The Real McCaw: Richie McCaw: The Autobiography

by Richie McCaw

Given that the captain and the play-maker have to be on the same page, having him on the field makes it so much easier for me. Dan and I share a similar outlook on how to play the game and he and I have had some good debates with Ted.

  It’d be fair to say that Dan and I are more conservative than Ted, who wants to push things more, play more expansively. That creative tension works, I think—most times we’ve managed to get the balance right.

  The prospect of getting through the next four years to 2011 and winning the RWC without Dan is almost unimaginable. And yet I’ve got to be really careful because I know what he’s going through. He’s pretty much unflappable on the field, but the whole RWC experience really tested that. He played the quarter-final with a bad calf that, even before it forced him off, prevented him from playing at full capacity and showing his stuff on the biggest stage there is.

  Then there’s the public recognition factor.

  The thing about fame is that you can’t switch it off when you’ve had enough. I’ve seen Dan go from reserved country boy to a superstar in his underpants on billboards in what seems, in retrospect, the blink of an eye. I know there’s a part of him that’s had a gutsful, that wants at the very least a change of scenery, a change of lifestyle in a place where he’d be less recognisable, can go and have a beer with his mates, or sit at an outdoor table at a cafe with his girl without posing for photos and signing autographs. I know all this, and I know he’s got a right to make his own decisions, but, back in April in the middle of the Super 14 campaign, I feel I have to at least let him know what I’m thinking.

  I’m also aware that there’s a core group of All Blacks we’ll need in 2011 who haven’t re-signed, and that if Dan goes, quite a few others might decide to go too. If I’m honest, it would knock me too, and make me think that maybe I should have a look at my options. In Cardiff I signed a contract for a further two years, and if Dan and other key men go, I’d have to think again about extending, because his absence would make it so much tougher.

  Me and Warren Alcock, of Essentially Group. He’s been there for me since 2000.

  When I go round to see him at his place, I try to be careful, tell him that I understand it’s his decision and his alone to make, and that I don’t want to put any pressure on him, but, in the end, I get to it . . . ‘I want you to know that I really want you here to help me. I need you.’

  To my great relief, Dan tells me that he’s looking at a sabbatical, and that he’s sorting through the options, but he’s still pretty keen to be around.

  Dan staying is a huge fillip for me. Back in Cardiff, when I’d signed on for another two years, I’d wanted a longer term, but in the end we’d run out of negotiating time and I’d signed something I wasn’t entirely happy with, so that I made the deadline for Super 14 eligibility.

  But now, with Dan committing through to 2011, that’s what I want to do too. Since Cardiff, it was always going to be about that next RWC here in New Zealand, so I go back to Warren Alcock, one of my agents at Essentially Group, and ask him to talk to the NZRU about having another look at my contract.

  Warren’s been there for me since about 2000, when I was given an academy contract with the NZRU, and I looked at it and thought, What do I do with this! This was early days on the professional rugby scene, and there weren’t that many agents around. I waved the contract in front of the guy who looked after us at the Academy, the trainer, and asked him, ‘Who do I see about this?’ and he mentioned this solicitor in Dunedin. My parents were in Dunedin, so they went to see Warren. At that stage he was still working as a lawyer in partnership with Iain Gallaway, the esteemed cricket and rugby commentator, and he told Mum and Dad he’d be happy to look at the contract for me.

  I liked Warren immediately. It helped that he was a real rugby fan, ex-coach of the Dunedin Club, loved New Zealand rugby—had an encyclopaedic knowledge of the game in fact. So while he’s always absolutely in my corner, he’s also aware of the big picture and is realistic.

  Dan found his own way to Warren a few years later, and he now acts for both of us. I guess that helps when it comes to renegotiating my contract with the NZRU, because Warren knows exactly where Dan is at, and the upshot is that, sort of on Dan’s coat-tails, I re-sign with the NZRU through to 2011.

