3
A Short Walk on the Wild Side

My year at Christchurch Boys’ was tough. It was some of the first really high-level rugby I’d played, and between the pressure and losses in some key games, I started to lose touch with the simple, expressive pleasure I took in the sport. In its place came some self-doubt, and a sense that I’d let down those who’d believed in me and given me opportunities. I wanted to get away from that feeling, and spent most of the year doing just that. I was working, playing colts rugby and having a good time. I had no designs on selection to higher grade sides — I was back to playing rugby for the same reasons I had as a kid: for the sheer love of the game.

I spent much of 2001 indulging in the aimless freedoms that suddenly appear in your life when school ends. My Southbridge friends had a flat, a real dive, and I’d stay there two or three nights a week through that first year out of Christchurch Boys’.

It was a party flat. We’d drink some beers at home, then head into town, often with just enough money to buy a shaker or two between a group of us. Other times we’d just hang around the flat and get hammered. I slept on a scungy mattress in the hallway, among empty bottles and pizza boxes, normally peeling myself up off the floor to return to Southbridge the following morning.

We acted the way kids do when they’re away from adult supervision. When you finished your beer you’d just smash it on the wall, the ground or in the fireplace. We were mindlessly destructive — we just didn’t know any better, or didn’t care. One time we were waiting for a cab which never came, so took out our frustrations by completely demolishing the front fence.

The neighbours probably don’t remember us very fondly. Neither would the landlord. It was the kind of flat where people had locks on their rooms, which tells you a lot. We had one mate, Richard McMillan, who went away diving, so he locked his room, and begged us to leave it alone while he was at sea. Of course, the minute he left we smashed his door down and put muddy footprints all over his wall.

I think the worst we ever got was a cold winter’s night when a bunch of country people had come into the city for a night out. We lit a huge bonfire in the backyard. You’re not meant to do that in the middle of town, it turns out, and inevitably someone rang the fire brigade. They arrived and began hosing down our creation. We just stood around, blasting the Prodigy’s ‘Firestarter’ at full volume, thinking we were the funniest guys in the world. Looking back, I’m embarrassed, because of Dad’s role as a volunteer firefighter. I know how bad it is to be called out on a Saturday night to deal with some drunken idiots. But at the time we didn’t know any better. It was a pretty grimy lifestyle, but exactly what I needed at that point in my life.

That was my first year flatting without having any major commitments and, though I didn’t know it yet, also my last. I didn’t have to pay rent — didn’t have to pay for anything beyond beers, gas and food. During the day I worked a succession of labouring jobs. I dug potatoes and yams, and helped out my dad a bit. That didn’t last long. He’s a real craftsman, but I just couldn’t ever be as precise as the job demanded, which frustrated both of us. I left and went to work for another builder. That, if anything, went even worse. I turned up wearing running shoes instead of proper work boots. Within a few hours I’d stood on a nail and had to go get my foot fixed up. I was off-site for weeks. They must have thought I was such a clown.

I drifted around a lot. There was a spell at Boss Sauce, making mint and Worcestershire sauce in vast quantities, before a longer stint at CRT, the rural supply store. I was mixing seed and grains for farmers, which I probably enjoyed more than any other job through that period. Mainly because hefting 25 kilo sacks around a warehouse was pretty good training for rugby. But none of the jobs really grabbed me, none felt like anything more than a means to an end. It was just hard manual labour.

Later that year I got my own place with some friends I’d met through High School Old Boys, my rugby club. They were going to uni, and found a house near the University of Canterbury. It was a pretty ordinary brick-and-tile bungalow, with a small backyard and a detached garage. The bedrooms had already been claimed when I showed up, but I wanted to move out of home pretty badly, so moved into the garage. It was bitterly cold and entirely lacking in creature comforts — the lawn outside was often my loo. But it beat the hallway of my mates’ flat, and was my first real home away from home, so naturally I loved it.

Even though I wasn’t at uni, the rest of the flat was, and it felt like the whole area was just filled with students. Midweek parties were a big part of the social scene, which suited me perfectly as a rugby player, fitting in well with the rhythms of training and playing. I’d party with my rugby mates on Saturday night, and my student mates during the week. During the day we’d often gather for massive games of touch on the University fields. They’d last hours, and frequently end with a keg split among 20 thirsty young guys. Later we’d head to a house party, or sometimes down to the student bar, The Foundry, on pushbikes. If it was a Thursday you’d always find us at a bar named Nancy’s. Those were some of the happiest and most carefree days of my life.

