My attempts at teenage rebellion were classic country stuff, and almost comically small-time. I used to steal Mum and Dad’s milk money. Just a bit each day, until I had enough to buy a pie and Coke on the way to school. As a group, we’d sometimes roam the streets, looking to entertain ourselves. One of our favourite games was throwing stones onto people’s roofs, until the owner would come out — at which point we’d all sprint away. That’s what passed for troublemaking in Southbridge in the ’80s.
Probably the most memorable piece of rebellion came during a lip-synching competition at Ellesmere College. I decided to do something completely out of character, egged on by a good friend, Phil Cave. We liked a bit of mischief, he and I. For some bizarre reason we decided I should dress up in a little miniskirt, and run through ‘Pretty Woman’. He was on stage, and I would walk past, looking flirtatiously at him. Then, near the end, he tripped me over and came in behind me and started mock thrusting. To this day I have no idea why we did it. The whole school erupted, and we won the award for ‘best audience reaction’. But we got sent to the principal and were given a pretty severe telling-off. Which I can understand — it wasn’t a great look, in front of the whole school.
Later my friends and I started sneaking alcohol from our folks. We were around drinking from a young age, and you start to get into the culture of it in your early teens, especially when you start making the First XV and other rep teams. The first time I had a couple of beers I would probably have been 15. I loved the confidence it gave me, cutting through my natural shyness and allowing me to be much more open and engaging.
Pretty soon my mates and I would start figuring out ways to get a little drunk in small groups. It started with ‘pitching a tent’. We’d throw it up in someone’s yard, and their parents would think it was all innocent. Or maybe they knew what was going on and just turned a blind eye. Regardless, the main reason you’d pitch a tent was to have a few drinks with your mates. One of us would make a bottle of rocket fuel, by mixing a little of all the spirits in their parents’ liquor cabinet. It was absolutely disgusting, but it did the job.
As we got older things became a bit more organised. There’d be parties at the school hall, or at people’s houses when their folks were away. Much as we enjoyed it, drinking wasn’t a big part of life — just something we’d do when we could, driven by boredom and opportunity.
With the exception of my ‘Pretty Woman’ performance, I was terrified of getting picked out. I always kept my head down, tried to stay out of sight and mind. Even in subjects I enjoyed, when I was certain of the answer I’d never raise my hand. That continues to this day, even in team video sessions or other group scenarios. I’m happier kicking a goal to win a match in front of 80,000 than answering a question in front of a couple of dozen. It doesn’t make much sense, but it’s always been that way. The field is my safe place, a haven where I’m at ease and confident.
Obviously this has changed to an extent. It’s impossible to be an All Black and fail to develop some interpersonal skills. I’m now able to yarn with sponsors, media or members of the public in a way which would have frozen me in place in my teens. It’s one of the many strange side effects of being a professional sportsperson — it functions as an epic, high-level self-improvement course.
Life changed markedly with the end of primary school. At Southbridge Primary you knew everyone in school; there was only one class per year, so you were guaranteed to be with your mates. Ellesmere College was away up the road in Leeston and form one to seven. My friends came up with me, but we were split into three different classes. For the first time I was in a different class from most of the friends I’d had my whole life, and I didn’t like it at all.
The first three years were tough. I was terrified of the older boys, who looked like grown men and came from further out around the district. I longed for the days when the whole school was made of friends and relatives. That changed markedly in fourth form, when I entered both the First XI and First XV.
At Ellesmere I realised I was a better than average sportsperson. Through high school I played as much cricket as rugby, and was pretty handy at both. I wasn’t the only one — a guy named Brendon McCullum was pretty useful at both codes too, as I’d discover soon enough. Even though we’re friends now, he still makes sure to remind me of that fact when we catch up.
I played Canterbury Country cricket as well as rugby, and felt very strongly about the game. I loved that it was both an individual and a team sport, and the intricacies and duration of the battle between batsman and bowler. I also loved the social element of it, the camaraderie and conversation which comes from the length of time a game takes to play out. I made Canterbury Country senior level and Southbridge Seniors before I was forced to give up the game after sustaining a stress fracture in my back at 17.
Before I quit I did well enough to get a six-wicket bag for the Southbridge senior side, which meant I had to shout the rest of the team a crate. This was a little awkward, as I wasn’t yet old enough to buy alcohol — I was 17, and the drinking age still 20 — so Dad had to step up.
