My introduction to Dan Carter was under somewhat bizarre circumstances. ‘To celebrate the launch of their new smart fabric,’ the press release read, ‘Jockey Performance are making Dan available for a limited series of one-on-one interviews . . .’
I’d read this kind of interview before. You go along, chat with Dan Carter about rugby, then, in small italicised print at the bottom, you mention that the interview was ‘furnished by Jockey’ or similar. That didn’t seem very much fun to me. But I liked the idea of doing a serious in-depth interview with Dan Carter and his life in underwear. So did Simon Wilson, my editor at Metro. We accepted Jockey’s kind invitation.
I was summoned to the Langham Hotel, in central Auckland, and eventually ushered up to a two-room suite which Jockey had put on for the event. There were half a dozen or so young women there, led by a beaming Sara Tetro, still glowing with the fame of her hosting stint on New Zealand’s Next Top Model. Off in the corner sat DC, looking worn out, but amiable.
My time came. I sat down with Dan, and spent 15 minutes asking him about his life in undies. ‘What were the first undies you ever wore, do you remember?’ ‘How about during your teenage years?’ ‘You must have a huge collection — how many pairs do you reckon you’ve got?’ ‘Are there any undies you just wouldn’t wear?’ Etc.
He was a really, really good dude about what was a ridiculous and somewhat intrusive line of questioning. I walked away pleasantly surprised, and wrote up a very silly feature of which I remain quite fond. There was no part of me that imagined I’d ever be allowed in a room with him again, what with my having revealed myself as being such an alarming clown.
It was quite the surprise when, around a year later, I received a phone call from Warren Adler. I didn’t know him prior, but he had worked with Ruby Mitchell, a good friend. We discussed what a fine human she was for a couple of minutes, before he got to the crux of the matter: he worked for Upstart Press, a new publishing house founded by ex-Hachette staff. Would I be interested in writing a book about a prominent New Zealand sportsperson?
I replied that it depended on who that person might be. In my head, there were maybe two or three people who would occupy the middle ground between ‘important enough to have a book written about them’ and ‘someone I’d like to write about’. Dan Carter was one of them.
This was driven less by what I knew of the man than what I didn’t. He was arguably the biggest star in New Zealand sports, and certainly its most visible. There he was, floating on a wall doing a bad impression of a heat pump. Smiling up at me from my mum’s fish oil capsules. Taking a hearty swig of Powerade after a near-miss on a mountain bike. He was everywhere! But what did I know about him?
I knew he was probably the most consistently prodigious backline player of my lifetime. That he was the highest points scorer in international rugby by a huge margin. That he was also the highest points scorer in Super Rugby, an arena in which he had won three titles. That he had twice won the prestigious International Rugby Player of the Year award and had been nominated on two other occasions. That he was considered both stunningly attractive and incredibly modest. And that his second test performance against the Lions in 2005 was quite possibly the greatest game a rugby player has ever assembled.
But I also knew that his body had betrayed him cruelly, when he needed it most. And that when that happened, he seemed to shrug it off. To recap the three things I knew: 1. He was everywhere. 2. He was a rare sporting genius. 3. He appeared to have no emotions.
It seemed inhuman. Yet, the man I’d met a year earlier had been funny, self-effacing, tolerant. He had none of the born-to-rule jock energy of some other rugby players I’d met. So I knew there was a contradiction between his public image and the reality of his person. That’s inevitably true of all prominent people to an extent. But I had a suspicion it was particularly true of Dan Carter.
Adler asked that I send through a few features, so that he and Kevin Chapman, the head of Upstart Press, could assess my suitability for the job. I did, and a couple of weeks later I heard back. They liked my work, and could reveal that it was indeed Dan Carter they were scouting for.
I was flattered, excited — and worried. I’d never written a book before, and had hoped that if I ever did I would be able to do it in many years’ time, once I had some clue how it was done. But an opportunity like this would likely never come along again, I reasoned. So why not take the meeting at least?
I walked up the road from my home in Kingsland to a café near the top of Mt Eden Road. Typically, I underestimated how long the walk would take, and arrived sweaty and a little dishevelled on an unseasonably hot day in October. I walked out the back, and found Dean Hegan, Dan’s agent, and Dan himself. The three of us talked for 40 minutes, generalities mostly, before Dean excused himself and left Dan to it.
