The Real McCaw: Richie McCaw: The Autobiography

by Richie McCaw

  Is this it? I see the ghost of a chance, a sliver of space, drive in there to steal, but lose my feet and the ball flips out their side. We appeal for the knock-on but Joubert holds his hands wide—play on.

  Ali gets a toe to it and chases, but Dusautoir really shows his class, somehow scooping the ball into his mitt off the ground while running backwards, then turning and charging it back up at us.

  Chance gone.

  6 to go. We can’t get the pill. Don’t panic. Don’t force it. Keep doing what we’re doing and the opportunity must come.

  Dusautoir is hammered by Woody and Brad, but it’s quick ball, coming right, and we’re back to square one, defending desperately in our own territory as they come back left and we’re calling to each other to not give away the penalty, to trust each other.

  Nallet hammers into Ma’a and I see another false moment, get a hand to it, before I’m hit by Mas and cleaned out.

  Harinordoquy crunches it up close right, forcing us to put in numbers to stop the drive and it’s all happening again, and we can’t seem to stop it.

  I keep thinking, though, that there’s pressure on them too, because this time we’re one point up, not two points down, and the longer this lasts, the more the screw will turn on them. That’s one picture from the last 10 minutes at Cardiff that’s helpful.

  They crunch it up short right again, waiting for the perfect ball to go wide left.

  This time, Bonnaire drives it up, and I have a look at going for it, but decide not to. Then they come left, with Harinordoquy, and I look again to steal it, but I’m belted off it.

  Trench warfare. France has gone 16 phases. We’re still hanging in there. The penalty is the danger. Andy’s trying to referee us, I hear him screaming at us—Hands off! Get out of there!

  JK has a dab at the next ruck, is blown away, too late, we think, appealing. Joubert holds his hands wide again—play on.

  We’re trying to pressure them at the breakdown, and almost turn it over when the ball goes loose behind them and we think we might have the knock-on when Joubert whistles. It’s a scrum, yes, but their ball.

  Shit. They get another go. When will this end?

  5 to go.

  We’re all out on our feet. I can’t feel my foot any more; I can’t feel anything.

  The coaches put out Sonny Bill for Ma’a, who’s defended brilliantly and is shattered. That makes sense.

  What Lievremont does makes no sense. Yachvili’s off for Jean-Marc Doussain, on debut. You put a guy out there at halfback for the last five minutes of a World Cup final who’s never played a test before? Only the French would see any logic in that. Maybe he’s got a play we haven’t seen before.

  Start again.

  Scrum just outside our 10-metre line. France is aligned wide left. It’s a better scrum from us but still good ball for them.

  I track across as Doussain clears to Trinh-Duc who throws a miss-ball past Maxime Medard to Rougerie, who is so strong he drops his shoulder into Conrad and spins him off, then shrugs off Sonny Bill and is finally dragged down by Beaver, right in front of me. Is this it?

  Rougerie’s pace and strength has taken him too far ahead of his support, only a couple of backs around him, too slow . . . This is it!

  As Rougerie goes to ground, I drive forward over him, get under his support, see the ball loose in front of me, get another two steps towards it before I get hit. There’s someone on my back and I’m falling, can’t play it, but I just about get over it as Reado cleans out the guy on me a split second before we both get monstered by the heavy cavalry. But we’ve done enough to put the new halfback off and he fumbles it under intense pressure.

  Keep getting up. Get up. After the gouging, with Dr Deb by my side and Dusautoir looking on.

  I’m flat on my back on the grass under some bodies when I hear the whistle go and Joubert call ‘Knock on’, but I can’t see anything, got both hands to my eyes because in the washing machine of bodies there was a hand like a half-closed fist or claw banging across my face, looking for my eyes.

  I’m still down as everyone gets up, and Joubert calls time out, and Deb gets there as I rise to one knee. She looks at my left eye. I can’t see out of it and I’m bleeding from my nose and ear. She asks me if I want to come off. Shit no!

  We’ve got the ball. Four minutes to go.

  This is it. We’ve got to do this right.

  Deb’s got a message from the coaches, probably Smithy. There’s space deep left. Beaver should kick for it. Beaver comes over to me while I’m on the ground. ‘What do you reckon?’ I tell him I think we should get it down there.

  Keep getting up. Get up.

