The Real McCaw: Richie McCaw: The Autobiography

by Richie McCaw

  The other thing that defines me 24/7 is my family.

  My mother, Margaret, was born and raised in Mayfield, a little coffee shop, pub and garage town on the Scenic Route, Highway 72, near Mount Peel and Mount Hutt, where the Rangitata River comes out of the Alps and makes a dash for the Pacific. Her family, the McLays, are steeped in rugby. Her brothers, Bigsy and Peter, were both stars for Mid Canterbury and their father was a referee. Mum used to go to matches with him and walk up and down the sideline listening to all the comments and repeating them to her father at halftime. Maybe that was part of Dad’s attraction to her—he did a bit of refereeing and organising refs on those Saturdays down in Oamaru. No wonder I like talking to refs and have my own interpretations of the rules—it’s in the blood!

  Dad was at the Canterbury Sports Awards one year and overheard Paddy O’Brien, in charge of referees for the IRB, talking to referee Steve Walsh. Paddy was commiserating with Steve about how difficult it was to referee ‘that bugger McCaw’ at the breakdown.

  ‘The bugger’s so bloody quick, we can’t decipher what he’s doing,’ said Paddy.

  ‘What am I supposed to do then?’ asked Steve Walsh.

  ‘We can’t penalise what we can’t see,’ said Paddy, shaking his head.

  We’re very close, our family . . . With Dad, Mum and Jo at my 21st in 2002.

  ‘That’s encouraging!’ I said, when Dad told me.

  Mum and my father, Donald, met when they were still at secondary school, Dad at St Andrew’s, and Mum at Rangi Ruru, in the same class as Dad’s younger sister. They were friends for a long time before they got married—when Mum was 26 and Dad 28. I was born at Oamaru Hospital, up on the hill above the house where Janet Frame was raised, on the very last day of 1980, almost three years before my sister Joanna.

  Jo turned out to be just as competitive as me, and Mum reckons the only reason we survived was because we weren’t both boys—we’d have knocked seven bells out of each other. Jo played rugby and cricket with me on the back lawn. She’s probably the reason I was useless with the bat and made the cricket team at Otago Boys’ as a seamer, because she always wanted to bat and refused to bowl. She was always up for a game, and it’s no surprise that she’s done so well at netball for the Canterbury Tactix. The surprise is that the tomboy turned out to be such a beautiful woman.

  We’re very close, our family—you have to be when you’re brought up in such an isolated environment. Selling the farm in 2002 was a big call. When Dad got an offer, he talked it through with Jo and me before he did anything. I know he found it hard to let it go, but he’d been having problems with his back for the three years leading up to that. He’d had one operation on a prolapsed disc which left scar tissue pressing on the sciatic nerve. He was in agony, couldn’t even sit straight, couldn’t sit in a car and was reduced to crawling around on the ground out there. That summer, I came home from school and drove the header, harvested the crops. We had 500 acres in cropping and 600 in pasture. The Haka is demanding enough if you’re able-bodied.

  The back gave Dad a hell of a fright, he was really struggling and it forced him to start thinking about whether there was a life for him without the farm. It had been in the family for more than a hundred years and he couldn’t bring himself to put it on the market, but when someone made an offer, he had to take it seriously. By then, I’d decided that if I was going to go farming, the Haka was too tough, cold in winter, dry in summer, with not enough water for effective irrigation.

  The sale of the farm released Mum and Dad to have a life they couldn’t have otherwise had. They’re able to travel now and come to a lot of my games. If they’re in town, and Jo is too, we have a ritual where we all meet at eleven o’clock for coffee on game day.

  Like most families, when one of us takes a hit, we all feel the pain. Cardiff was hard on them. It’s only now that a year has passed and the All Blacks have restored some mana that Mum and Dad and Jo fill me in on the details of their experience.

  I remember being surprised when I got the word under the grandstand at Millennium after the game that Dad and Jo were at the players’ entrance, but I had no idea how they’d managed to get there.

