The Real McCaw: Richie McCaw: The Autobiography

by Richie McCaw

  But the longer the game goes on, the more we get our multi-phase rhythm going, and even without the ELVs, England can only compete fitfully with the pace of our game. We’re soon beating them in the collisions and even in the scrums, and win 37–20. Dan is back in command, and one really great development is the combination outside him, between Ma’a and Conrad. Ma’a busts the line, then throws a sublime pass to put Mils over.

  England get castigated in the New Zealand media—‘bulk and bluster’, one scribe calls them, ‘clueless and bumbling’, says another—and far be it from me to describe UK rugby writer Stephen Jones as more rational, but at least he gives us some credit for ‘pace, wit, efficiency and passion’.

  With Rodney So’oialo in the dressing room after the second test against England in 2008. Rodders had been one of our best for so many years, always combative, super-fit, tough.

  Whatever, it’s great to be back playing tests and winning. While I’m not sure we’re playing like world beaters—particularly our lineout—I don’t think Ireland and England are complete donkeys either, and I’m really happy with the way the ‘new-look’ team is coming together, on and off the field. I’m already looking forward to the much more torrid tests of the Tri Nations.

  And I’m happy with my own form—I’ve been able to maintain a consistently high standard since the Super 14 semi, one of the benefits of having an injury-free run.

  I should have known it couldn’t last.

  Twenty-eight minutes into the second test at Jade, I’m trying to support Ma’a and the guy who’s tackling him cannons sideways into me, trapping my ankle underneath. I feel it go snap and I think I’ve broken my leg. When I try to get up—Keep getting up—I can’t.

  I sit on the sideline until halftime, then Steve Donald and Jimmy Cowan help me into the dressing shed. Ali’s already there—his ankle’s given way again—so after a shower, the two crocks sit there in comfort and watch England get torn to shreds, 44 to 12. Richard Kahui demonstrates that Conrad isn’t the only option at centre. It looks to me like a much more complete All Black performance than last week, even though their loose forwards James Haskell and Tom Rees show real physicality at the breakdown, and some guts and desire.

  But this week, as they head through to the departure gate, England have no friends, even among their own media.

  I spend that night in hospital. When they put me under general to have a look, they warn me I might wake up with a bolt in there.

  Perhaps it’s an over-reaction to being crocked again just when I was feeling on top of everything, this sneaking suspicion that maybe the media assessment is pretty accurate and that beating these guys from the northern hemisphere is no indication of success in the Tri Nations, due to start without me in two weeks’ time . . .

  But even so, I have no idea that this fledgling team of mine will be thrown so immediately into crisis.

  Six weeks later, just about the only thing that’s gone well is rehab—no bolt, just a high ankle sprain—and I’m almost ready to play again. Almost is good enough. We’re in the shit. If rugby is a religion in New Zealand, there’s now a schism: Ted vs Robbie. There’s a kind of madness out there. The taxi driver in from the airport tells me he’s not supporting the All Blacks any more, he’s supporting the Wallabies.

  ‘Right. So you’ve always supported teams because of who the coach is?’

  ‘No, no,’ he says, ‘but I’m pissed off with what’s happened, so bugger you guys.’

  He’s not the only one pissed off. ‘Mate,’ I tell him, ‘I don’t want to talk about this.’

  And we sit there in silence all the way into the Heritage, the beginning of a huge week. I’m fuming, thinking how much worse can it get? An Auckland taxi driver supporting Robbie Deans! Clown.

  But he’s not the only one who’s pissed me off.

  Last Saturday night I was in Sydney, watching the team get thumped in one of the worst performances I’ve seen from the All Blacks. We were really poor; we just got it all wrong. But what really pissed me off was the sight of their analyst and media guy in dinky-di green and gold uniforms dancing around on the sideline after the game like they’d just won Lotto. They were both Kiwis, ex Crusaders, Andrew Sullivan and Matt McIlraith. At least Robbie kept a bit of dignity as his new team smashed us.

