1
Playing Until the Night Stopped Us

In the midst of the yawning expanse of the Canterbury Plains lies a small town named Southbridge. It lies 50 kilometres south of Christchurch, beyond the base of Lake Ellesmere, near the top of the Canterbury Bight. The Carters and Brears — my mother’s side — have been born, grown up and died around here for generations.

Southbridge is in the heart of the region, a rural town that exists to service the surrounding farming community. There’s one pub, one café, one petrol station. There used to be two dairies, but now they’ve both closed down. It’s a couple of dozen streets and 700 people. I can’t imagine a better place to have spent my childhood.

I was born on 5 March 1982, in Leeston Maternity Hospital, just down the road — the same place my Mum and Dad came into the world. Leeston’s just another small town, but to me it was always a big deal — with more people, more shops, and a high school I would eventually attend. As close as the towns are, and as much time as I’ve spent there, Leeston is still the opposition to me. As soon as I was old enough to understand such things, it was drilled into me that Leeston was a team we just had to beat during rugby season.

As a kid, Southbridge was a giant playground. I had a tight-knit group of friends, and each year our world would get a little bigger. First the street, then the block, then the rugby club — in time we had the run of the whole town. We’d sleep out in ditches or in my neighbour’s treehouse — where we’d conduct little séances — mostly scampering back home once the excitement wore off and fear set in. We biked and walked every inch of it, outdoors in blazing heat or bitter cold. It was complete freedom, the quintessential small-town upbringing.

Both my parents come from big families — my dad Neville’s one of six, and my mum Beverley one of five — and there were cousins on every street, most closely bunched in age. This would sometimes get a bit awkward when I got older, as we were related at some distance to half the town. Kiss-and-catch is a bit freakier when you aren’t certain of your family ties. But as a youngster it was great, as I had an in-built set of friends. My sister Sarah and I existed both as a duo and also as part of the huge gaggle of kids which turned up at every family occasion. We were a big, unruly mob, and we would convene at various points throughout the region for birthdays and holidays.

When I was young we spent a lot of time on my grandparents’ farm, out nearer the coast, where the Rakaia River meets the Pacific. They had a sheep farm, which was a huge part of my childhood — another area I could roam and explore. I remember the sadness which came when they sold it in the late ’80s — it became too hard to run and they retired to Hornby. Luckily I still had my dad’s family just down the road.

My ’hood was Broad Street, a wide, quiet stretch of tarmac running toward the south-eastern edge of town. My grandparents lived a hundred metres away, and we’d spend countless hours around there, doing typical country stuff like inflating a tractor inner tube and playing with it for hours. My cousin Jackie and I would walk past our grandparents’ place each day on our way to school, often stopping in on the way home. When I grew older I was allowed to ride as far as their place, and leave my bike there before continuing on foot. Eventually I was considered old enough to bike the whole way.

Dad grew up in my grandparents’ house, at the town end. When he and Mum got married they bought a section on the next block and, a couple of years before I was born, Dad built the house I would grow up in. It had a small renovation a few years back, but is otherwise unchanged since he put it up in the late ’70s. So Dad has always lived on Broad Street. I imagine he always will.

Despite it being a farming community, we’re not a farming family. Dad became a builder at 18, and has been one ever since. Half the houses in town he’s either built or worked on. When I stopped by in January he was rebuilding the local fire station. On most days you’ll find him somewhere around town, making something or fixing it up. Mum’s a teacher at Springston Primary. She’s taught throughout the surrounding towns, and most people in the region under 40 or so will have had a lesson from her at one time or another.

For most of my childhood Mum was a reliever at the district’s various primary schools. This was problematic for me growing up, as she’d occasionally be called on to relieve my classes. I wasn’t a naughty kid — at least, I rarely got caught — but no one likes having their mum teach them. I was never quite sure whether to misbehave — because she is your mum and you want to push the boundaries a little — or whether to be an absolute angel and save the grief.

I loved school, but much more for the social side than the academic. Most of what knowledge of the world I possess — business, maths or science — has come through the experiences I’ve had as a rugby player, driven by curiosity or necessity. While I was at school I cruised through class, counting down the minutes until the bell rang. I would live for lunchtime and after school. I just wanted to be playing with my mates more than anything, rather than being locked up inside. Three o’clock meant running ourselves ragged from that moment until the last rays of light disappeared.

