injured his groin. I was stuck in my own world, angry, resentful, wishing I was there with them, captaining the side. I would stay in that black mood for days.

That only broke when Joe Locke, our media manager, approached me and asked if I’d like to do a press conference ahead of the quarter-final. My general attitude towards press conferences is to avoid them. I guess it comes back to that shyness. But I was aware there was a sentiment out there suggesting that the team couldn’t win without me, which I knew to be untrue, and I liked the idea of being able to stand up and squash it in a very public forum. So I agreed to front the media.

The event ended up being pretty emotional. I had no option but to be candid about the fact my dream had been hauled out from under me. The wall I normally keep up around media came down. But, as draining as the experience was, I also found it empowering — like I had asserted control over the injury and the narrative, had stopped just being a victim of this awful event. I opened up about my feelings both personally and towards the team, and said I remained convinced they would win this tournament.

I was surprised by how good it felt, and gratified by the way it was received. Some people told me it changed the mood of the nation, and while I don’t believe that, I do believe it helped the media and public move on from the injury, to refocus on the tournament, and the team. And that felt really, really good.

After the press conference I was determined to continue to do what I could to help the team. But first I had to have surgery. I flew to Melbourne later that week, and was actually under the knife during our victory over Argentina in the quarter-final. When I returned I had to stay away from camp. One of the most brutal things about World Cups is that you’re only allowed so many players in your squad. When you’re invalided out, you lose your accreditation, which makes it really difficult to even be around the team. So I couldn’t attend training, or spend time with the guys. (At least not officially. Some friendly security guards would let me in.) But being kept apart from the team was very challenging mentally. I moved from feeling like a senior member of this very unified group to almost cast aside, however unintentionally.

With my injury, Aaron Cruden was called into the team. I was able to have some input with him and the other 9s and 10s, trying to mentor them a little on the occasions I could get around the squad. That felt good. I tried to focus on presenting a very positive face around the team, and in public. Over the years I’ve grown pretty good at putting on the mask of a happy-go-lucky guy, having a few go-to lines in response to questions. It’s easier than being honest. I didn’t want anyone to see me moping around, feeling sorry for myself.

When the semi and final came around, I watched from the stands with very mixed emotions. I love my team and my teammates, but I wanted so badly to be there with them, sharing the good and the bad — the nerves, the excitement and particularly the sense of satisfaction after the adrenalin of the week is resolved in a game. They were out there, doing exactly what I’d always dreamed of and worked towards. I tried not to dwell on why it happened to me, and not someone else, but it was hard not to.

The semi-final against Australia was something else. Everything clicked, and there was no doubting the result from the first whistle. I was so impressed at the way the guys handled themselves. The final was obviously incredibly tense, but we pulled it off. With the final whistle, a lot of my bitterness melted away. I was just so happy for my teammates, for the coaches, for the whole country. I got swept up in that. I was allowed on to the field, and able to finally soak in that feeling. It didn’t turn out the way I’d planned, and I’d still today give anything for it to have played out differently. But in front of a packed home crowd, we’d won the World Cup. At last.