  But it’s not just about the Aussies in Sydney. We got stuffed by the Springboks the game before that in Dunedin, after beating them in Wellington.

  In that opening Tri Nations match, we were brutal and clinical, and Brad showed he was really going to add some steel to our pack. Unfortunately, he overdid it, dumped John Smit on his head and got a one-week suspension.

  That made it a pretty green pack the following week at Carisbrook, particularly when Ali’s ankle gave up the ghost after 20 minutes and Kevin O’Neill came on for his first test, to join Anthony Boric, playing his third test. We had guys with similar experience—or lack of it—at tighthead prop, blindside flanker and No. 8, and Rodney playing No. 7. Even so, it was pretty woeful, and when Ricky Januarie pulled off a brilliant kick-and-chase to win it, the Springboks had broken their 87-year hoodoo at Carisbrook and the media, quite correctly, began to speculate about whether the exodus of experienced players had come back to bite us.

  But that had been lost in the frenzied build-up to the clash in Sydney. It wasn’t New Zealand versus Australia, it was Robbie versus Ted. In the two weeks before that game, Kaingaroa Forest might have been felled to provide the newsprint for the big face-off. The continuing debate over whether Ted & Co. should have been reappointed inevitably reopened the festering sore of Cardiff.

  There was also more constructive criticism: that Robbie’s experience with the ELVs through Super 14 might have given him an advantage over Ted & Shag & Smithy. But that was no excuse for our players and what happened out on the field at Olympic Stadium. There was no tactical nous—we tried to run it from everywhere and got bowled. Daniel Braid was playing openside and wasn’t match-fit after being out with injury, and when he was replaced by Sione Lauaki, that option was crossed off the list as he waved Rocky Elsom past on a 30-metre jog to the try-line.

  Lauaki wasn’t the only one who let himself down. Watching good players play badly was really frustrating. Being professional means working out how you get yourself ready to perform every week. It has to be a combination of self-reliance, self-knowledge and self-discipline—coaches and colleagues can’t get you there. I’d rather have a guy who can give me an eight every week than someone who’s a 10 one week and a six the next. You can’t make a coherent plan around that.

  The 34–19 scoreline wasn’t a loss, it was a dicking, and the Dingo Deans lobby went into overdrive. Sitting in the stand with Hayley, I felt that the win wasn’t really due to the Aussies being particularly smart or brilliant: we were so awful, they didn’t have to be.

  Afterwards, Smithy, as usual, was excoriatingly honest. ‘I’ve been out-coached before,’ he said, ‘and I’ll be out-coached again.’

  But not this Saturday, surely.

  Those two losses in a row have put our season on the skids. Robbie’s new-look team beat the South Africans in Perth and now lead the Tri Nations points table with two wins. If we lose the return game at Eden Park, right before we hop on a plane to South Africa, that’s the Tri Nations effectively gone and we’re dog tucker.

  There’s open speculation that Ted & Smithy and Shag will be too. Sacking an All Black coach in the middle of his tenure is unprecedented, but feelings are running high, and what happened in Sydney must have been an embarrassment to the NZRU Board.

  ‘The net result of the World Cup fallout is that I’ll never cheer for a team coached by Henry,’ writes a sports hack in our major metropolitan daily. ‘No team in black will ever represent my sporting fervour while he is in charge. There will never be a time soon enough for Henry’s departure.’ I won’t embarrass this guy by naming him: I hope his fervour is keeping him warm at night.

  My first crack against the Aussies at
Eden Park in 2008. Ali reckoned I’d win all the plaudits.

  At least it’s not getting to Ali. When I get out of that taxi and into the foyer of the Heritage, he’s an unmissable totem pole. ‘You know what’s going to happen,’ he says with his usual grin. ‘We’ll all front this Saturday because we have to, but you’ll be the bloody hero because you came back and saved us.’

  And that’s more or less how it pans out.

  Robbie picks two opensides, Phil Waugh and George Smith, even though we’ve been deliberately ambivalent about whether I’ll play. Robbie knows I’m going to be there.

