The Real McCaw: Richie McCaw: The Autobiography

by Richie McCaw

  Kapa o Pango kia whakawhenua au i ahau!

  All Blacks, let us become one with the land

  Hī auē, hī! Ko Aotearoa e ngunguru nei!

  This is our land that rumbles

  —the French walked forward and fanned out along their 10-metre line, then advanced again, to the halfway line, trying to take some of the visual focus away from us.

  It’s my time! It’s my moment!

  Au, au, auē hā!

  It’s my time! It’s my moment!

  Ko Kapa o Pango e ngunguru nei!

  This defines us as the All Blacks

  Au, au, auē hā!

  It’s my time! It’s my moment!

  We expected they’d bring something. That was fine. Bring it on. Give us what you’ve got.

  They did. We thought the opening exchanges would show which style they were bringing, Biarritz or Toulouse. As they went wide early instead of kicking, it was clear that they’d left Biarritz at home. But there was nothing mad-headed or desperate in the way they attacked. They punched it close, setting narrow targets, trying to get us to commit numbers in there, before going wide. Punch, punch, go. As I reacted to what they were doing, it suddenly hit me how familiar this pattern was. The sequences they were putting together, the way they were trying to manipulate us in defence, the pace, the power. They’re playing like us.

  We’re surrounded by the familiar. That’s good. On the bus to Eden Park, sitting out there in the Mount Eden darkness like a spaceship, I was thinking if there’s one game you want to be playing for the All Blacks, it would be the RWC final at home, surrounded by the familiar. This is what I play the game for, this moment. Don’t be scared of it, embrace it.

  The ‘Teabag’ move comes off and Woody is on his way to the line in the final.

  That was better than what I was thinking this morning as I sat on my bed. If we don’t win today, this could be my last game as an All Black. Ceri keeps telling me to imagine the worst that could happen and say, Okay, I can handle that. I’m not sure if that’s true this time, if we don’t win this game. It’s my third attempt to win the RWC, my second as captain. Three-time loser. I don’t want to find out whether I can handle that.

  It’s not about the past or the future, it’s about the present. There’ll be a moment.

  Ted comes over and tells me Beaver’s taking the shots now, not Piri. Piri’s still got the restarts. Trainer Nic Gill gives us the call to get back on the track. Keep getting up.

  The most painful part is getting down the players’ tunnel and back out on the field. Once I’m there, and into it again, the foot’s irrelevant.

  Start again.

  We’re almost immediately under the hammer after the restart. After a desperate scramble, we’re penalised. It’s just outside the 22, about 10 in from touch, infinitely kickable. Dimitri Yachvili’s kick looks like it’s going over from where I’m standing, but keeps sliding across the face of the posts and away. Is that the moment?

  Shortly after, our chance comes, when referee Craig Joubert’s arm goes up. Penalty. Beaver quickly grabs the ball in case anyone has second thoughts. He’s right in front, midway 22 and 10-metre mark. Almost exactly the position he missed from against the Aussies in Hong Kong last year, when he could have put us eight points up with four minutes to go. He seems to have no doubts, walks in, belts it.

  Beaver belts it . . . He’s never in doubt.

  This time, from where I’m standing it looks like it might have shaved the outside of the right-hand post. The assistant referee on that side hesitates, then raises his flag. Beaver’s never in doubt, puffing his cheeks, pulling the number 21 jersey down over his love handles and sprinting back to halfway: 8–0.

  With 35 minutes to go, it’s not likely to be his last clutch kick in the game.

  From the French restart, JK crunches forward, Piri hoists one over the top. It’s a bit shallow, and I’m challenging for it among a pod of their loosies. I get shoved aside by Dusautoir but do enough to put Harinordoquy off and—he sprays the ball forward. As I pick myself off the turf, I see Izzy latch on to the loose ball and strike off upfield. It’s the perfect counter opportunity—the suddenness of the turnover has got them at sixes and sevens, and Izzy’s got two on one outside him, Conrad and Kakas—Richard Kahui—covered by one defender. Instead of passing, Izzy has a rush of blood, tries to step inside and is hammered by three defenders as Kakas throws his head back in frustration.