  I get up. I blink the eye and it sort of clears. I tell Joubert I’ve been gouged, but what can he do?

  Dusautoir has been named Man of the Match while I’ve been lying there. When the scrums line up, he’s got a look in his eyes that I’ve seen before, but not in his eyes. Desperation. Last throw of the dice. This time, they’re behind.

  While I’ve been down, Beaver’s taken the message back to the boys—‘Right, we’re kicking it.’ But when Conrad looks out to where the space was, it’s gone: the French fullback has sensed it and moved across.

  We’re ready to pack the most important scrum we’ve ever put down, when Andy comes back. ‘We can’t kick it,’ he tells me. I go, ‘Righto’—that’s what we have a leadership group for—they’re seeing better than me now. Andy tells Reado, ‘You’re taking it up.’

  Four years into four minutes.

  Start again.

  Our scrum holds. Reado takes it off the back and punches up the blind, over the gain-line into Dusautoir and Harinordoquy and we smash in behind him. Franksy drives it, makes no real progress. Doesn’t matter. We hold the ball at the back, static. Counting down. Three minutes is a bloody long time to keep this going!

  I’m over it at the back of the ruck, keeping my hands off it, looking across to Joubert, checking we don’t have to play it.

  I sense that Joubert’s not going to do anything rash. There’ll be no penalties unless it’s obvious.

  I finally pick and go, get smashed down, but we’ve got numbers in there and we keep it at the back again.

  Static. Franksy goes again. Andy’s talking us through it. He’s great. No panic. Job to do, boys.

  2 to go.

  We crunch it up again. It’s sitting at the back of the ruck again at my feet. Just as I reach for it, someone gets a toe to it and it goes back between my feet. I only just pick it up without fumbling—Shit!—and go, get smashed down again, but there’s desperate support behind me, over me and we work it to the back of the ruck again.

  1.30 to go.

  Ali goes the other way, but when he goes down, it’s an almighty fight to get numbers over it this time. France force the issue—penalty.

  Too far out to kick for goal. What if we miss? What if it falls short? We can’t give France the ball back. We can’t give them a sniff. What was that try called they scored to win a test back in the 1990s right here at Eden Park? The try from the end of the world. It would be the end of the bloody world if they did it here!

  Beaver makes sure it goes out.

  1 minute to go.

  France line up while we consult. What call? The most secure. Brad. We’ve lost one there already, but it’s the safest option. Brad’s temperament. Horey’s. If there was one lineout in the last four years we needed to win, this is it. Just need everyone to do the job they’ve done hundreds of times. Can’t lose this one.

  Horey hits a soaring Brad, lifted by Ali. Huge take. We pile into the drive.

  30 seconds to kill or be killed.

  France are fringing now, desperate to get a sniff at the ball, so we drive it and make some progress.

  Same image, different result. Ali and me, four years on.

  10 seconds.

  They try to hold us up, get the turnover, but finally we get it to ground and Andy’s clever and composed enough not to panic, not to make the pa
ss. Lets it sit there, harangues the pack to get round it once again.

  There’s a constant wall of sound. I’m under a heap of bodies. Andy’s waiting for the ball. How long? How fucking long? Somehow, I hear the hooter. Time is up. I start yelling from down under all the bodies. Get it out! Get it out! As I try and get out from under, Conrad comes sprinting in from centre, yelling at Andy. ‘Time’s up! The hooter’s sounded! Put the fucking thing out!’

  Szarzewski must have heard the hooter, or heard Conrad. He comes flying round our side of the ruck, knows it’s all or nothing. Joubert blasts his whistle over the roar.

  Offside! Penalty.

  The crowd is off its head. I see our bench jumping in the air, but I can’t believe it’s over. Our guys are celebrating. I grab Andy by the shoulder.

  It’s finished. Me and Shag.

  Stop everything. Slow it down. Is it over if we put the ball out? Is it finished? Andy says it is.

  He hoofs it into the tiers of the stand, where everyone’s on their feet, arms raised.

  I raise mine as Joubert blows for fulltime.

  Ali hugs me. Someone else.

  I bend over, hands on knees. Then sink to one knee. We’ve won. I should be happy. All I feel is relief. It’s finished. I can stop. I don’t have to do this any

  The guys are jumping around, the crowd is so loud I can’t hear what they’re saying. Someone pulls me up, hugs me.

