The thought crept up on me slowly, but once it took hold, it refused to let go. It would sneak into my mind during training, when I was pushing weights. Or in the dead of night, when I couldn’t sleep. Most often, it made itself at home during rehab. Endless, thankless rehab, trying to heal a broken body. The thought was: Why am I doing this? Why don’t I just retire?
Players retire every year, but when it’s your peers it starts to wear on you. I was hit the hardest by the loss of Jimmy Cowan and Ali Williams. They were two of my closest friends in the team — we became a tight-knit trio off the field. I’d known Jimmy since our age-grade teams, and he’s got the biggest heart. Status means nothing to him — he’s just so grounded, so real. Ali was a different kind of friendship. That nickname ‘comical Ali’ is bang on. As an All Black it’s very easy to lose yourself in the pressures and expectations, particularly for someone as prone to introspection as me. Ali would never let me get too far down that road — his pranks and jokes meant what we were aiming for stayed in perspective.
When they left Super Rugby to head north I felt lonely, like I had lost some of the sense of fun I had around the game. Particularly within the All Blacks.
There was a young group coming up that were great mates, incredibly tight on and off the field. They liked the same music, ate together, hung out together, played video games and cards together. Just as Ali, Richie and the rest of us used to do when we came into the squad over a short time span, at first overawed, then increasingly feeling like the team was ours.
These young guys were all of a similar age and generation. I watched Aaron Cruden come up, saw what he could do, felt both admiration and slightly threatened. But while I respected his game immensely, I still felt I had something to offer the team. I wanted there to be good, friendly competition for positions, and have never minded when new players came along with big raps on them. That competitive side of me relishes the challenge.
At least, I always had to that point. Now my body was shot. I was stuck in what felt like an endless cycle: play a few games, get a new injury, then give in to weeks of rehab again. I had no confidence in my body. Every time I stepped onto the field I would wonder which part would give way next. My mind was full of what-ifs and fears I couldn’t speak aloud. That’s not how your mind is working when you’re on top of your game, and I never got close to finding a rhythm as a result. It was the winter of 2013, and rugby — for so long a joy — had become a prison.
Injuries really start to weigh on you as you get older. They feel like a betrayal, like your body letting you down. There was nothing catastrophic, but it felt like every time I’d work through one issue, another limb would give out. It got to the point where whenever there was any odd ache or strange feeling in my body, I’d start to assume the worst. I’d think it was a sign of something major looming, another session with sports physician Tony Page and muscle therapist George Duncan, assessing the physical damage, and Gilbert Enoka, assessing the mental.
Then it would be back to the stands on game day. All that time on the sideline I’d stare out at the team, the joy they felt, the explosive athleticism they displayed, and a loneliness would set in. Watching the young guys I felt a real sense of loss. I’d been that way once, through the 2000s. It felt like the whole team was a big gang of friends. You’d train hard, play hard and then socialise together afterwards. We felt indestructible. It was a fantastic lifestyle.
Now I was down the back of the bus, and was lucky if there were half a dozen guys I was truly tight with scattered around those seats. Coming and going, as they dealt with their own injuries. And every so often disappearing forever, when they headed north to chase the twilight of their professional vitality. Every time that happened, I’d feel a new loss, as that sense of connection with the core of the team began to slip away.
Having a wife and young family meant I didn’t enjoy being away from home the same way, and sponsorship commitments meant that, even on tour, almost all of my free time was spoken for — there were emails to answer, events to attend, promotions to shoot, hands to shake. The game which I had always loved had become a ferocious beast, one which drained me of energy without restoring it the way it once had. Every week I would be haunted by this thought which refused to leave me alone: I wish I could retire.
Often the following day, I’d wake up and something would remind me of how much I loved the game: a pain-free training session, a conversation, occasionally even a game. Then a few days later I’d be back in the hole, wishing I could give it up. My mind would drift back to 2011, when I signed my four-year contract. I knew in my heart that if it had been a two-year deal I’d have been gone. It was exhausting. It’s hard enough playing the game, going through rehab and the grind of professional sport, without having to battle these demons telling you to quit.
The one thing which kept me sane through this period was my sabbatical. It was booked for the end of 2013, and became a beacon to me. If it hadn’t been there, I’d probably have just walked away from it all. But I knew every day was bringing me closer to that break. I thought if I could just drag myself through this season, it was there waiting for me. A chance to get away from the game for six months, get my body right, get my mind right. Then maybe things would freshen up, and I’d regain my love for the game.
The worst part was that I didn’t feel I could talk to anyone about these thoughts, couldn’t breathe life into them by saying them aloud. It’s not how rugby players are supposed to feel. We’re marketed as if we’re made of granite. That image helps pull in spectators and sponsors, but it can also mean you feel like you have to live up to a particular kind of rugged image, regardless of how you’re feeling inside. It’s a brutal sport, and exacts a heavy toll. I’d speak to Honor about it endlessly. She really coaxed me through those months, with empathy drawn from her own experiences as an athlete.
