The Real McCaw: Richie McCaw: The Autobiography

by Richie McCaw

  That night, though, it swells up. Next day, when we fly down to Wellington, I feel like I’m walking on a lump. That’s different. I’ve never had this before.

  I ice it and swallow anti-inflammatories, but it’s sore walking. I’m down to play against Canada and we’re trying to be positive, but as the week goes on there’s some debate over whether I should play. Deb says wait and see, reckons if it’s anything drastic it’s not going to improve a whole lot. I don’t train on Tuesday and we have a day off on Thursday, and by that time it’s feeling heaps better, the swelling’s gone down a bit.

  That night, I go out with the physio and try to run, and it’s not feeling too bad, so I do quite a bit, because I haven’t trained at all, and I’m surprised how much I can do on it. At that point, I tell the coaches, ‘Yeah, I think I’ll be all right to play on Sunday.’

  But next day we’re at Westpac Stadium training and as soon as I start running on it, the foot is really sore again. I get through training, just, but then it swells up again. Suddenly, I’m seeing those pictures of Andy Dalton. It’s going to be me.

  It’s not a good situation for Deb. Her medical instincts and training must be telling her to get an X-ray or scan, find out what’s wrong, get an accurate diagnosis, put a proper rehab plan in place. But I don’t want an X-ray or a scan. All that’s going to do is show that something’s wrong. That would mess with my head, let alone Deb’s and the coaches’. If they know for sure it’s serious, I won’t be allowed to play. I need to be able to keep telling myself that it’s just one of those things, a bit of stress, it’ll be fine. If it’s something worse than that, I don’t want to know. Deep down I know that whatever it is, it’s not good.

  On Saturday morning before the media conference and captain’s run, we sit down, the coaches, me and Deb, and try to look at the cards we’ve been dealt. We know the foot improved when I rested it between Saturday and Thursday, that’s a positive. If I don’t play against Canada tomorrow, that’ll give me another 10 days effectively until I play in the quarter-final, and if I don’t train too much up until that point then hopefully I’ll be able to get into that game and get going. Then, if we win that, we’ll have another week to the semi-final. We decide to play it by ear. We’re worried about the media and hysteria if I pull out of a game that I’m set down to play in, but what the hell, that’s the only thing we can do.

  Dan and I at the fateful conference to announce his captaincy against Canada and my ‘precautionary withdrawal’ from the match.

  Ted tells Dan that he’ll captain the side tomorrow, and he’s delighted. At the media conference that morning, I sit beside Dan and Ted and play down the ‘niggle’ in my foot, call my withdrawal precautionary, give Dan a chance to say how excited he is to be leading the team, and that it’s an important game in the context of being able to get through to the last three weeks. And the really good news is that Kieran is back from his ankle injury and is down to start.

  The media safely negotiated, we go to lunch and then in the afternoon head to Rugby League Park for the captain’s run. It’s Dan’s show, and I just hang around the edges, watching.

  We’ve finished the run and the forwards are doing lineouts. I’m standing on the far side of the field and Dan’s down the other end, practising his kicking.

  I don’t hear him scream, don’t see him go down.

  It’s only when I’m wandering back towards the changing rooms that I notice he’s no longer out there. One of the management team is standing outside the changing room, ashen-faced.

  ‘DC’s wrecked,’ he says.

  When I get inside Dan’s with Deb, in agony. Ted’s hovering, stricken. I can see he’s having one of those This can’t be happening moments.

  I put a hand on Dan and say, ‘You poor bugger,’ then Ted tells me that Deb reckons he’s probably out of the Cup. Dan’s taken away for a scan which confirms Deb’s initial diagnosis that Dan’s pulled a tendon in his groin right off the bone.

  DC’s wrecked!

  That evening after dinner, Ted and I try to work through next week’s plan, but it’s overwhelmed by what’s happened to Dan. When do we say what to the media? How do we handle this? You just know that the words ‘worst nightmare’ and ‘national disaster’ are going to get a trot. Dan’s arguably the most difficult player in the side to replace, demonstrated by the endless and pretty much unresolved attempts over the last four years to find a back-up. But the most important element is the team. We need to be positive around the team and not let on that we’re thrown by this. We’ve always told them to expect the unexpected, and now it’s happened. We’ve got to make adjustments and move on—nothing’s changed in terms of our objectives. We won’t be using Dan’s absence as an excuse for not doing what we set out to do. It’s definitely going to be tougher from here on in, but we’ve just got to box on.