You might think that my rugby would suffer from the strain of such a heavy social schedule, but I think it actually helped. It sounds a little crazy, but years later when I’d talk with Gilbert Enoka, the All Blacks’ outstanding mental skills coach, I’d remember that era when he talked about how important it was to be able to relax and let go of stress when seeking high performance. The previous year I’d been a knot of worry ahead of some Christchurch Boys’ games, and as our season began to fall apart, the expectations became all I thought about. This year I was playing with the kind of freedom I had known as a kid.

Coming out of school, I’d been asked to play senior rugby for High School Old Boys. But even that seemed like too much pressure, so I decided to turn out for the club’s Colts side instead. This time there was no expectation on me, and not a lot on the team — it was the senior side which absorbed all that. Away from the spotlight, I quickly found the groove I’d been missing since my last days with Southbridge age-group teams. I was scoring tries and kicking goals from first-five, and our team ended up with a pretty good record. I played well enough to be selected for Canterbury Under 19s that year.

It was a great feeling, but I still felt like I was a long way outside the system — the really good young players were in various New Zealand squads, or members of the NPC or Canterbury Colts team. Despite it being a step up, the Under 19s weren’t a high-priority team for the region, and training wasn’t all that different to club rugby. So while I enjoyed my season immensely, I didn’t feel like it meant much in terms of my future aspirations within rugby. They were still largely parked.

That started to change towards the end of the year, when I received an unexpected phone call. It was from Rob Penney, an ex-Canterbury player who has gone on to an outstanding coaching career with Canterbury, Munster and now the Shining Arcs up in Japan. Back then he was running the Canterbury Academy, the feeder into the region’s NPC team. He asked me to come and train with them over summer.

I was blown away. I’d never really thought about playing rugby as a career, particularly after a fairly ordinary year with Boys’ High, and missing the New Zealand age-group teams. I was living in my garage and playing rugby for fun, and never imagined for a minute that anyone important was watching me.

The Academy was a very serious, sharply run organisation. They trained in early mornings and evenings, around work and study commitments, but in the same facilities used by Canterbury and the Crusaders during the day. I leapt at the opportunity, and found the regimen suited me perfectly. I’ve always loved training, but at club colts level back then it was pretty basic — predominantly drills, with not much in the way of strength or conditioning work. Canterbury Academy was another level entirely.

That’s when I realised what hard work was, what it felt like, and how I’d respond to it. It was the first time I had really trained hard through a summer and gone through a serious pre-season. I thrashed myself like never before, and felt the physical rewards. We were doing hill repeats and I found I was always near the front. I was also doing serious weight training for the first time in my life. I started summer around 78 kg, and within a year was closer to 90 kg — not far off my playing weight today. It was a transformational few months.

I got addicted to the discipline of it, and began training my butt off. It was because I had a focus — I wasn’t throwing the ball around with my mates any longer, I was working towards something bigger. I felt so fortunate to be given this chance, and a lot of that came from having had that year outside of this world. Normally kids would get recruited right out of high school and go through a three-year Academy cycle. Maybe if that had happened I’d have been more complacent about the opportunity. But that year of working bad jobs and playing lower grade rugby meant that I was very aware of what the alternative was.

Towards the end of summer I got asked to trial for the Crusaders Development side. This was the best possible outcome, and a huge step up from Old Boys colts. I was humbled to even be asked, but surprised myself by making the squad. This was my first taste of semi-professional rugby, at least in terms of the environment, but in truth I felt like I was just there to make up the numbers. There were a couple of other first-fives, Charlie Hore and Cam McIntyre, who were well above me in the rankings. They had played to a pretty high level, including NPC for Canterbury.

I was sure that my main job was to watch and learn. But Charlie and Cam both got injured early in the season, so I ended up starting. The team was a serious proposition. We were playing warm-up matches to all the Super Rugby games, on all the legendary New Zealand stadiums, most of which I’d only ever seen on TV. Eden Park, Jade Stadium, Carisbrook. Some of the most famous rugby grounds in the world.