We spoke for a further hour, discussing what he and I might want from a book. I was struck by how much he seemed to care what I’d be getting from it. Whether it was the right time for me. If I was happy for my first book to be the autobiography of a rugby player. It seemed to come from a place of empathy and care, which I appreciated, but also a baseline shrewdness: is this person the right one to entrust with my story?
We exchanged contact details, and he drove me home after-wards, which, again, seemed nice. Over the coming weeks Upstart and Dan’s agents at Essentially continued to negotiate — no contract was yet in place — while Dan and I continued to talk via email and Skype, operating under the assumption that the deal would get done, and that I would write his book.
Throughout that time I thought often of the possibilities of the story. As a journalist I had almost never written about rugby, despite loving sports, and the game. I found its presentation in New Zealand very dull, the All Blacks aside. I reflexively dislike the central control model of the NZRU, preferring the wild west private ownership model you find basically everywhere else in the professional sporting universe. I thought that fundamental distortion spread down into boards, which allowed ordinary coaches and administrators to remain in situ for far too long, and the players, who seemed aloof and distant. There seemed to be a wall up, and I couldn’t be bothered trying to scale it. So I wrote about basketball and MMA and cycling and golf. Anything but rugby.
Writing Dan’s book represented a tantalising opportunity to be smuggled into the heart of the operation. Rugby was a huge part of New Zealand life, and one that had undergone a radical transformation post-1995 — one which Dan happened to be there to witness first hand. He was one of the two or three most pivotal figures within the All Blacks during a period of great change for that awe-inspiring team — one which I, for all my misgivings about rugby’s structure, loved unequivocally.
Beyond the attraction of the broader backdrop was the personal story of the man. As we went back and forth, I became more and more certain that he would speak very openly about the realities and frustrations of life as a professional athlete at his level. That behind the perma-smiling face lay a real human, with doubts and dreams and failings, and that we would be able to tell that story.
As I write this, having just submitted the manuscript, I think we have. There were moments along the way when I became convinced that wouldn’t happen. I was busy starting and running a website, ‘The Spinoff’, throughout the year. Plus I’d never written anything longer than 8000 words, and had no idea how it was done.
There were debates about whether to publish for Father’s Day 2015. This would be deeply problematic, as Dan would still be under contract and obligation to the NZRU at that point, and thus necessarily more reticent. More to the point, his story would be unfinished — he still harboured dreams of playing one last World Cup, though his body was failing him at the time.
I also thought that, whatever his intentions, it was inevitable the book would be watered down to something insipid. I knew a number of other people would read it pre-production. I thought their input would spook Dan from his planned candour.
In the end, none of that seemed to have any profound effect on what we created. I say ‘we’ because even though I typed the book, Dan has been deeply involved in every facet of its creation. After I’d signed on I heard horror stories of players and coaches who grudgingly gave the barest minimum time to this kind of project. Who wouldn’t even read the proofs, and then find themselves in shocked denial of something written in their autobiography.
Dan wasn’t like that at all. He is the busiest person I’ve ever met, yet gave countless hours to me and to this book. There were long stretches in Taupo and Christchurch, the latter taking in a trip to Southbridge, where I met his mother and father. I know the route to his house in Auckland well at this point, and there are dozens of emails, text conversations and Skype records to attest to his dedication to this project. That mightn’t seem like much to ask of someone for their autobiography — but from what I’ve been told, it’s exceedingly rare for an athlete to be as engaged as this in their book.
That doesn’t mean I didn’t find it challenging to write. After initial discussions about the third person, it was decided that the market wanted it from Dan’s perspective. That meant not only that most of the tools I normally rely on as a feature writer were out of reach, but that I would have to figure out how to reveal the scale of his achievements despite his extreme reluctance to ever acknowledge the greatness which is manifest within him. The idea of ever failing to appear humble seems to fill Dan with a mortal dread, even when he’s talking casually about accomplishments which would be utterly alien to the vast majority of us.
I would have to do all that within his voice and vernacular. I’m still not sure whether I accomplished it. But I know that Dan gave his all to this project, and that it contains truths about himself, his teams and his era to which the vast majority of his fans won’t have been privy. I hope this book goes some way to opening up the secret world of the All Blacks and Dan Carter, and in so doing helps demonstrate the effort and the strain which has shaped his life.
Duncan Greive, September 2015