While we did some biking and hide and seek-type stuff, even from a young age it was sport which gripped our little gang — me, the Connells, the Taylors, the Whitfords. We would play cricket all summer and rugby all winter. The only time off I had came when I was four and badly broke my arm. I was around at a mate’s house and we were all bouncing on the trampoline. I got pushed while in the air, landing awkwardly on my arm, off to the side of the tramp. The bone popped out through my skin near the elbow — a gnarly compound fracture. I was in hospital for a while, and told I had only a 50 per cent chance of regaining use of my arm. Luckily it came right. It was a rough year — I also fell off the fort at playschool and got stitches through one of my eyebrows. I still have the scar, which people assume is an old head knock from rugby.

Sport is central to small-town New Zealand social life. It really is what binds small towns together: the clubrooms as adults, the fields as kids. Maybe it was different in the big cities, but there wasn’t a lot else to do. With just so much space and parks around every corner, we all had land to play on. Even at my primary school there’s so much grass — you could fit four rugby fields in the grass area of Southbridge Primary, a lot for a hundred-odd kids.

I suppose I was naturally sporty, but I put a huge amount of my success down to the way Dad encouraged me. My mum always talks about it — right from when I was a wee boy, Dad was wanting me playing with a rugby ball. He was a very hands-on father; there was always a ball around and he was always willing to play with me. Not because he wanted me to be an All Black — because he was a sportsman himself. He loved rugby and was happy to have a wee boy to teach the game. As soon as I could walk he wanted me kicking the ball — that was his next mission. ‘Cool, he’s walking, big tick — let’s get him kicking.’ Apparently I used to try to tackle Mum around the legs from a very early age as well. It’s just in my blood, I guess.

Rugby was the centre of social life, too. If you weren’t playing sport you weren’t really part of the community. Our family has always been deeply involved in local sports — one sevens side was entirely made up of Carters: Dad, his four brothers and a few cousins. Dad’s a Southbridge rugby legend — a life member, on the committee at 17 and part of the club forever. He played for Ellesmere, our district side, and Canterbury Country for many years, and has done time coaching every Southbridge side, from under-7s, to women’s, to seniors. He played over 300 games of senior club rugby, into his late forties, and still plays golden oldies today, at 60. It’s just what he does. There aren’t many people in the region’s rugby scene who haven’t come across him on or around the grounds. That includes All Blacks coaches Wayne Smith and Robbie Deans. In fact, Deans kept him out of the Canterbury Country side for a decade because they played the same position. Back then if you were on the bench it was unlikely you would make the field. You were only getting on for an injury.

So many of my early childhood memories are of being down at the rugby club with Dad. I started playing when I was six — Southbridge midgets in the morning. Playing with my mates, having the time of my life. Dad was a purist, so the night before I had to get the nugget out and clean my boots and have my kit all laid out for the next day. I got so excited on Fridays. We had a takeaway ritual — fish-and-chip Fridays — but game day was all I thought about. I wanted to go to sleep just so when I woke up it would be here.

It was by no means solely about playing the game, either; it was about the whole experience. Once I finished with the midgets I’d race upstairs for the after-match. Then we’d go and help set up the goal pads and the flags for the senior game. I was in awe of the senior rugby players; they were hometown heroes to us kids.

While the senior game played we split time between watching, enthralled, and having our own little games on the sideline. Our attention spans weren’t that great. As soon as that senior game finished we’d hit the field and be out there playing until nightfall.

Eventually Dad would come down and tell me to get the pads. This was a big deal: if I collected the flags and the goal pads, I could go upstairs and claim a free Moro bar or Coke — a big prize. There was a big social scene around the clubrooms and I adored every minute of Saturdays as a youngster. Rugby dominated life, and even Sundays would often be claimed by the code. Dad is a lifelong volunteer firefighter, so he used to play a lot of rugby for the Fire Brigade team or Combined Services at various tournaments, turning out against the Police or the Army. It was another day of rugby, so I was happy.

Dad’s a pretty easy-going guy, but he works bloody hard. He works long hours without complaining. He’s a club stalwart, volunteering without a second thought for any work that needs doing, and that extends to the town as a whole — he’ll do favours for anyone. But despite all the various people and organisations that needed him, he was always my number-one supporter. He would drop me at training, coach me, even play alongside me in certain teams. He was always there on the sideline, watching and supporting. His rugby ideology ran straight down into me — all my discipline around fitness, getting in shape prior to the season, running cross-country — that came out of his teaching and ethos.

Even to this day I haven’t played a game for the Crusaders or the All Blacks without hearing from him ahead of kick-off. It was always a phone call, until the last couple of years, when he discovered text messaging. Nearly three decades into my playing career he’s still intimately aware of my games, and has been a huge inspiration of mine throughout my childhood, my career and my life.