I had a pretty active social life by then, and occasionally my life got out of balance. There was one incident in particular that still gives me chills to this day. I went out on a Friday night to a house party, only making it home in time for a couple of hours’ sleep. I woke up and played cricket all day, then went straight back and stayed up most of the night again. I was sober driver for my mates, but it was another very late one, which meant I had to drive to the West Coast to play rep cricket on the back of four or five hours’ sleep for the whole weekend. I was meeting everyone in Sheffield, which is just past Darfield — about 50 kilometres or so north of Southbridge. I was driving down familiar roads, barely keeping my eyes open. I kept nodding off, and should’ve pulled over. But I knew I was almost in Sheffield, so continued to push on.
The next thing I knew I woke up and I was on the other side of the road, on the grass verge. I freaked out and slammed on the brakes. The car fish-tailed over the road to the other side, and ended up about a metre from a fence post. Adrenalin coursed through me as I thought about what might have happened had I woken up a split second later, or there had been oncoming traffic. I looked down at the skid marks and felt a huge wave of relief and fear. I drove on to Sheffield, shaking and soaked in sweat, and told my friend he had to drive. Regardless, I couldn’t sleep after that, because I was still freaking out.
Ironically I got a few wickets and a half century, one of my better days’ cricket. But the whole day I felt sick from the adrenalin and shock, and never drove in that condition again.
My last few years of Ellesmere College saw me start to push the boundaries a little. The First XV environment can sometimes mean trouble — the youngest players in the team learn the habits of the eldest pretty quickly. Just as in any team, the senior guys set the tone, and the new entrants wouldn’t dream of trying to change anything.
In fifth form we started to occasionally bunk the last couple of classes to head into Christchurch. At least, we thought it was Christchurch. We were only really going as far as Hornby, with its mall and its McDonald’s. We thought we were pretty bad ass, but really we were just some nervous country boys dipping our toes in the city.
That would change the following year, thanks to my selection in the South Island Schoolboys side. To me it was a bombshell, albeit a very welcome one. There was a huge jump between the district and sub-regional sides I’d played in through my youth and the South Island team. I was excited about representing the country boys of Southbridge in a team dominated by guys from Christchurch and Dunedin, but I certainly didn’t see it as a marker of things to come. So it was a surprise towards the end of the year when a couple of city schools approached me about transferring to play rugby.
I was offered the chance to play for St Andrew’s and Christ’s College, two well-regarded and well-funded private schools, but I never seriously considered either. The school I chose was Christchurch Boys’. For some reason, despite my only having spent my final year there, I’m more associated with CBHS than Ellesmere. I’ve always found that pretty funny, particularly given how my year went. I’m still proud to have attended, but in terms of my formative years as a rugby player, they all happened out in the country.
Christchurch Boys’ is a public school in Riccarton with as proud a rugby history as any school in the country. That was part of the motivation, for sure, but if I’m honest it was as much driven by the fact Ben Jones was also coming in for the year. Even though he’s from Ashburton, he was already a good mate, and remains among my closest friends to this day. We were both swayed, too, by the presence of Doug Tausili, another guy I knew from age-group rugby, who attended the school. We have remained close ever since, and each was among my groomsmen. The idea of us three combining to play for one of the best rugby schools around was immensely appealing. Without their company I doubt I would’ve had the courage to take up the offer. Then who knows how my life might’ve turned out?
Christchurch Boys’ was a culture shock. It’s between Riccarton and Fendalton, with big, beautiful houses, wide streets and kids who’d grown up in that world. It was a long way from Southbridge, and I’d traverse the distance in my mum’s Nissan Pulsar diesel. It was an hour each way, which seems a hike now I look back, but at the time I never thought twice about it. At that age you’ve got nothing but time anyway. The Pulsar topped out at 127 km/h, flat-footed. I remember this because the only time I got pulled over for speeding was on the way into school one morning, in the midst of one of the numerous dead flat, dead straight roads between home and school.
Even though Christchurch Boys’ is this establishment school, I still felt at home, because there were so many boarders from the country. There were farm boys from Dunsandel who might have done a couple of years at Ellesmere — it was a good mix of people, which meant no one felt too isolated. I was also helped acclimatise through the two nights a week I spent with my maternal Auntie Teena, after rugby trainings.
In time, I ended up spending many evenings with Doug’s family. They’re a big Samoan unit, and embraced me like one of their own. I was still a skinny kid at that stage, and they told me taro was a ‘natural steroid’ — the reason island boys were so strong. I would eat piles of the stuff, though I don’t know how much good it did me.