  That’s going to make it really tough on a dodgy ankle after six weeks on the sidelines and a couple of runs. Phil and George are both natural opensides, but have different styles, which might be complementary.

  Phil’s in there at the breakdown every time, having a sniff, and is easier to control because you always know where he’s going to be. If we play him right, he’ll become inaccurate.

  George is much harder to play against because he picks his times. You lose track of him, don’t know where he is, then—bang!—he’s in there, usually when it matters. George is smart and his interventions usually make a difference. Like me, he’s put the work into becoming more effective as a carrier, so potentially, the Wallabies shouldn’t lose much by having him play No. 6.

  Before I get to training, I’ve written in the Warwick at the top of the page Need to be more desperate. And that’s the guts of what we need to put out there, along with work-rate and belief. At the bottom of the list, I write: When we get behind, must build pressure and not give it away with soft shit.

  But we never are behind, as Dan kicks sublimely and we chase with purpose. We keep the ball behind them, play in their half and belt them. We belt them in the scrums, in the collisions, at the breakdown: even our lineout goes well. Woody scores two tries, the second from an attacking lineout move called Teabag. The move will only work if you’re sure the defending lineout will contest the ball in the air close to their line. I know the Aussies will fancy their chances and have a go, and when we split the pods, it creates a hole for Woody to charge through to the goal-line. Perfection.

  By the 60-minute mark, when Phil Waugh is subbed off, the game is ours. Ali’s right: I get the plaudits, but in truth it’s a huge lift from everyone. We play smarter tactics; we’re focused and a lot better at the breakdown.

  The relief in the coaches’ box is evident as Ted & Smithy & Shag do the old man’s version of high fives. It’s good to see. They’ve been so under the hammer.

  But I haven’t forgotten what I saw in Sydney.

  The following week, we’re at the airport hotel for an early call to board the plane for South Africa. I call a team meeting for even earlier, 4.30 am, which is apt, because I want to talk to them about not relaxing, not getting comfortable.

  There are no coaches or management, just me and the team. I tell them that last week’s game is the perfect illustration of the difference between genuine preparation and faking it. I name a couple of names, to show the difference in their performances when they prepped genuinely and when they didn’t. I tell them that last week doesn’t mean shit if we can’t do it again next week at Newlands. Preparing genuinely means being tough enough mentally to do what is required between now and next Saturday. Cape Town’s got a lot of temptations, and I’m not talking about no fun, but we need to be tough bastards if we are to get what we’re after.

  ‘I’m asking you all to be fucking genuine this week,’ I tell them. ‘Before you leave here, just decide if you are willing to do that and, if you’re not, I suggest you don’t bother getting on the bus.’

  There’s utter silence, which I take as assent, then I tell them about the exercises that Gilbert Enoka and I want them to do on the flight, things to think about, visualisations about preparation and playing.

  The week goes well. I’ve told the leaders that I need them to help set the attitudes for the week, both on- and off-field, and to be demanding, so that I don’t always have to be the voice in their ears.

  The game at Newlands is a benchmark performance for the team and for me. We beat the World Champions 19–nil, and the nil is as impressive as the 19. Our defence is massive. It’s the first time South Africa has been kept scoreless in a home test. We could have had a lot more—Dan had one of his less accurate goal-kicking days.

  Robbie’s sitting in the stands at Newlands, and obviously picks up something useful. The Aussies beat South Africa the following week and it’s all set up for Brisbane: winner take all—the Tri Nations and the Bledisloe, and, for the media, Robbie or Ted.

  That contest is 1–1 too.

  Suncorp is a hard place to win. Expat Kiwis in Queensland ensure we have great support, but the Aussies seem to grow an extra leg there, and they score either side of halftime and after 60 minutes we’re 10 points down. The Wallabies are playing superbly and exerting huge pressure on us. We can’t seem to get on the front foot and at times we’re just holding on. We try Teabag again, splitting the pods in the lineout, and they’re ready for it this time, so that’s that one to put away for a rainy day.