My summer with the Academy meant I went into the 2002 season transformed, a different athlete to the one who had turned out the previous year. My newfound size meant I could be that much more physical and effective in the tackle, and shrug off the attention of defenders more often. I was surprised to find that the transition wasn’t too challenging. If anything I found it easier as a playmaker, because rather than being among a handful of quality players spread throughout the team, almost everyone was of a good standard and did their jobs.

This was the first sign of what would become a self-reinforcing feedback loop in my career. Every time I stepped up a grade, I felt instantly at home. The game almost grew easier, in a perverse way, due to the sheer skill of the whole team. It meant I had more space and time to make decisions, and more confidence that my teammates would be able to execute whatever I could throw at them. We were a strong team, with a number of future Crusaders involved. By the end of the season I felt pretty comfortable in the team, and we played well enough to win the competition.

All the same it was still a shock when I heard I had earned a trial for the New Zealand Colts side to play the Under 21 World Cup that winter. Maybe I was naive about the attention which was being paid to my performances at that stage, but I just thought I wasn’t on the national selectors’ radar. This isn’t false modesty — just a reflection of where I felt I was in the pecking order at the time. You have to remember that I had never made a New Zealand Schoolboys or Under 19s side. I hadn’t even been given a trial for a national side to that point, and my one season of major high-school rugby had been a disappointment. Guys like Cam McIntyre and Luke McAlister were already nationally known, and had made a bunch of age-group sides. There was simply no good reason for me to consider myself their peer.

The invitation, then, came as a surprise, but also made me more determined than ever before to make the most of it. To my mind there was every chance that this would be my only shot at this level, so I went in extremely focused on making it count. After the way things ended at schoolboy level, this felt like a shot at rugby redemption, a door I had assumed was locked fast looking ever so slightly ajar.

The trial took place at the Institute of Rugby in Palmerston North. I’d heard a lot about this Institute of Rugby — it was regarded as a breeding ground for top players, where the best raw talent went to be finessed into professional form. It was home to All Blacks camps between tests, and built specifically for the sport at the highest level. To go there for a trial was an incredible feeling. You lived and breathed rugby all day for as long as you were there. It was exhausting, but exhilarating, too.

I bunked in with other guys in a series of bedrooms, and all the facilities you needed were right on your doorstep. There were rugby fields and an athletics track, where we went through a battery of tests, from sprints to three-kilometre runs. That’s where my summer with the Academy really paid off — I leaned hard on my fitness base, and was normally in or around the top group through those cardio-based tests.

We played a couple of games, obviously, but what I remember most vividly is the selection at the end. There were nearly 50 of us at the trial, but only 30 or so made the squad to travel. We gathered in a function room, and sat in a big group, all wound tight with nerves. As each name was read out you’d have to leave the room and go into the indoor training area. Hearing my name called was the most extraordinary feeling. Having been on the outer of the elite New Zealand sides throughout high school, it was an overwhelmingly validating feeling to have made this squad.

Sean Fitzpatrick was the manager. He’d been the All Blacks captain throughout my teens, and was the iconic player of his generation, a physical embodiment of all the All Blacks stood for. Just being in the room with him made my head spin. He came out and told us we were this year’s New Zealand Colts team. I didn’t really hear much else — the emotion was too much to absorb. As soon as we were released, I called Dad and explained what had just happened. We were both reeling.

Things seemed to happen very quickly after that. I returned to my garage to pack, before flying up to Auckland for camp ahead of the tour. At the start of the year I had barely left the South Island. My only trip overseas had been a cricket tour to Australia. I’d never even been to Auckland. Now, I had two weeks there before we travelled on to South Africa.

We stayed at the Novotel in Ellerslie, and trained every day. I revelled in the intensely structured NZRU environment. Even though we weren’t getting paid, I felt like a professional rugby player because I was living and breathing rugby. That is what I loved most about the experience: the biggest passion in my life was rugby and to be able to do that all day was amazing. It was all laid out for us — we were given all this great free gear, and training at the best gyms, or on rugby fields in mint condition. That bog in Timaru felt a long way off. Our days and minds were swept clear to allow us to focus on the game alone. And all the while we knew that there was a World Cup waiting just around the corner.

I remember being very aware of the contrasts. A year earlier I’d been playing club rugby for the Colts, just throwing the ball around with my mates to have a bit of fun. No cares — but no ambitions either. Suddenly I was staying in flash hotels, training and playing with the best young players from around the country. I thought I was pretty lucky to be given the opportunity but remained apprehensive about the situation. I didn’t want to let anyone down — especially the selectors, who’d shown a lot of faith in me to give me this shot.