  Steve Tew later says that signing Dan and me is almost as significant as Jock Hobbs securing the signatures of Josh Kronfeld and Jeff Wilson back in 1995. Jock’s actions saved All Black rugby, so I wouldn’t put our signings up there with that, but it did mean that the core group of players we think we’ll need for 2011 start getting aboard for the trip: Ali Williams, Andrew Hore, Rodney So’oialo, Tony Woodcock, Sitiveni Sivivatu and Keven Mealamu all sign shortly after, followed by younger guys like Ma’a Nonu, Liam Messam and Richard Kahui. Once Mils Muliaina is finally signed, I know we’re locked and loaded for 2011.

  When the All Black team goes into camp for the 2008 June tests, a one-off against Ireland and two against England, there’s a different feeling as we go about putting the nuts and bolts of team protocols together. Part of it is all the new faces. There seem to be a lot more than usual.

  There’s also been a change of approach. ‘Because of time,’ Darren Shand tells the media, ‘we have had to be quite dictatorial . . . Say this is what we are going to do and just get on with it.’

  It isn’t quite as dictatorial as it seems. We’ve already made some critical decisions before we go into camp. That the leadership group, for instance, formerly 10 of us, is going to be downsized and split into two—an on-field group of me, Rodney, Dan, Horey and Mils, and an off-field group of Greg Somerville, Kevvy Mealamu and Conrad Smith.

  But the biggest change is going to be in how we approach the challenge set out by the NZRU review: making the right decisions under pressure. We’d believed that if we gave players more responsibility peripherally, that would translate to them being able to take more responsibility on the field. Cardiff indicated that something was being lost in the jump from off-field theory to on-field execution, so we’ve decided to go back to our core task. Performing on the field, winning games, is what the All Blacks are about. We’ll start from there. To that end, we’ll try to re-create game pressure in training.

  Early in the week, you’re going over calls and moves repetitively, but as we get closer to the game, it changes to bang—you need to get this right now, what are you going to do? You need to win the ball at this lineout and you haven’t been—what are you going to do? Decide right now. You get one crack at it.

  There’s also a feeling that we’re on probation. In one sense that’s just the norm: All Black coaches and players will always be under the most intense scrutiny, that’s just the way it is. You’ve got to regard that attention as a privilege, earned by the guys who wore the jersey before you. But there’s also Cardiff. During the Super 14, there was some respite from it, but now that we’re All Blacks again, it hangs over everything still, even for the new guys who weren’t there, like Brad and Ma’a Nonu and Jerome Kaino.

  ‘When the All Blacks turn out tomorrow against Ireland,’ Wynne Gray writes in the New Zealand Herald, ‘it will snap a 245-day hiatus in which controversy and uncertainty have cloaked the national sport. Financial pressures, player exits, faltering competition structures, erratic crowd and television viewer-ships, a sceptical fourth estate, coaches and administrative blotches, new playing laws—there’s not been a dull moment since the All Blacks went belly up in Cardiff . . . Victory will not be balm for all the discontent . . . it will not reduce the forgiveness levels by much but it should create some diversion from the rancour and ill-feeling.’

  Bugger that—I’m not buying into any of it. We have five days before our first test against Ireland and all of a sudden I feel different. Rather than please everyone, fuck it, I’m going to do it, I’m going to make sure I get others to help, sure, but I want to set things down my way and not tiptoe around and make sure everyone’s happy.

  So, if you’re a reserve and you’re a bit disa
ppointed that you’re not playing, well tough. You’re in the All Blacks and someone has to do that job and it’s you, and you better do it bloody well.

  That certainty around what I want to do comes from a feeling that this is my team in a way that previous teams weren’t.

  When I was appointed captain in 2006, I was very aware that there were guys in the team with a lot more experience than me, guys who had even captained the All Blacks before, like Reuben and Anton. They were always supportive, but the thought would sometimes come to me when I was fronting the team: What are they really thinking? Do they really think I’m doing a good job? This time, when we get together, there are no longer any whispers of doubt in my mind. I’m the captain, and they’re my team.

  That extra security means I’m happy to ask the senior guys, what do you reckon? Tell them I’m not sure and then be happy to go with what they think. I don’t feel any more that because I’m the captain I need to know everything. When you’re not comfortable in the role, you don’t want to show any weakness.