From my first day at Christchurch Boys’ I threw myself into sports, to the point where the principal called Dad and asked, ‘Are you sure he wants to come to school here?’ Apparently I’d only attended five of the first 15 days of term one. It wasn’t that I was wagging — I’d just signed up to every code going, and had been at various tournaments. So while it wasn’t my best year academically, I enjoyed the range of sports immensely. Particularly the rugby. At least, I did until the Christ’s College game came around.
Christchurch Boys’, like many serious sporting schools, never lets you forget its proud history. There’s one particular corridor, to the left as you walk in the main entrance, which is crammed with memorabilia from its various sporting triumphs. I remember walking down there on the way to meet the principal as I was being recruited, and feeling this weight come on me. There are All Blacks jerseys from the likes of Andrew Mehrtens and Daryl Gibson, ancient game balls, shields and dozens of polished silver trophies. Compared to Ellesmere, which has a few scattered cups in the PE staff room, it was a different world.
This all meant you were deeply conscious of how important each game was — that your actions would be recorded and reflected upon, that you were building on a proud history. Either adding to it or detracting from it. Before now, most of my teams were underdogs. Southbridge was a small town, Country a second-tier union. We won more than we lost, but we were never the dominant team, the presumptive champion. And as passionate as our fans were, there were somewhere between a few dozen and a couple of hundred.
I was completely unprepared, then, for the intensity of the atmosphere which sprang up around the Christ’s College game. They were our arch-rivals, the private school which thought they were better than everyone — at least in our minds — and the relationship between the two schools was characterised by an intense antagonism which engulfed the entire school the week of the game, and completely dominated game day. The year prior we had come second in the country and, with a number of key players returning, expectations were high that we’d have a handy win over Christ’s.
Unless you’ve experienced the great rivalries of New Zealand high-school rugby you can’t truly appreciate how keenly all this is felt. The games have been played for over a century and are often shown on national television. We taught the whole school our haka, out on the tennis courts, earlier in the week. There was just nothing else on anyone’s mind, and I loved the intensity of it all.
The day dawned crisp and clear, perfect conditions for rugby. There was a school-wide assembly, during which our caps were given out in an elaborate ceremony. The team was given a half day off school to prepare, which was a huge privilege and drove home how important this game was. Around lunchtime we made our way to Christ’s — who were hosting that year — piling into minivans and making the journey in near-total silence.
When we arrived, the atmosphere was unbelievable. Old boys from both schools filled the sidelines, drunk, loud and chanting. Police and security were everywhere, which was understandable given how feral and tribal the crowd was. There were sixth and seventh formers on megaphones, yelling abuse at one another. There is a tradition of chanting the opposing schoolboys’ nickname, something obscene. It’s ridiculous and gross — but part and parcel of that white-hot atmosphere.
Before the game started both schools performed mass haka, facing one another, which made me realise how many people the team had on its back for this one. The chants were echoing round the ground, just like they do every year. When we started playing, the abuse from the spectators was constant, and only increased as the game went on — still one of the most intense environments I’ve ever played in. It made us players incredibly tight. Every time I made a mistake or missed a kick the crowd would go crazy, and it started to affect us all. Doug Tausili was a Christchurch Boys’ legend. He’d been in the First XV for three years and he tried to take over the game on his own, taking every free kick or penalty and putting up huge up-and-unders to try to help us regain possession. I understood the desire, but it really wasn’t working.
We were a long way out of sync. I remember Ben Jones, who was lightning around the field, slicing through looking for a short ball when I’d elected to pass it long. The ball hit him in the head. Meanwhile Christ’s were just playing out of their minds — I don’t think their kicker, Greg Norris, missed all day.
It was so frustrating, watching us fall apart and feeling powerless to reverse it. We had an incredible team, including my future All Blacks teammate Adam Thomson. Christ’s were handy, too, with another soon-to-be All Black in James Ryan at lock. He was huge for them, doing most of their kicking for field position as well. At halftime, our coach, a gruff, deep-voiced man named Phil Robson, tried desperately to snap us out of this panic. As a professional, you have techniques you use to get out of the ‘red head’ — All Blacks mental skills coach Gilbert Enoka is a genius on that front — plus the experience of having done it before. But as schoolboys you freeze and never thaw out. We simply got rolled, losing comfortably in the end. Just to show how much of a shock it was, Christchurch Boys’ has yet to lose to Christ’s since.