Soon we were on a plane to Johannesburg, where the tournament was based. Our first game was against England, at Ellis Park. Which was pretty special — it was only a few years since the All Blacks had played in that torturous World Cup final there. So we were running out onto this historic field, pulling on what felt like an All Blacks jersey, with the silver fern on it. All kitted out in adidas gear.

We felt like we just grew another arm and a leg representing New Zealand. And because we were playing with such high-quality players, all we had to worry about was doing our jobs. I’d never run with a team that strong before, and continued to thrive being surrounded by players of that calibre. I was able to focus more on the intricacies of my own game, to be more strategic in my decision-making, and trust that those around me would always carry their end.

I started against England, and played well. The team was completely dominant — we breezed through round robin play, and soon found ourselves in the semis, where we faced the hosts. That was the first time I got to experience South Africa and just how strong they are when they get on a roll at home. I didn’t play at all well in that game. I just felt the pressure and couldn’t do anything to shake that awful sinking feeling.

The sensation felt eerily similar to the Christ’s College game, where nothing went right. Their players were huge, complete monsters, and we found it difficult to deal with them. I couldn’t handle it, and got subbed not long after halftime. Watching helplessly from the bench, I felt awful for playing so poorly in such a critical game. Despite all that, the young Boks only sealed the match with an injury-time penalty.

The atmosphere afterwards was pretty bleak. Still, it was nothing like the abject despair I’d felt after the Christ’s College game. It’s strange — you’d think the stakes would be higher at a World Cup, with a silver fern on your chest. There’s still nothing like schoolboy rugby.

We picked ourselves up for the third-place playoff, where we met Wales again, and beat them easily. I played well, as did the whole team, and we felt some small consolation in closing out the tournament with a performance which better reflected our strength, and how we’d played prior to the semi.

After the game we had a few beers. We’d been good boys right through the tournament — no one drinking much or going out at all. That night we felt we’d earned the right to head out on the town to celebrate and let loose, with the discipline and focus of the event over. We got a few minivans together and went out en masse. It was just the players and security — management stayed back at the hotel.

As a team we’d made the decision to wear our team polos — our armour. We were proud to be representing our country, but also wanted to remove the anxiety of worrying about what to wear. Even though we were in the process of becoming elite sportspeople, we were still just kids in a lot of respects, many of us in our teens, and our confidence on the field wasn’t matched in social situations.

We arrived at a dodgy club in the middle of nowhere. I remember finding it a bit weird — after spending all our time up until that point in the rich, secure areas of the city that we ended up somewhere a lot less safe for our one night out. I still don’t know how we settled on that particular place, but somehow half the World Cup squads were there, blowing off steam after the tournament.

When we arrived the atmosphere was great, and soon we were on our way to an amazing night. There were lots of shots going down, loud music and low lights. It was exactly what we’d wanted. But at the same time there was a slight edge, too. South Africa was still a pretty divided country racially in some scenarios. I remember being vaguely conscious that certain parts of the crowd might have been disturbed by the Polynesians in our midst. But we didn’t worry too much about that — we only had this one night out together, and the group would likely never assemble again, so drinking and carrying on with our mates was the main priority.

After a couple of hours the whole club was heaving. We were raucous, but well-behaved. Then, out of the blue, a voice boomed out over the club’s sound system: ‘Could all the New Zealanders please leave the premises immediately?’ We turned to one another stunned, thinking it was some kind of joke. But the message was repeated, and we began to make our way to the exit. We were confused, and a bit pissed off. We’d been kicked out, as a group, but had no idea why.

We found out as we filed out of the club and saw squad members in black polos starting to scuffle with security around the entrance. Things were getting really heated, and you could tell a fight was probably coming. I was with Luke McAlister, who didn’t like the look of it either. With hindsight we should have stayed and tried to cool things down, but if I’m honest, we wanted to keep partying, too. We didn’t want to get in trouble, and never imagined that our teammates — big, strong athletes in great condition — couldn’t handle themselves against a few security guys. So the pair of us jumped in a car and went to another club. We didn’t know it yet, but that one random, somewhat selfish decision might have ended up saving our lives.