  In some strange way, it’s where I want to be. Last quarter, everything on the line, almost a year after we blew it all in a similar situation at Cardiff. We’ve talked the talk, trained hard and thought hard about what we’d do in this situation. Can we execute?

  In the huddle after they score, Mils tells us what he’s seeing from the back—the kicking game we’d planned isn’t working. So Dan and Piri start attacking the fringes with the ball in hand, Rodney has a huge last 30 minutes and gives us some go-forward, and the game gradually changes.

  It helps that the ELVs are working their space magic as the game goes on. Under the new rules, it’s as exhausting to attack as defend, and when Conrad wriggles free on the 10-metre line there’s space in front of him, apart from a lone defender. He looks outside for Siti and sees instead all 120 kilos of Tony Woodcock. What the hell, Conrad draws and passes perfectly, and Woody thunders down the left-touch like a white rhino—it might have been 20 metres or 60, depending on who’s telling the story—and scores in the corner. Dan slots the conversion from the sideline, closing to within three.

  Now, we start turning the screws. There’s composure and focus. We pin them on their line and work them over, patiently, relentlessly, until Siti dabs and Piri finds the hole.

  It’s a close-run thing right to the end, when the Aussies turn over our scrum on the hooter and almost score.

  There’s enormous satisfaction—and relief—in holding up the Bledisloe and Tri Nations Cups after the game. Neither is the cup we really wanted, but we had them in the cupboard at the beginning of the year, and if we’d lost them, that would have been the end-point for a few careers, inside and outside the coaches’ box.

  Instead, guys like Jimmy Cowan and Jerome Kaino and Brad and Conrad have really found their feet in test rugby, while the core of the team has kept developing.

  Way back at the beginning of the year, when Robbie asked me to give him a reason why I should be captain of the Crusaders, I’d told him I believed the experiences I’d been through would make me a better captain than I had been. I reckon I’ve delivered on that—and I think Robbie, to his cost, might be the first one to agree that I have.

  All the sweeter out of the Big Cup . . . Suncorp Stadium, Brisbane, 2008.

  Playing well has definitely helped me captain well. There’s a symbiotic relationship. People speak of the Suncorp test against Australia in 2006 as my best ever, but I reckon my form in the games against Australia at Eden Park and against South Africa at Newlands is up there with anything I’ve ever done in the All Black jersey.

  We’ve all, coaches and players, come a long way in a long year of rugby, gone through a hell of a lot, emotionally and physically.

  But it’s not over.

  Almost a year to the day after Cardiff, I spend a couple of hours with Gilbert Enoka, refining objectives for me and the te
am on the eve of our departure for London. We talk about the leadership challenges of a five-week tour, like how to keep everyone fresh and emotionally connected, how to avoid a culture of secrecy in a touring party of 35 where cliques could easily develop, and how to get bone-deep commitment out of players every week, instead of skin deep.

  Ahead of us, we’ve got consecutive weekly tests against Scotland, Ireland, Wales and England, with an extra midweek game against Munster sandwiched in between Ireland and Wales. It’s another opportunity to complete a Grand Slam. The last one was in 2005.

  But when we look at what we want out of this tour, the Grand Slam is incidental to a larger goal that we want much more.

  Job done: at the back of the bus with Rodders, Kevvy, Woody and Mils after our Grand Slam-clinching victory over England.

  We’ve got to wait another three years before we get an opportunity to call ourselves World Champions, but we’ve worked out that if we can win those four tests we’ll have won the number-one world ranking back from South Africa.

  That’s what we really want.

  On the way to that assignment, we play Australia again in Hong Kong. The promoters of this experimental game, a revenue opportunity for the NZRU and ARU, would have preferred it to be the decider for the Bledisloe. It’s not, but we want to be worthy holders, and know that 3–1 will feel a hell of a lot better than 2–2, but the fact that the Cup is already in the cabinet could be a potential motivational problem for us. Luckily, Matt Dunning steps up with a few choice comments about Woody being ‘a myth’.