The dressing-room was a morgue. Everyone was in tears — we were stunned by the gap between our plan going in and what had transpired on the field. People were more upset, and crying for longer than I’ve ever seen since, including World Cups. No losses hurt so badly as the ones in schoolboy rugby, probably because at the time that’s almost all you have in your life.
Once we picked ourselves up we went to town, partying all the harder because of what we’d been through. We went out with the Christ’s College boys, which sounds crazy, given how much we hated them just a few hours before. But once the final whistle was blown all that stuff slides away, and we ended up having a great night. It started at a teammate’s house, whose parents were relaxed about us drinking, before we tried our luck in town. It all helped erase the pain of the loss.
Despite the defeat to Christ’s, we still played well enough to win the Christchurch competition. For a school with a tradition like ours, though, that wasn’t a huge deal — it was expected, to an extent. The bigger prizes were the national competitions. If we wanted to begin to make good our loss to Christ’s, that was where it would have to happen. Our key inter-schools matches were against Christ’s, Timaru Boys’, Otago Boys’ and Wellington College. We won the other three games, which gave us back some confidence, then returned to Timaru, to play the round of 32 for the New Zealand Top Four Championship.
We’d beaten them handily earlier in the season, and despite having lost Adam Thomson and Ben Jones to the New Zealand Schoolboys team, we were very confident we could repeat the victory. Man for man we were as talented as any school team in the country, loaded with future provincial and Super Rugby players. When we played well we were a machine. And the loss to Christ’s made us burn with desire to prove our worth.
What we hadn’t reckoned on was the pitch. When we got down there, Timaru had transferred us to their number two ground, which seemed strange, given the importance of the game. When we arrived we saw why. It remains the muddiest field I’ve ever seen in my life. Within seconds of kick-off both teams were head to toe in thick brown mud, and completely indistinguishable from one another. Kicking for goal was impossible, even from directly in front. Timaru exploited the confusion expertly, to their credit. They would whip around to the other side of the ruck and pick up the ball, and the poor ref would have no clue which team had picked it up, and so never called the penalty.
We lost the game, and were furious afterwards. With the Christ’s game we were beaten by a better team on the day, no question. Against Timaru it felt more like sabotage at the time. Now though, I think we just let it get to us. If we’d just got on with the game, rather than getting distracted by anger at the conditions, we’d have had a much better chance at winning.
With the loss went our chance to impress selectors looking at the team for higher honours. There was a nervous wait to see whether selectors would retain faith in us, or pick guys who’d advanced deeper into the tournament. Thankfully the selectors kept faith with me, and I was again picked for the South Island schoolboys — though kept out of the starting side by the selection of McCullum, who frustratingly still hadn’t left rugby alone to concentrate on cricket.
It meant that our year had ended in bitter disappointment — still one of the worst years for Christchurch Boys’ in recent memory. We all sat in the sheds and bawled our eyes out. It was one of the lowest feelings I had ever experienced around rugby.
We watched the rest of the results come in, resentment growing all the time. Otago Boys’ and Wellington College, each of whom we’d beaten by 30 points, made the Top Four. With rugby done, the rest of the year seemed a bit pointless. My academics, never particularly strong, had withered away by that point. I sat four bursary subjects, passing two, and did ‘sports science’, a sixth-form certificate course for rugby and rowing boys, which I ended up topping.
I really didn’t work anywhere near hard enough, and by the end wasn’t even turning up to some classes. It’s a big regret of mine that I failed to complete a couple of bursary subjects. I did some good around the school, coaching junior rugby and certainly didn’t get into trouble. But when you spend class time at a mate’s place or playing table tennis in the common room, you’re not giving it your all, and not taking advantage of the opportunity school represents.
Having let my school work go, and having had rugby fall apart, I went into the last weeks of school pretty despondent. You were supposed to start planning what you would do after school. There were plenty of boys heading to uni — everyone seemed to have a plan — but what was I going to do with my life? It never crossed my mind to contemplate being a full-time rugby player. I understood that was an option on some level, but it was still so new. Rugby had only been professional for five years, and I hadn’t really considered it as a viable career at any point. I didn’t understand the marketplace for talent, didn’t realise that Super Rugby players and All Blacks were playing rugby as jobs. I was so naive, and filled with doubt about my ability. I simply had no idea what I was going to do.