As soon as we left things exploded. Players started brawling with the bouncers. But what sent the whole scene over the edge was when reinforcements arrived not long after. Some vans pulled up, and big security types piled out. It became a scene of extreme violence, and guys from both sides were getting seriously beaten up. Sam Tuitupou laid a couple of guys out, before being overrun. The whole thing had a level of violence way beyond the average pub brawl.

Then gunshots rang out. That seemed to give everyone pause, and our team retreated to the vans. Sam had been pistol-whipped, Jason Shoemark had copped a hell of a beating. As the vans tried to leave, the windows were smashed in — our guys were jumping fences, just running for their lives.

Luke and I returned to that scene, the immediate aftermath. The club we’d headed to had been shut, so we went back to see what was going on with our teammates. Most of the melee was over by then, but there were still some messed-up people around. A passer-by saw us and recognised our team polos. They yelled at us, ‘Get back in your car! Go to your hotel — this place isn’t safe!’

We saw Corey Flynn on the phone, talking with Fitzy, checking that the groups were making it back to the hotel. Corey was an incredibly calm head under the circumstances, and had avoided trouble through dumb luck — he’d swapped blazers with a French player, and thus wasn’t targeted by the bouncers.

We headed back to the hotel, scared out of our minds, still not quite sure what had happened. We had no idea whether everyone was safe, or what had gone on. When we arrived it was just carnage. There were guys with blood everywhere, guys missing teeth, guys with eggs on their heads, broken noses, black eyes.

These weren’t injuries I’d ever seen before — nothing like you’d get on a rugby field, or in a regular fight. It was horrifying. Everyone was terrified, scared for their lives, belatedly realising where they were and how quickly things could escalate. In New Zealand you get in a fight and no one is going to pull a gun on you. We went out a bunch of kids, but came back beaten and bruised, and very aware that South Africa was a very different environment to the one we’d left back home.

We all tried to sleep it off before assembling for a team meeting the next morning. We weren’t flying out until the following day. I remember being surprised that management weren’t angrier with us. I think deep down they were shocked that things had gotten so far out of control, but that was overpowered by relief that we all made it back alive. Battered, but alive.

Management were trying to get information about what had happened, because they knew New Zealand Rugby were going to ask questions and they’d have to provide a full report. I still don’t know if guns were being shot at people, or whether security guards were just shooting in the air to put the shits up them. It doesn’t really matter — the fact that they had guns and were pistol whipping guys and pointing them at us made the situation by far the most serious and intense I’d encounter at any point in my playing career.

The only other incident which was remotely comparable came the following year, on my next trip to South Africa with the Crusaders. We were staying in Cape Town this time, one of the most beautiful cities in the world, and one of the safest places in Africa. We were out having team drinks, getting into a bit of a session, when three of us managed to get lost walking to a nightclub.

I was talking on my phone, straggling about 10 metres behind my friends. They turned a corner up ahead, and there was a brief window when I was alone on this street. Out of nowhere two guys came up, grabbed me and pinned me up against a wall. One of them demanded my phone, but I was a bit drunk and cocky. ‘It’s alright,’ I replied, ‘I’m talking on it.’

‘Get your gun out and shoot him,’ I heard. My blood ran cold. I handed him my phone, put my head down and walked off as quickly as I could, my pulse racing, entirely sobered up. I caught up to my friends and told them what had happened, and we all freaked out and legged it. This was less than a year on from what had happened in Johannesburg. ‘I hate this country so much,’ I said at the time, and meant it. It was a long while before I warmed to South Africa again. Now, it’s one of my favourite countries in the world — it’s just one in which you have to be a little more security conscious.

After the brawl outside the club on the Colts tour, we spent a day nursing our wounds and debriefing with management, before we flew back into Auckland. By then the media had got wind of the story, and there was a pack of cameras and reporters waiting in Arrivals. Ironically, all the footage they played afterwards was of Joe Rokocoko being pushed through the airport in a wheelchair. He’d broken his leg on the field, but they didn’t let that get in the way of some good, dramatic footage. There was a full-scale inquiry afterwards, and rightly so. The NZRU has taken some serious lessons from the event, and even today use that story to impress upon young touring sides the dangers which exist overseas.

As harrowing as that night was, I look back on it today and feel like we got incredibly lucky. We were young, drunk and in the wrong part of town, and as bad as the night broke, it could so easily have been much, much worse.