  Whatever happens, I’m in charge, and I’ll accept everything that flows from that.

  The Irish have been responsible for a couple of highs and lows in my career.

  In 2001 I played my first test against Ireland as a 20 year old at Lansdowne Road, and won Man of the Match. It was a terrible game, and the Irish had the winning of it early in the second half when they were 24–12 up. We managed to let Jonah loose on the left and eventually got home 40–29. David Humphreys, who was the Irish No. 10 that day, said that game is his biggest regret, that they finally had us there for the taking after never having beaten us, and they blew it.

  In retrospect, I think they had too much time left in the game to think about it. It felt similar to my first game as captain against Wales in 2004. With 10 to go Wales had got to within four points and had us pinned on our line. We were just holding on and the winning try seemed inevitable. But when they were awarded a penalty, they took the shot, even though three points wouldn’t win it for them. All it did was let us off the hook. What a relief—that might have been the only way we were going to get back to halfway! We held on and won by that point.

  The Man of the Match award in Dublin in 2001 was the best riposte to Josh Kronfeld, who’d cast doubt on the wisdom of picking me after just 17 first-class games. ‘You might as well just give All Black jerseys to everybody,’ said Josh. ‘The fact they picked guys off one NPC season is bloody incredible.’

  Maybe that was why John Mitchell took me aside in the build-up to the game and reassured me that I was the best in the country, that was why I’d been chosen, and to just go out there and play.

  After the game, at a formal dinner attended by both teams and several hundred UK rugby luminaries, I was awarded my first test cap, along with Aaron Mauger and Dave Hewett. When my name was called to come forward, former Lion great Syd Millar, later Chairman of the IRB, rose to his feet and began clapping. Keith Wood, the Irish captain of the day, followed Syd to his feet, then the whole room rose in acknowledgement. That was an amazing introduction to test rugby.

  Not so amazing was the next time we played them, at Carisbrook the following year. We won 15–6 but got booed off the field by our own crowd.

  I was bewildered, didn’t know how to handle it. It was a shit game in cold, wet conditions and we hadn’t scored a try, and it was probably boring for the spectators, but even so . . . We sat there in the changing room afterwards thinking, Man, we just won a test match. Do they know how tough that is?

  There was also the incident where Irish and Lions captain Brian O’Driscoll was injured and invalided out of the Lions tour in 2005. I thought Woodward and his PR man got that terribly wrong, and I was disappointed that O’Driscoll went along with it. I can understand his anguish at being knocked out of the tour a few minutes into the first test, but there was no way it was intentional. He got caught in a clean-out where in the spur of the moment neither of the two cleaners, Tana and Kevvy, knew exactly what the other one was doing. It was because of that lack of coordination that Brian got flipped, and landed awkwardly.

  Me, Aaron Mauger and Dave Hewett with our first test caps.

  Ireland, 2001, an amazing introduction to test rugby, taking on the Irish defence.

  Lote Tuqiri’s spear tackle on me . . . ‘Honestly, mate, there was no malice intended.’

  I know from experience how unsettling it is if you think that the opposition is targeting you outside the law. The collisions within the laws are bad enough, but if you become aware during a game that someone has been told, or has decided, to take you out, then that’s bloody unnerving, because if you’re playing the game and doing your job, there’s going to be any number of opportunities for someone with intent to seriously hurt you.

  I got that feeling at Eden Park in 2006 against Australia. Lote Tuqiri spear-tackled me, then I got stiff-armed by Phil Waugh shortly after, which broke my nose. There are high tackles and high tackles. A reflexive high tackle from a defender who’s been caught off balance is one thing. Coming in from the blindside and attacking a static guy’s head with your arm is quite another.

  Next day, I got a hand-written note.

  To Richie. Hey mate, I walked past you last night in between our press conferences, instructed not to say anything until we knew what was going on with myself being charged or not regarding that tackle . . . I was going to call you this morning to see how you were, but you’re not in town, so I’m writing this letter instead.. Honestly mate, there was no malice intended, and I hope you’re not feeling too bad today . . . Hope to catch up sometime soon. Cheers mate. Lote Tuqiri.