Along with the sabbatical, one number dragged me forward. I’d never cared about them before. I’m the highest points scorer for Super Rugby. The highest points scorer for international rugby. I barely noticed when I ticked past them. They weren’t why I was playing the game. But when I started to limp from injury to injury, I became obsessed with one exclusive club.
One hundred tests. Richie got there first. Then Mils Muliaina, Keven Mealamu and Tony Woodcock. I’d been cruising there for a while, playing 35 tests between 2006 and 2008 alone. But as these injuries kept creeping in I stayed longer and longer in the nervous 90s. I’d play a test or two, then be out for a month. At times I felt like fate had decided I wouldn’t get there — the same way it had struck me down during the most routine of kicks at the 2011 World Cup. That fed into the fear about my body. I’d be running along in training, get the tiniest twinge and think: ‘Is that my calf? I’ve done my calf!’ Then a couple of minutes later I’d realise it was nothing.
All these people were appearing out of the woodwork, saying they could fix me. Being such a public figure, every doctor or chiropractor or neurologist in the country had a theory about why I was breaking down. They’d call Mum and Dad saying they knew what the problem was, that they could cure me. I never took them up on their offers. Mostly because I thought it was terminal. My Achilles tendon was still tender from the previous year. That seemed to flow up into my calves, then my hamstrings. My whole body — that mass of interconnected bone and tissue — was a mess of different weaknesses and flaws, each revealing themselves one by one. Some well-known, others lying in wait.
Never getting a consistent run of games meant my performance when I could make the field was suffering. I have incredibly high expectations of myself — I want to be the best player in the world. But through 2013 I wasn’t even close to the best player on the field. And all the time my friends, the players I came up with, were dropping away. It felt like every week another would sign a contract in Japan, or France, or Ireland. Between that and the injuries the question was unavoidable and recurring: Why are you still here?
The sabbatical represented time away to rebuild my body and rediscover my love for a game which had dominated my life since I could walk. I come from a line of rugby men, and from the moment I first picked up a ball there had never been anything I’d rather have been doing. For over 20 years my body was rock solid, my love of the game unquenchable. Until now, when almost anything else seemed more appealing. The sabbatical was one thing, but it was still months away. While it was good to have Honor to confide in, her advice was more along the lines of ‘brush it off, you’ll feel better tomorrow’, which was mostly true. But what about the following day, when often as not I’d be back in the black?
I decided to treat my mental issues the way I would my physical — to go and get help from professionals. Fortunately the All Blacks have, in Gilbert Enoka, one of the best mental skills coaches in sport. I started spending more and more time with him and Ceri Evans, another top mental skills guy I’d dealt with through the All Blacks. I put a real focus on remembering that I didn’t have long left in what is one of the best jobs in the world. That I was incredibly fortunate to be there. To most people, it looked like I was paid very good money to do gym work, throw a ball around, have banter and coffee with teammates and friends. All while most people were stuck in an office. The other side is the constant demands of sponsors and media, which means a day without some form of commitment is almost non-existent, and many last from before dawn until well after dark.
The only issue was that as much as I wanted to be open and honest with Gilbert and Ceri, I always held back a little because I knew that they were part of the coaching infrastructure of the team. I knew I could trust them, but at the same time the idea of Steve Hansen or the other guys knowing I was feeling this way filled me with dread. So instead I concentrated on processes to shorten my thinking, structures which could get me through those dark patches.
The whole time I was terrified of Steve finding out I had these feelings. Our relationship had deteriorated badly in 2013, to the point where I wouldn’t talk to him about anything — I’d just bottle it all up. I would look at him and think about how busy he was, how many people he had to juggle, and think: ‘I don’t want to bother him.’ He’s not a naturally open guy either, so we each ended up making a lot of assumptions about what we were thinking or feeling.
In my mind, I started to doubt his faith in me. I thought, ‘Steve Hansen doesn’t want me in this team any more. And why would he? I’m injured all the time, he can’t rely on me.’ Those doubts wouldn’t leave me alone.
Injuries bedevilled my season. I missed the opening two games of a three-test home series against France with a broken bone in my hand. Then, in the middle of the Rugby Championship, I got smoked at Eden Park by Springboks hooker Bismarck du Plessis. We were going backwards, and I received the ball from Aaron Smith. They were right up on us in defence. He timed his hit perfectly and just demolished me. It was a completely fair hit, but I was cut in half, and popped the AC joint in my shoulder. That put me out for six weeks, and meant my Rugby Championship was over.