  All that stuff, while behind the eyes both of us are probably wondering how the hell we’re going to win without Dan.

  When I go to Dan’s room that evening and sit beside his bed, Smithy’s already there. He was going to go to see France versus Tonga but is too depressed. He was catching while Dan was kicking. Dan was only going to do four. The first one flew like a wounded duck and so did the next two. Smithy was thinking that this was bloody strange—he’d caught a lot of Dan’s practice kicks when Mick Byrne wasn’t around, and could almost point Dan to either shoulder and Dan would hit it. Three duds in a row was really odd. The fourth one was worse, a duck hook that almost took out the corner post. And Dan went down in a screaming heap. Smithy said he thought Dan was joking, throwing a wobbly after missing so badly.

  JK’s become a massive, bullying presence in the middle of the park.

  I don’t know what to say to Dan, neither does Smithy. Here’s a guy, a decent humble man, acknowledged to be the best of his generation, perhaps of any generation, who’s been crocked at the top of his game just when he’s about to perform on the biggest stage. He’d played at Cardiff but hadn’t been right. Now he’s missed what is probably his last shot at RWC glory. I guess I could say that there are other great players in his position, like Barry John and Jackie Kyle and Cliff Morgan, who never got to play in a Rugby World Cup either, yet are still regarded as the among the greatest. I don’t think that would be any consolation right now.

  After Smithy goes, Dan asks questions to which there are no answers. ‘Why? Why me? How did this happen? I was just kicking the ball, the same ball we used in the Super 15, the same routine I’ve done a thousand times.’ There’s bugger all to say, except, ‘Oh, mate, I have no idea. I’m so sorry.’ Then he tells me that he used to think everything happened for a reason, but he can’t believe that any more.

  That Dalton image from ’87. I’ve had the odd moment since Dan went down this afternoon where I thought, Jesus, it could be the two of us. But sitting with Dan, I know that it can’t be me now. Can’t happen. No moaning about my foot. Unlike Dan, I’ve still got a chance of playing and somehow, any old how, that’s what I’ve got to do.

  The game against Canada passes in a bit of a blur. The boys do really well to put 79 points on them, and Kieran manages 50 minutes before Jerome Kaino switches to No. 8 and just carries on doing what he’s been doing the whole tournament, the whole year—dominating the opposition in attack and defence. JK’s become a massive bullying presence in the middle of the park, and jeez, I so want to play with him and Kieran, with us all at the top of our games. Colin Slade, taking Dan’s place, slots five goals from nine, but looks like a man who hasn’t had a lot of game time and is down on confidence. The other worrying thing is that he comes off with some sort of leg strain, and Piri finishes as first-five.

  The same day we play Canada, there’s an amazing spectacle at Eden Park, where 50,000 people turn out in the rain to watch the pool match between Samoa and Fiji. It makes us proud to be Kiwis—where else in the world could that possibly happen?

  We head back to Auckland for the quarter-final against Argentina and,
for me anyway, it’s like going into a bubble of hotel-bus-training ground that might last the next three weeks. We see a fantastic RWC festival unfolding around us on television. This week we’re at Spencer on Byron at Takapuna, but even when we’re at the Heritage, a few hundred metres from the Cloud and Queens Wharf, there’s no chance of me going there. Apart from the attention I’d attract, I can’t walk properly most of the time and I’ve got to be careful to mask the worst effects of the injury not just from the media but also from all the people constantly coming and going from the hotel. Not to mention the team and the coaches.

  Ted overseeing Aaron Cruden’s kicking technique.