  That’s class, and made me feel far better disposed towards Lote afterwards than to Phil Waugh.

  Something along the lines of Lote’s note might have happened with Brian O’Driscoll if Woodward and Campbell hadn’t decided to blow it up. Their reaction made any conciliatory gesture impossible—and really fired us up. When Tana made a statement to the media, the whole team lined up behind him. Before we ran out for the captain’s run on the Friday, we haka’d Tana in the changing room. What followed was one of our best-ever performances.

  In my hotel room before the test against Ireland, in that quiet time after game day lunch, I take out my Warwick 2B4 and start writing, same as I always do before a test, trying to reduce my role to some simple maxims that I can keep coming back to during the game. I find that writing them down embeds them in my psyche better:

  Start again

  Get involved early

  DMJ—Do My Job—

  tackle, go thru, clean, low to high, past ball, aggressive, shoulders on

  steal—pick my time

  link—run hard

  Work rate—just keep getting up

  Clarity to boys

  Trust me, back my instincts

  Just play

  Enjoy

  G.A.B.

  The list doesn’t vary much game on game, or even year on year. Sometimes I’ll refer to something more specific, like my right shoulder in tackles, because it’s more natural to hit with my left and I have to consciously practise getting my feet and body in the correct position to hit with my right.

  I feel good to go.

  I reckon I played right up to my best in the 2008 Super 14 semi and final. A possible complication is that we’re back to playing the old rules. The ELVs aren’t being used because the Irish haven’t played those rules. It seems a retrograde step, but we know that whatever happens at IRB level, the northern hemisphere teams cannot, must not, be disadvantaged, so it’s out with the new and in with the old.

  Ted’s picked a team with one new cap, right wing Anthony Tuitavake and three others on the bench. But perhaps the most interesting experiment is swapping Rodney to No. 6 and putting Jerome in at No. 8. That reflects the need to find the right replacement for Jerry—Adam Thomson is lurking on the bench.

  Irish loose forward Alan Quinlan makes all the right noises about the new-look team before the match, and sa
ys that while a few years ago, Ireland didn’t believe it could win, now there’s a confidence that ‘if we play to our potential we certainly have a good chance’.

  There’s the difference between Ireland and New Zealand right there; if I said before a game that we had a good chance of winning, it would be regarded as defeatist.

  All the heat is in the pre-game—the match itself is played in as cold conditions as I’ve ever struck. We’re locked together at 11 all in the Westpac fridge before we lift the tempo in the final quarter, if only to avoid hypothermia. Dan isn’t having a great game—he’s had a kick charged and misdirected other kicks, one of which nearly gives them a try—but in the sixty-second minute he breaks on the outside of O’Gara, and puts Ma’a over the line. That’s the game. ‘It took one moment of genius to create the difference,’ laments the Irish coach.

  I’m stoked with the way the new-look pack finishes over the top of them and pretty happy with my own game in the dreadful conditions.

  We all head to Auckland feeling that England will be a tougher test, particularly since this time they haven’t sent their traditional D for Down Under team.

  A novel element is the inclusion of Tom Palmer, who played with me in the Otago Boys’ First XV in 1997 and went on to make that year’s New Zealand Schools side. Interesting guy, Tom, brought up in Kenya and then Edinburgh, then came to Dunedin to further his rugby education. I brought him back to the farm with me one weekend and we did the Haka thing, motorbikes round the ploughed paddock, night-shoots and Dad took us for a ride in the plane.

  Tom’s part of your typical English pack—full of behemoths like Andrew Sheridan whose declared intention is to ‘outmuscle’ us. And, bugger me, the way they start almost blows us away. The first five or 10 minutes they throw big numbers into all the breakdowns and, after the Super 14 where there’s seldom more than a couple of guys to clean out, we’re shocked out of our stride. They knock us off our own ball a couple of times, and it’s like, holy hell, back to test rugby!