  Mum and Dad and Jo and her boyfriend Sam had been sitting with Ben Blair, ex-Canterbury and Crusader and All Black and flatmate, who was playing for the Cardiff Blues. When the fulltime whistle sounded, Dad was trying to make all the right noises and said to Ben, ‘Well, it’s not that bloody bad.’

  ‘It bloody is, you know!’ said Ben. He was in tears.

  Before they exited the stadium, Jo and Dad decided they couldn’t go without seeing me. Dad reckons Jo just walked up to the security guys of the next section and told them who they were and why they needed to get to the players’ entrance. Then, while the guards were processing the information, she bolted. Dad followed Jo and the security guards followed them both. When they got to the players’ tunnel, they recognised Steve Tew and Jo yelled to him. Dad reckons he didn’t know what to say to me, but knew he had to say something.

  I was in a daze and not taking a lot in, but Dad’s words stuck, the ones about the nature of sport. I’d forgotten the other thing he said to me: ‘You’re going to be judged on what you do from this moment on.’ But that must have stuck too.

  Mum’s pretty forthright and Dad seems pretty laid-back, but Mum and Jo reckon he gets nervous enough for all three of them. Before that game at Cardiff, he had a bad feeling and hadn’t slept much for three nights. He’d been to the Wednesday training and was disconcerted when two or three key players he knew, like Aaron and Dougie, walked past him, morose at being left out of the playing XV. Dad wondered what the hell the coaches were doing, but said nothing to me. Then, when he wished me good luck, apparently I said that I hoped we’d be following him and Mum and Jo to Paris, and not heading back up the M4 to Heathrow. That had worried him too.

  At halftime, Dad went to get a hamburger and overheard an English fan saying that if New Zealand won this Cup, rugby was finished in the northern hemisphere. When Dad was watching developments in the second half, he wondered if the guy at the hamburger stand had got in Wayne Barnes’ ear!

  After they’d spoken to me, Mum and Dad went back to the Cardiff Blues clubrooms with the Welsh people they were staying with. ‘We’re used to losing,’ they said to Mum and Dad, ‘this happens to us all the time,’ and got out the guitars and started singing. But later, Mum and Dad saw Raewyn Henry and the other coaches’ wives. They were white with dread, wondering what was going to happen to their husbands when they got home. Wayne Smith’s son was in tears.

  Jo hit the town with friends from London and saw groups of Kiwis all round Cardiff, commiserating with each other. It was hard hearing some of the slagging, but she was among friends and kept her head down.

  Uncle Bigsy was with a tour group, and, like Mum and Dad and Jo, they all had to make a decision to get over it, and they did, enjoying the rest of the tour by dint of sheer willpower. Dad reckons the upside was that he didn’t get nervous in Paris before the semi or the final! It helped too that once Jo got on the internet, the media storm back home didn’t seem as bad as they expected.

  We can talk about all this now: it’s still painful, but it hurts a hell of a lot less a year down the track, with the Central Otago sun on our backs and swimming and fishing with my old mates from school and Lincoln, and gliding to get stuck into, not to mention the Discovery Channel cameras arriving.

  I’ve helped organise this show where league star Andrew Ettingshausen comes to Omarama and learns how to glide (as well as paraponting and aerobatic flying back in Australia) and we end up having a glider ‘race’. Andrew’s actually sitting behind Gavin in the twin-seat of course, but I’m doing loop-the-loops for real, with a lot of tuition from Gavin between takes!

  It’s a helluva lot more exciting than most promo shoots.

  Being a professional rugby player means holidays aren’t all downtime. You’ve got your schedule to keep to, so that you’re where yo
u need to be physically when you come back into camp. That’s always in the back of your mind, and I like getting out and hitting the road. With my hat and glasses on, I get a few toots but no hassles.

  The other obligation that doesn’t sleep is work for the sponsors. You’ve got to be available, if needed. Sometimes, it’s a trip to Germany for adidas, say, although that stuff is usually tacked on to the end of the northern tour.