  Dan’s injury really reinforces my determination to play, but more than that, to be really positive around the team. I don’t want people worrying about me; I want to give the impression I’m always going to play, and keep my down times to myself. I don’t let on to the coaches too much, there’s no point in freaking them. I just keep telling them I’ll be right, I’m good to go, that I’m confident that even if I don’t train at all, I can still go out and perform. I don’t know how much they know, how much Deb is telling them. They just accept that that’s the way it’s got to be if I’m going to be able to get on the field.

  It gets no easier for Deb, sitting with me in this medical netherworld, not knowing how bad it might be. As hard as that is, it’s better than the alternative. If we know for sure it’s broken, then it’s going to be much more difficult for both of us and everyone around us to keep me on the field. Because whatever the ramifications, I’m going to keep playing on it as long as I can stand up and do my job.

  But I do confide in Bert and Ceri Evans. Both are really helpful. Ceri chats with me about how I manage the week, where and how I direct my thoughts with not being able to train, and how I can put the consequential fears and worries to one side so I can still get out there and perform the way I need to. Bert suggests I break it down into 240 minutes. Three games. 240 minutes doesn’t sound that much. 240 minutes sounds manageable. Getting through those 240 minutes has got to be my focus.

  The media conferences are a trial. Getting in and out without limping and giving it away, for a start. They can see I’m not taking much part in training, so I’m constantly being asked how bad it is. As long as I don’t get it X-rayed, I can just about get away with telling them it’s just ‘a niggle’. I don’t know any different. I’m asked if I’m having injections and can honestly say that I’m not. A needle might get me through one game, but it would probably wreck me for the next two. I’ve got to be optimistic. And sometimes, towards the end of the week, when the oral anti-inflams and Panadols and a lot of rest have done their work, I can almost convince myself it’s just a soft-tissue injury. ‘Nah, I’ll be fine,’ I keep telling anyone who’ll listen, media, team-mates, coaches, myself. ‘Just can’t train because it’ll get a bit sore, but I’m ready to go. I’m good to go.’ And I am. I believe it.

  Aaron Cruden’s been called up in place of Dan, who’s being operated on, and I spend a lot of time at training staying close to him and Colin Slade, making sure they’re on the same page as me. I’m not doing much running, but mentally I’m completely engaged with the team, helping prioritise, liaising between the unit leaders and the coaches.

  Kieran Read thunders it up against Argentina in the quarter-final.

  Two days out from the quarter-final, I manage to do a bit of training at North Harbour Stadium, a bit of a run-around, and it feels not too bad—it’s had 10 days to settle. Next day, Saturday, I manage to run around a bit during the captain’s run, although I’m really careful about what I do.

  On Saturday night we watch France deal to England 19–12. France are better than the score indicates. I don’t care who we play, but France are so difficult to read: they’ve metamorphosed from the almost pathetically unmotivated wretches who lost to Tonga last week in pool play to a driven, skilful top international side. I remember what those guys said to me after our pool game, and get a feeling that they’ll be the ones who’ll win the semi, even though their opponents, Wales, are expansive and efficient in knocking out Ireland 22–10. But whatever, whoever.

  Next day, I get through the warm-up okay and play most of a tough uncompromising quarter-final without having to think about the foot. The Pumas score a great try from a simple move off the back of the scrum which does no credit to Kieran or me, while we bash and crash away without breaching them. We do apply enough pressure for Piri to slot four penalties and we go into halftime with the lead. It’s brutally tough attrition, knockout rugby, and there are casualties. Colin Slade only lasts 30 minutes before being replaced by Aaron Cruden, who’s wearing a heavy knee bandage and gets whacked across the mouth almost as soon as he gets on. Mils, who’s finally got on the field for his 100th test, cracks his shoulder blade and doesn’t come out for the second half. That looks like his tournament over. Jesus, what else?

  Piri was the star against Los Pumas.

  The answer doesn’t take long in coming.

  I watch from the bench as Brad scores against Argentina.

  I go close to scoring our first try against the padding of the posts, but the TMO rules it out and Piri kicks his sixth penalty. But we’re getting on top of them, buckling their scrum even, and we know the win will come.

  Almost in that moment of revelation, about 60 minutes in, I feel it, the foot. It goes again. Clunk. Just like against France.