I can sense just how proud he is, coming from such a strong rugby family, that I’ve made the All Blacks and had the career I’ve had. I know I’m living his dreams as well — that he would have done anything to have played for the All Blacks. The team meant so much to him, and while he never made it himself, being able to watch his son play for the team brings him huge satisfaction.

The 1987 World Cup was when I first became aware of the All Blacks. They were hazy, so distant. The rugby players I saw in the flesh every Saturday were those I looked up to. But on the rare occasions I saw the All Blacks play I knew there was something special about them. One of my earliest rugby memories was John Kirwan scoring his length-of-the-field try against Italy. And David Kirk wiping out the corner flag on his way to winning the Cup. I’d replay the videos over and over, watching specific moves then sprinting outside to try and replicate them. Maybe it’s because those highlights have been played so many times since, but in my mind they remain clear, and even today I can still recall the energy and excitement of the tournament.

Southbridge had our own All Black in ’87 — Albert Anderson. Alby was a giant of the club, back when All Blacks were playing club rugby and NPC. I used to see him around the clubrooms a lot when I was really young, which was awe-inspiring to all of us kids. So I’m the second All Black from Southbridge.

Back in ’87 was when I began to obsess over certain players. I would be out after games imagining I was Kirwan scoring tries, or Grant Fox kicking goals. It meant I kicked pretty well, even as a seven and eight year old I’d knock them over from 35 or 40 metres on the angle. Dad reckons that was when people started to lean over and tell him I’d be an All Black, but I was blissfully unaware of any expectations. As a halfback I would pretend to be Graeme Bachop, because of his pass — the best ever, I reckon. Then later, as I started to play a bit of first- and second-five, Andrew Mehrtens. I idolised Mehrts, had his poster on my wall, and generally thought he was about the best player on the planet. Little did I know that in a few years we’d be lacing up our boots alongside one another.

The road to that moment truly began in ’88, the year following the World Cup, when I officially started playing. Even though I was running around, mostly playing touch rugby and league — each easier to play with small numbers — it was rugby proper that was the ultimate in our town and in my family.

Despite that, and despite our proximity to Christchurch, we didn’t often make the trip in to Lancaster Park. My first game would have been when I was five or six — Fiji versus Canterbury. I went with Dad and a friend and it was pretty special attending such a big game. Taking in the sound and passion of the fans, the scale of the stadium, the quality of the Canterbury team. A year or two passed before I turned out for my first rep game there, for Canterbury Country. I would have been all of eight or nine years old. We played across the field. I remember being in the changing room and the unimaginable thrill of getting my Canterbury Country jersey.

The day is still so clear in my mind, but the result has faded. We probably got a hiding. Canterbury Country always did it tough against the City boys; they were so much bigger than us. We would always lose by 30 or 40 points, but it never mattered to me back then.

I loved the games, but I didn’t love every part of them. I used to cry all the time, probably two or three times a game, because I was so small and my opponents so huge by comparison. But I would always just go on tackling. I was told that old cliché: the bigger they are, they harder they fall. It’s been used to get little guys to do mad things forever, and it worked on me. Tackling those monsters hurt like hell, and I hated it. There would be times that I would just completely muck it up and get flattened, but that’s how you learn at that age. I still maintain that my technique came out of that period, a tiny kid always trying to tackle giants.

I’ve never been one to make big hits in a game, but I know I’m having a good defensive game when I’m tackling really low. That started back then. I’m not particularly big even now, but didn’t grow to my current height until I was about 19 or 20. That’s why I played halfback growing up, as I was always the smallest on the field. I played there right through from midgets up until fifth form, when I finally had a crack at first-five.

For all the rugby I played competitively as a kid, though, it was dwarfed by the hours I spent playing with my mates. That’s what I put my skill-set down to — those countless hours after school. When I was very young we’d head to the rugby club to play. A group of six to eight of us played league, bullrush, touch or rugby — whatever we had the numbers for. We’d do it down the park, but Mum wanted us close to home. There was a section alongside ours where my parents grew gherkins, bottling them to sell for a little extra cash. Then one summer my dad planted grass, so from then on we effectively had a rugby field alongside our house. That was our afternoon ritual for nearly a decade. I wonder how my life might have turned out if they’d never made that sacrifice. I likely wouldn’t have played nearly so much, and might never have acquired the skills I did without that endless repetition.

My mum must have had cause to regret their decision when she did the laundry, as it was filthy work. We used to put the sprinkler in the corners of the goal-line so we could slide and score big tries, playing for two or three hours straight, until it got dark and Mum told us to come inside. We’d be covered in mud, soaked in sweat, utterly spent. But even then I’d be trying to practise my goal-kicking. It was truly the dominant part of my childhood, for years and years. I never got into video games, never really watched much television. An oval ball, a few mates and a patch of grass and I was set for hours.