  When you sign up with the NZRU, you’re effectively signing up to the All Blacks’ sponsors as well, and it’s the same with the Crusaders. Contractually, they don’t own you as an individual, but they own you as a member of those teams. So anything I do to promote those sponsors, I do as part of my obligations to the All Blacks or the Crusaders, and there are obligations for, say, a minimum of three players to be involved in, say, a television commercial for an All Black sponsor.

  Dan and me with adidas CEO and Chairman Herbert Hainer.

  It can get more complicated than that with dual deals, though, because adidas, an All Black sponsor, also contracts me as an individual, so that they can put me out there as an All Black, in All Black livery, on my own. Same with Mastercard and Air New Zealand.

  Then I’ll have some personal sponsors on top of that, but with those individual deals, with Westpac or Versatile, say, I can’t be Richie McCaw, All Black, I can only use my name. I can’t use any All Black intellectual property whenever I’m acting as a Westpac or Versatile ambassador.

  The obvious danger in all this is conflicting interests, between team and individual sponsors, which is why the NZRU has a veto. I can’t go out there and promote a different airline, obviously, or sportswear, but if you’re already signed up to one bank, say, as an individual before another one comes in as a team sponsor, that existing deal is allowed to continue. Theoretically, players in Super rugby could wear boots other than the sponsor’s, because that’s a tool of trade exemption, but that doesn’t apply to me because of my individual deal with adidas. Complicated. But at All Black level, there are no exemptions: we’re adidas all the way.

  Despite the complications, it’s basically common sense, because there’s a limited pool out there for New Zealand rugby players as a generic group, and none of us wants to do anything to diminish that.

  And whichever way it falls, the big rule for me is that it’s not just about the money. That might sound a bit trite from someone in my position, but the big thing for me with the personal sponsors especially is the people involved and what they stand for. I need to understand what they do and be happy to stand by the product.

  With the dual sponsorships, the likes of adidas and Air New Zealand and Mastercard, I don’t have to do due diligence, that’s all done by the NZRU before I get on board. But with any personal sponsors, my agent Dean Hegan, Warren Alcock’s associate at the Essentially Group, and I are very careful. While Warren looks after my contract with the NZRU, Dean looks after the personal sponsors, deciding whether they fit, sorting contracts, and helping me with those relationships. I really rely on them and I’d be buggered without them.

  The most critical part of the relationship with a sponsor, of course, is deciding whether you should have one. It’s not always about how kosher the company is, though. Sometimes it’s more a style thing. Back in 2004 when I had no personal sponsors at all, I was offered a television commercial for a prominent brand for very good money. I turned it down. They couldn’t understand why. It was a style thing. I was worried about being the guy in such a relentless commercial. It’s just not me.

  Making a call like that probably comes back again to making sure there’s not a hell of a lot of divergence between the public person or brand and the real person. I’m not that fussed about flash production values in a commercial—I need to feel comfortable with the style and content and the product.

  I want to enjoy the association with any commercial partners and be there for the long term. Adidas, for instance, have sponsored me since I started and have been loyal and great people to work with.

  A wise man once told me that you’re pretty much protected from most people you come into contact with. The ones you are totally vulnerable to are your partners. So choose carefully, he said, in business, in life and in love.

  That said, you probably still need a bit of luck in all three.

  Every game-day mantra in my Warwick begins the same way: Start again. It’s usually accompanied by other exhortations. Get involved early. DMJ. Keep getting up. They’re reminders that what I did last week is history, that each week, the beginning of each game, is ground zero.

  On the night before a test we have a stretch class at 6 pm, half an hour before dinner, and I use that to visualise what I’m going to do next day. On game day, we have something to eat about 3.30 for a 7.30 kick-off, then downtime in our rooms. I use that time too, to write down my mantras and to visualise.

  Start again. Kick-off, where will I be? The ball is coming to me. How am I going to catch it? If it’s our kick, what’s my role, what will I be seeing? Defensive scrum. We’ve been through the sort of moves they’re going to do, how am I going to get there? Don’t take a first step forward, I want to go sideways first to get the space, then forward . . .