The following morning I started to think about when I was going to play my hundredth game. I was stranded on 97, and it started to eat away at me anew: What if it never happens? It got to the point where I was having major doubts that I’d even be selected for the end-of-year tour. I’d been a huge part of the team for a decade by then, but in my mind it was history and not form or ability that was keeping me there.
During that particular rehab, things got really low. To compensate for my inability to lift, I started to run a lot, one thing you can still do with a shoulder injury. One session I was trying to pound out the frustration, and went too far, causing my Achilles to flare up again. That pushed me out of the frame for the last Bledisloe of the year, for which I’d had an outside chance of returning. It was my fifth injury of the year, and I started to spiral down.
Gilbert picked up on it, with his usual intuitive power. He finally teased out of me some of my doubts regarding my future, Steve, and my place in the team. To his credit, Gilbert realised that there was a huge gap between my assumptions about Steve’s thinking, and what Steve’s impressions and intentions were. Gilbert suggested Steve and I start meeting for coffee once a week, to talk about rugby and our plans and so on.
We had the first session in September, and it was revelatory. When I opened up to him about my thoughts he was shocked. He couldn’t believe what I’d been thinking. That was a huge relief, and started me thinking more positively about this end-of-year tour, viewing it less as make-or-break for my career and more as an opportunity to get some game time, without worrying too much about its quality.
I met with Tony Page, who’d taken over from Deb Robinson as All Blacks doctor earlier in the year. Everyone knew how much I was fixating on 100. I even had a special commemorative pair of adidas boots they’d helped me design. They were gold and red, in an edition of 100, and I couldn’t wait to wear them. But the longer time dragged on, the more I wondered if I’d ever put them on. Eventually we settled on a cortisone shot, into the sheath around the Achilles tendon — not the tendon itself — which would help dull the discomfort enough for me to play. I was told it would last around three or four weeks, and should allow me to run, which it did, but little else.
We played Japan first, on the way out to Europe. That was my ninety-eighth game — the first of the three I needed to get to 100, and get that monkey off my back. I played around 50 minutes, but they were deeply ordinary — some of the most compromised of my career. My Achilles was so tight I could hardly run or train. In any other circumstance I’d have shut it down, but at that time I had a real desperation about getting to my hundredth. I truly had no idea whether I would get another shot. The coaches knew it, and so did the medical personnel. I had no idea what the sabbatical would do to me, whether I’d even want to play again after experiencing life without rugby. I wanted to go in with that milestone ticked off, otherwise it would have haunted me throughout my time away.
The next game was against France. I started, and played 50-odd minutes, running far more freely than I had against Japan. Once I warmed up I couldn’t feel the tendon, which was a huge relief. That set me up for my hundredth game, against England at Twickenham. There are no bigger stages in world rugby, so in some ways it was a perfect way to ring it up.
It was an amazing test lead-up. Dad came over to spend the week with me, which was beautiful, as he’s always been my biggest supporter and mentor in rugby. I conducted a press conference which felt very special — because of the focus on looking back across my career, I was able to get a sense of the totality of its scope for perhaps the first time. The English press can be hellish, but they know how to contextualise such an event, so it was good to be in London for the occasion. The England team acknowledged it too, presenting me with a signed jersey after the game.
Despite the elation, I was a long way from fully fit. I could run, but not freely. It was week three after the cortisone shot, so I knew it would soon be wearing off. In my mind, though, I was so determined to get on the field that I almost didn’t care what happened beyond then. Running out onto Twickenham, in my golden boots, was an extraordinary feeling. The crowd was so generous, and gave me a huge ovation. I had goose bumps, and do even now thinking back to it.
Then we did a haka, which featured Liam Messam, who was leading it that day, pulling me up by the jersey. It was completely unplanned, and unexpected. I almost didn’t know what to do, and was nearly overcome by the moment — it’s a mark of respect which is very rare, and has only happened to players very occasionally during my career.
The game started brilliantly. I was loving the occasion, playing better than I had in months. All the agonising doubt was being washed away with every step, pass and punt. Then, 20 minutes in, I received the ball, stepped, and took it into the tackle. As I went down, I felt my Achilles. It wasn’t just tight — it was a sharp pain. I got up, and hobbled through the next five minutes. But I knew it was over. I realised that I wasn’t helping my team, hanging around on one leg, and very reluctantly went off. It was a horrible way to end the game, especially after the energy of the week. Worse still, a year earlier I’d left the field for the same reason. Only this time I knew the injury was more serious.
As I limped from the field my thoughts moved inexorably to my sabbatical. It was meant to be a time to rest, recuperate, retune my body and rediscover my love of the game by testing life without it. Now it would be dominated by another rehab. At that moment I believed there was a very good chance I’d played my last game of rugby.