  Bugger!

  It quickly goes bad. They’ve got numbers over the ball, so Conrad has to go in to clean, supported by Beaver and Brad and Piri, but it’s all pretty desperate and when they go to ground, the ball’s sitting behind them. Rougerie steps through and gets a toe to it. The ball goes through Ma’a’s grasp and Piri, who’s just picked himself up, and with time to do any number of things with his hands, decides to pass it with his foot, chipping it gently towards Reado standing wide left. Instead, the ball lobs perfectly into Francois Trinh-Duc’s hands and he beats Piri’s tackle and hares off downfield.

  Thierry Dusautoir is congratulated after scoring by Aurelien Rougerie. I feel prepared for exactly this.

  Shit! Now we’re the ones terribly exposed on the counter, they’re in behind us and the bells are ringing. As Kakas and JK get back to Trinh-Duc, he lobs it infield to Yachvili, who has to check to collect it, giving us crucial moments to scramble.

  I’m still way out wide on the right, but as Yachvili flips it left to Rougerie on the charge, I come tearing in and try to crash him high with my left shoulder to stop him moving the ball to the space and numbers behind me. Too high—my left shoulder bounces off his and he charges on to five metres out from our posts, dragged down by Reado. France recycle quickly and have big numbers left—four on two—but great scrambling defence by Cory and Kevvy and Ma’a takes Servat to ground one metre out.

  We put numbers into the maul—there’s no option—but when they win it and go back right, it’s like watching their first try at Cardiff: that mathematician Dusautoir out there counting the numbers and finding the ghost of a hole outside Ma’a. He slides in against the right-hand post.

  It’s not the only parallel with Cardiff. Poor choices when we had them on the ropes. Izzy’s choice not to pass. Piri’s choice to audition for Man United. And this moment, standing under our own posts shell-shocked. Those pictures from ’99. From 2007, after the Traille try.

  This time it’s different. I feel prepared for exactly this. It was always going to be this way. Instead of feeling shocked, I feel as if it’s playing out exactly the way I always knew it would. The guys are all around me. I’m talking, they’re listening, Conrad’s chipping in. There are no glazed eyes, no one in the Red Zone. Don’t panic. We knew it was going to be like this. We’re ready for it.

  Easy conversion.

  8–7, with 48 gone, 32 minutes to go. That’s a goddamn age.

  Horey on for Kevvy, who’s been really nervous all night on the lineout throws, and Ali for Sam.

  Back to halfway for the restart. I see Reado and Ali out right, with none of their big men opposing. I indicate the space to Piri and yell at him—‘Go go go!’

  Piri goes all right—drop-kicks it out on the full. Scrum back.

  My mistake. I did what I told the team not to do. Panicked. Lost it.

  Horey must see the wild look in my eyes. He cuffs me as he comes back for the scrum. ‘Oi! Calm down!’

  That’s all I need. That’s my last slip. This game is going to come down to who holds their nerve and finds a way to win. This is the place I’ve visualised over and over leading up to the Cup. How I was going to act in this situation, what I was going to do.

  No bad pictures, past or future. Stay in the present. What do we need to do now? And now? And now? Let’s get this done.

  That’s Piri’s last act—he’s pulled for Andy Ellis.

  Unsurprisingly, France have lifted. From the scrum, Harinordoquy punches close off the back, then they go wide right, making inroads now. Confi
dent. They kick behind us, forcing Cory to retrieve a couple of metres from our goal-line. Cory throws it wide across our line to Izzy. Where last week he carved, this week he slips over into Dusautoir’s hungry hands. We recycle under pressure, and Kakas rakes it back to halfway.

  Their lineout, but Mas makes us wait. Joubert gives Dusautoir the chat for wasting time and a bent arm. I opt for the scrum. We need close targets, to work them over.

  Cory comes in off the blindside wing as first receiver, gets smacked by Bonnaire, I clean Bonnaire out. Andy clears to JK who makes the gain-line, with Ali and Brad in the van. Then left again with Franksy, then back right to Beaver, who does that thing, sticks the ball under one arm, puffs his cheeks and charges through a pod of their front-rowers.