Those games we played for pure pleasure were probably the reason I became an All Black. We were essentially running drills without knowing it: that’s where I learned to tackle, where I learned to pass, where I learned to kick. A couple of my younger friends became part-time tackle bags. Shane Taylor and Derek Whitford were commandeered to hit up the ball, over and over, just so I could take them down.

I’d also work on my place-kicking, using the house as stand-in for goalposts. This meant the ball would come rolling back down the roof and over the guttering. Dad would’ve had to replace it any number of times, but he never complained. I just figured he was a builder, so it was easy for him.

That might have been part of what motivated him to create what remains to this day the best present I’ve ever received. On the morning of my eighth birthday I hopped out of bed and walked down the corridor to our kitchen. Dad gestured over his shoulder towards the field, telling me to look outside. Standing there, gleaming in the morning sun, were a pair of professionally made rugby posts. They were a replica of the goals down at the club — expertly painted in blue and white, the Southbridge colours. The posts remain standing today, and have become a bit of a local landmark — Mum and Dad will look up from breakfast and see tourists taking photos of them from time to time.

That redoubled my obsession with place-kicking. From then on every spare minute was spent kicking goals from all angles. I would practise in front, then move next to the house, where I had to kick over two fences to get over the cross bar. There was another angle, kicking over some trees and the driveway. Back then there were no kicking tees; you made bird’s nests of grass or piled-up mud.

Those days are so vivid to me, even now, and remain the foundation of my game. I wasn’t aspiring to be an All Black back then; it was pure youthful enjoyment and fun. That’s where I built up the base of skills that has helped me through 13 years of professional rugby.

New Zealand rugby is mostly pretty good at identifying talent, and giving it a chance to shine. High school, district, region, island and national sides: there are plenty of opportunities for talented players to turn it on and push up the ladder. Look into the background of most All Blacks and you’ll find selection for key age-group teams peppered throughout their playing CVs. We seem to know who is coming and how they’ll develop, and be able to ferret out quality players no matter how deeply they’re buried.

That’s why, regardless of what I’ve gone on to achieve in my life, I didn’t grow up with serious ambitions within the game. People might think that’s false modesty, but my early record would bear it out. I did well enough through age-group sides, but never seriously threatened to break into any of the truly important teams through primary and early high school. I wasn’t particularly bothered by that. It was just a fact of life, and I never really thought much of it at the time. Which isn’t to say I wasn’t confident that I was one of the better players in Ellesmere — more that our country region wasn’t anything like the rugby hotbed that Christchurch was, so you weren’t really sure where you stood.

By high school I had developed the rudiments of my style. I was still playing halfback, especially early on, and doing a lot of the kicking. My attacking game had developed to the point where if I didn’t score a try in a match I’d be disappointed. The rep teams I made were the same ones my dad had played for — Ellesmere and Canterbury Country. I never made Canterbury teams.

The most anticipated games each year were always within the district. There’s no team you want to beat up on more than your neighbours up the road. As I’ve said, I grew up knowing we had a great rivalry with Leeston. It was good-natured, but taken pretty seriously — we were never allowed to wear red and white, because those were their colours.

It doesn’t go too far; we’re all friends with one another, really. But within the club rugby environment it was extremely serious. The Southbridge–Leeston rivalry stretches back decades. As a kid you grow up and you hear the adults saying ‘You can’t lose to Leeston’ — it’s drilled into you over and over. So at an age-grade level, the games you’d get the most nervous about were the Southbridge–Leeston derbies.

Other in-district games were played against Lincoln, Darfield and Waihora. Springston was always a hard game — it’s near the Burnham army base, and the sons of those military men were big and tough. You knew you were up against it travelling there. Each age group ran for two years, and I played from the beginning of primary right through to the end of high school. You had a year when you were tiny, and out of your mind with fear, and another when you were the big kid and looking to beat up on the new kids. That dynamic ran right through school.

I drifted through high school making various rep teams, loving rugby but never dreaming that it might be a career. It wasn’t until I was in about sixth form, when I was at Ellesmere College in Leeston, that I was selected for a Hanan Shield districts team. Me and a mate of mine, Philip Dawson, made a regional tournament in Christchurch. All of a sudden I was lining up against players from New Zealand Secondary Schools, young stars who’d been known as special players their whole lives. It was my first time playing against a whole side filled with quality, but also surrounded by legitimate talent from numbers 1 through 15. To my surprise, rather than being overwhelmed by the step up, I relished it. It was the first flash that rugby held more for me than the solid but unspectacular career I’d had to that point. I was determined to see how far I could go.