  Then it gets very sore again, almost immediately. When the ball’s in play, I’m okay. But as soon as the whistle goes and I stop, it hurts. If I have to jump or run or push or tackle, I can do it—adrenalin’s a great painkiller. But when play stops and I have to walk or jog to a lineout or scrum 20 metres away, I’m really struggling.

  I tell Deb when she comes out with the water. She says they’ll get me off when they can.

  With 15 to go, Kieran goes over and the game’s safe.

  I watch the rest from the bench—Brad scoring and a sideline conversion from Aaron.

  When the whistle blows for fulltime and we get around Mils and Jock for his presentation, I have to make an effort not to limp. Once again, it’s moving—this time to see my old mate who’s been there with me through so many battles, all the ups and all the downs, get honoured with his 100th cap.

  I’ve played with Mils since the New Zealand Under 19s, then the Under 21s and all those test matches. He’s a great man to have in the team and I have a huge amount of respect for how he plays the game and also how he handles himself as a person. He’s been a valuable member of the leadership group for a long time, helping the All Blacks function. The bitter-sweet is that it looks like his tournament is over. After playing in three World Cups, perhaps his best chance to play in the winning side is gone.

  Milsy is clapped from the field by the Argentinians and the All Blacks after receiving his 100th test cap. The bitter-sweet is that it looks like his tournament is over.

  There’s no justice for him or Dan. This game has no memory or sentiment.

  We’re into the semis. That’s a step up from Cardiff. The solid lump of pain in my foot is back, I can feel the swelling already. But I’m still in there with a chance, so much luckier than Dan and Mils.

  The same day, Australia are lucky to beat South Africa in Wellington, after Bryce Lawrence does what he did in Brisbane in the Super 15 final—freezes, and forgets to blow his whistle.

  Which means we play Australia in the semi. Somehow, I always knew we would.

  Eighty minutes down, 160 to go.

  There’s a thought I’m struggling to get out of my head. We played our final last week.

  It’s the ritual game-day coffee with Mum and Dad and Jo and Sam in a little café just round the corner from the Heritage before the biggest game of my life: the 2011 RWC final.

  Last week, we beat Australia in the semi. We played as well as we’ve ever played, while France narrowly, luckily, beat Wales in the other semi, after the Welsh captain was sent off for a tip-tackle quite
early in the game.

  Last week the whole of New Zealand was anguishing about the prospect of losing to the Aussies, including the old man. He was jumpy, up and down, up and down, couldn’t drink his coffee. He couldn’t understand why I was so calm.

  I wasn’t that calm, but I knew the team was ready. There’s a feeling you get sometimes. I could see it in our guys’ eyes. When Australia was beating the All Blacks pretty regularly back at the turn of the century, I remember the great Australian No. 8 Toutai Kefu saying, ‘We know how to beat these blokes.’ That’s what I felt last week in the build-up to the game. We know how to beat these blokes.

  This week, I don’t feel that. This week there’s been media speculation about how much we’re going to beat France by. The whole of New Zealand, it seems, thinks the Webb Ellis Cup is as good as won. Even Dad’s relaxed about France, can’t understand why I’m so subdued.

  In the knockout phase of the RWC, you have to win every game, obviously, but you have to bring your best game to the final.

  My fear is that we played our best game last week.

  My foot wasn’t pretty after the Argentinian game. During the build-up to Australia, in my mind I kept going back to the week before, when it had improved enough to train after four days of rest and anti-inflams. But this time, after four days I still couldn’t train, I couldn’t risk it. I went out in my gym shoes and stood beside Aaron and Beaver, who Ted had found whitebaiting somewhere. Beaver dropped his net and picked up the ball and ran with it, keen as. He’s a good bugger.

  Out at training, there were three of us standing round in our gym shoes, all leaders of our mini units, all crocked. Mils, with his cracked shoulder and Dan, back after his op. The guys in their respective units asked if Dan and Mils could come back to keep leading them, and they did. Dan’s bloody amazing—no one would have begrudged his right to stay home and cry into his beer, but he came straight back to help as soon as he got out of hospital. Mils too, stranded on his 100th game and invalided out of his chance, after three RWCs, to play for the Cup.