  The same is true of each season. You have to start again. You hope to build on the things you set in place last season, but sport doesn’t work like that. Every season is different. Even if you were able to perfectly replicate the attitude and fitness you had last season, it will still be different. Playing personnel will have changed, yours and the opposition’s. Coaches and trainers and physios and doctors might have changed. Referees might have changed, and the latest bright idea from the IRB will definitely have changed rule interpretations.

  You find yourself having to go back, not to ground zero, but to some indeterminate point that will only be revealed when the team gets together and starts playing.

  Sometimes you discover you’re not where you thought you were.

  In 2009, that happens with the Crusaders.

  As always, there are some new faces, notably Ben Franks’ younger brother Owen. But it’s the absence of a familiar face that strikes me when we assemble at St Albans: Dan isn’t there—he’s buggered his Achilles playing for Perpignan over the summer. Some sabbatical.

  Todd Blackadder is the new coach, with Mark Hammett and Daryl Gibson his assistants. Hammer had put his name forward for head coach, but when he missed out he was big enough to sign on to help Toddy.

  I know exactly what I’ve done. Medial ligament, against the Highlanders, 2009.

  Toddy is the right man for the job—I had enormous respect for him as captain in my early Crusaders days, and the indications are that he’ll make a great coach. He wasn’t the biggest or most naturally gifted player going around, but maybe it’s those players, the ones who really have to think about the game and how to get the best out of themselves, who make the best coaches.

  Initially, however, things don’t go right for Toddy or for me.

  The Crusaders win the first game against the Chiefs. That’s the end of the good news, for a while.

  I get a knee in the head and blurred vision.

  I miss the next game against the Brumbies, who win it in extra time when Stirling Mortlock nails a conversion from the sideline.

  Then the Hurricanes come to Christchurch and beat us, first time for five years. I do time in the sin-bin.

  Then we lose 6–nil to the Highlanders, the lowest-scoring game in Super Rugby history, the first time in Super history we’ve been held scoreless, and it’s every bit as ugly and uninspiring as the score makes it sound. The ugliest bonus point ever earned in Super 14.

  I might be biased about that. I get bent up pretty early. My ankle’s up on a body and someone falls on the outside of my knee. It doesn’t actually hurt that much, but by now I know the signs. I get up and the knee is wobbly. Sloppy. When the physio comes out and starts checking, it doesn’t seem as bad as it actually is because the muscles take over and hold the knee in, s
top it graunching sideways. But I know exactly what I’ve done. Medial ligament.

  Going from super-fit to cripple in the blink of an eye is a tough mental jump.

  I’m fine if I’ve got a plan, but if I just go day to day and it feels like nothing’s getting any better, that’s depressing. If every day is no different, I’d go mad, so the physios put a plan in place. If I can go, Okay, I’ve got six weeks until I’m aiming to play again, then I can work back from that.

  The first week is just resting it, especially with a knee injury. If it’s a bit wobbly, you’ve got to let it sit in a knee brace for a week or so. But if after that week you can start doing some rehab, some quad-strengthening exercises, say, you can work with that. It might be small stuff that you think is a waste of time but it builds it up, every day a little more, so you keep progressing little things. I can think, Right, by the end of this week I’m going to be back on the bike, and when I get on the bike I can think, Okay, that’s progress, I’m getting better.

  You’re missing the team environment, but you’ve got to be really careful that you don’t kill yourself off by hanging around too much. When you’re captain you want to be there to help out where you can, but standing around just watching training can be bloody painful. It’s best to take at least a week and get away from it. Or be there to help out early in the week, then make yourself scarce as they get closer to game day. Do your rehab and stuff and go home, because it’s too bloody frustrating just watching.

  I also get frustrated if rehab doesn’t happen the way I want it to happen, if I don’t hit the targets I’m supposed to hit. But you’ve got to have targets: I’ve got to know what I’m aiming for.

  That’s all well and good for the knee.

  My head is the wild card.