  Rougerie and Bonnaire nail him, but we’re on the front foot, go right to Ali, crunch, then back left to Izzy. No holes this week, only Franksy plodding outside him. When it comes back right, I charge it up, set it midfield, then Ma’a takes it right and Woody bunts it up on the 10-metre line. Nine phases and we’ve gone 10 metres.

  We pick and go. Brad punches, Dusautoir nearly steals it, Horey goes again. Twelve phases. We’re still on the 10-metre mark. This is hard yakker! But we have possession and a little bit of territory, keeping it out of kicking range at least. Crunch it up again. At the back of the ruck, Woody has a brain fade, heaves it back blind between his legs. Andy scrambles back, shapes to kick but the French are all over him. We only just save it. We’re back on halfway, go left, Ma’a tries to crash, loses it forward in a heavy crunch.

  Shit! Fifteen phases over four minutes and we’re back where we started, but this time it’s their ball. I can see the French bench, jumping up; they think they’ve got us.

  24 minutes to go.

  Mind on the job. Start again.

  It’s a war of attrition played out between the 10-metre lines. France running at us now, punching close until they think they have the numbers, then coming wide. We keep our line, keep knocking them over, but they’re mixing it up nicely, punching us close, stretching us wide, drawing us up, then sliding a kick through to touch or popping one over the top. Our defence is right on. The guys are fantastic. But we can’t get the ball back. There’s a fatal rhythm developing.

  I can feel the change in the crowd. They sense it too. The air of expectation has gone. They’re not making much noise any more. Watching. Waiting. At this level it’s about sequences and momentum. France are pulling the sequences, getting the momentum. We’re holding on. Just.

  I slip off Maxime Mermoz as they drive him up to 15 metres out from our line, then redeem myself by getting a hand in as JK and Ma’a wrestle Lionel Nallet to the ground and he loses it forward.

  Our scrum. Horey slaps me on the back, and we put on a good scrum. Jean-Baptiste Poux folds in and we get the penalty.

  Back on halfway again. Our throw.

  20 to go. It feels like we’ve been out here forever.

  We desperately need to keep the pill, but Harinordoquy gets a mitt in front of Brad and swats it back to his side, Dusautoir crunches it up and sets it midfield and we’re back in that fatal sequence, defending desperately, on our own 10-metre line, knowing that one mistake and a penalty goal will put them in front.

  Trinh-Duc grubbers it through. Out. Our throw.

  This time Ali claims it, Andy hoists it, but it bounces for Harinordoquy and he rumbles it back up. Horey and I get a rare turnover, Izzy goes right, but Beaver and Reado run out of room and it’s their lineout.

  From the next ruck Ali gets penalised for playing it on the ground. Trinh-Duc misses touch, Izzy hoists but too far and Harinordoquy gets to run it back at us again. JK hits him brutally hard and he knocks on.

  Scrum halfway. It’s groundhog day. We’re going in circles within the 10-metre marks, always ending up back here. But this time, it’s our ball.

  Just as we threaten to finally break out of those fatal sequences, stopping their momentum, get back to parity, France kill our scrum. Mas and Servat bore in on Horey and pop him. Penalty, two metres our side of halfway. Shit.

  As Trinh-Duc lines it up with what looks like a smile on his face, I’m doing Ceri’s worst-case scenario. They’d be two up, still 15 to go, there’ll be time to come back. But I know from Cardiff, even exercising the strongest will in the world to keep the bad pictures at bay, what difference being behind by two points, rather than ahead by one, will make to that last 15 minutes.

  Trinh-Duc blocks it right. Maybe that’s the moment, the bit of luck we need.

  But minutes later, we might have blown it. Trinh-Duc hoists it and Izzy is robbed by Traille in mid-air, and they’re rucking it outside our 22, and it’s desperate defence until Yachvili fumbles it at the base.

  Keep defending, keep believing . . . A massive hit on Damien Traille by Brad Thorn, assisted by Jerome Kaino.

  We put down a better scrum. They’ve got dominance there now, but we manage to clear it as we go down and Andy kicks deep right. Traille takes it and puts up a high ball, too shallow but they’re winning everything in the air, and they take it wide left, straight back into our half with numbers. We scramble well, and Trinh-Duc hoists it again—too far and Izzy punishes them with a huge punt which takes us down to midway their 10 metres and 22.

  The relief as we march forward into their half. Gotta stay down here, their turn to be under the hammer.

  12 minutes to go.

  The French lineout is immaculate. Harinordoquy is impregnable in the middle and they drive it forward before Yachvili puts one over the top, brilliantly taken by Kakas who makes good metres. Andy clears it to Beaver, who sees space behind them and finds touch on their 22 with a beautifully weighted ball.

  That’s more like it.

  We walk forward again. We’ve been under the pump for the best part of 20 minutes, but we’re finally getting some territory, getting some control, some leverage on them.

  10 to go. We can do this.

  But Harinordoquy pulls it in again, and they set up a rolling maul. We go for the ball instead of stopping the drive. When it collapses, Joubert calls the penalty.

  How can they be this good for this long? I realise that was a question I was asking myself in Cardiff too. This time I know it’s not worth asking. Expect it.

  Back at halfway, their throw.

  They get another go.

  Start again.

  They go wide and there’s big danger. Ma’a shows their left winger the touchline and he takes it, goes round Ma’a. I only just get across to him, take his legs away into touch. I’m sure he’s out, but the touchie’s flag stays down and I get up and throw myself into trying to stop the French rolling maul. It’s a desperate wrestle as we try to hold them. We can’t do it, but pull them sideways so that when we collapse, the ball is out. I’m flat on my back at the bottom, when I see the touchie’s flag go up. Our ball.

  I’m stuffed. The desperate sprint across the width of the field. The desperate tackle. The desperate wrestle. Was that the moment?

  Keep getting up.

  Our throw-in. Horey to Brad, this time hits him bang on.

  Andy hoists it again, perfect kick, but as brilliant as we were aerially last week, this week we can’t get our bloody hands on it.

  France come wide right, big blond Rougerie slams into Conrad, who hangs on. We put numbers in, try to slow it, which means when they get it and come back left, they’ve got huge numbers. This time Dusautoir’s calculator lets him down. The hole’s not there: I am. I drag him down, but they get quick ball again, and this time they’ve got numbers right. Ma’a takes Mermoz down, but we can’t stop the recycle or even slow it and Nallet charges it up when they come back midfield.

  8 to go. France have the momentum, they’re putting together the sequences. How to change it. Get the ball. Keep defending, keep believing. But look for the moment. Break the cycle.

  They keep coming left, towards me and Reado and Cory, with numbers massing behind Yachvili, who gets smashed by Reado, bu
t gets it away to Dusautoir, who’s stopped by Conrad. I see a moment, try to steal, get blown off it and they’re away again, wide right. Numbers again out there, three on two.

  Rougerie does brilliantly to commit Ma’a to the tackle and lure in Beaver before getting it wide to Mermoz, who’s hit by Kakas and a recovering Beaver. Great defence.

  7 to go.

  They’ve still got it, coming back left. Szarzewski drives short right, smashing over the gain-line. Every time they do that, our defence has to run backwards to a new offside line. I can see they’re getting buggered. I’m buggered.

  We’ve retreated to midway between our 10-metre line and 22.

  I’m hanging out, calling the D, thinking if they get another penalty here, we’re gone. No panic. We’re trying to police ourselves, stay calm, as they pick and go again, pile drive another two metres on the short blind, forcing our string of defence to back up another two metres across the field.

  I can see it unfolding in slow-mo, there’s a dreadful inevitability about what they’re doing: picking their time, making us commit numbers to stop the close drives, while out in the centre they’re organising themselves for the quick ball that’ll enable them to take advantage of the holes. Part of me can appreciate the brutal logic and brilliant execution of what they’re doing. It’s what we would do.

  Now they come left—Is this it, the moment?

  No, Harinordoquy crunches it up again, taken down by Beaver. JK’s in there too, but can’t stop the quick ball.

  Now they’ve got what they want. It comes quickly left to Yachvili, to Mermoz. To Alexis Palisson on the cut, hammered by Reado and Brad, who drive over him.