  I do the after-match on auto-pilot. Get my medal from dear old Jock. Lift the Webb Ellis Cup. The moment I’ve been waiting four years for. I thought I’d feel more. It’s like I’m seeing it all through someone else’s eyes. The welling emotion of the crowd rolling over me, too mentally and physically shot to really respond. I try to remember what needs to be said, to thank those who need to be thanked.

  The right picture.

  I feel cold, bloody awful . . .

  We’re out there so long I get cold.

  Sometime later, I’m in the changing room, sitting by myself with my winner’s medal around my neck, a beer in my hand, still in my gear. Ted’s standing in front of me, patting me on the head, saying something, probably that we’ve still got to do the media conference, and I start shivering. I feel cold, bloody awful. Someone gets me some Powerade and lollies to get my sugar up, so I can do media.

  I get through that, still shaking, so I get in the spa to warm up. At one stage I’m sitting in the spa feeding myself lollies and I look up and someone says hello, and there’s John Key sitting on the side of the spa. So I chat to the Prime Minister, still sitting in the spa swallowing lollies.

  It takes me quite a long time, even once we get back to the hotel and I see everyone around, so happy, to begin to feel it myself, to get past the relief that it is truly finished, that I don’t have to get up tomorrow and start again.

  It’s over. We’ve won. Believe it.

  Gratification doesn’t have to be instant. The further I get from that final whistle on 23 October 2011, the more I enjoy it. I realise I’ve been in a tunnel for four years, enjoying my life, but pushing away anything and anyone who wasn’t going to help me get to that point of light at the end. Now that I’m there, with the sun on my face, it feels bloody fantastic.

  France was superb, the perfect adversary. If we’d won by 20 points, we still wouldn’t know if we’d learnt anything from Cardiff. That last 30 minutes of the final was exactly the physical and psychological test we’d prepared for.

  We parade the Cup down Queen Street, then in Christchurch and Wellington. Christchurch did it so tough. The city is at the centre of the national rugby community and would have given so much to the Cup, but missed out on everything. Yet they still turn out in their thousands.

  Sometimes you need other people to show you the true meaning of what has happened. The parades—seeing the pleasure in all those beaming faces—helps my understanding of the significance of what we’ve done. People telling me that they felt like part of a national community that embraced pretty much everyone, whether or not you were a rugby fan.

  We all made it happen, what most people consider to be the best festival of rugby ever. Jock’s stadium of four million realised. I’m glad he’s still here to enjoy the moment, along with Martin Snedden and all the people who volunteered or who supported teams from around the world and made them and their fans welcome. I didn’t actually see that much of it from my tunnel, so it’s special now to share the enjoyment of this moment, when New Zealand seems like a happy, seamless community. Okay, it’s just a moment in time, but to see it and feel it gives me a pleasure and sense of fulfilment that’s hard to describe. It will stay with me forever.

  But, even now, I’m determined to carry those memories without living in the past. I can enjoy them, reflect on them, but I can’t live there. To try would set me up for failure in the future. It’s been such a privilege to be involved in the team with Ted in charge. He created an environment that I and the others all loved and bought into, and he was determined to do everything we could every day to get the results we desired. I learnt so much over the time Ted and Smithy and Shag were coaching us, and I’m grateful to have had the opportunity to be part of it.

  After the gold rush—a successful day’s fishing with, from left, Woody, Ali, Ted, Horey and AB (Anthony Boric).

  But the All Blacks go on, and are bigger than any of us. Back in May, long before the RWC, I re-signed with the NZRU for a further four years. I decided back then that, win or lose, I wanted to stay involved with New Zealand rugby. Winning the World Cup is both a huge bonus and challenge. History shows that very few winners of the World Cup have been able to live up to the world champion tag in subsequent years. I’d like us to try. To carry that title with pride and live up to what it means. There are no guarantees that we can. The game has no memory or sentiment. But a big part of what I love about the game is the obstacles you have to overcome to achieve anything. And, as the adage goes, whether you think you can or you think you can’t, either way you’re probably right. I choose to believe that we can.

  But first I’ve got to recover. There’s the foot, of course.

  In Auckland, a couple of days after the final, Ted, Ali, Woody, Horey, DC, Anthony Boric and I go fishing in the Gulf. I’m in bare feet, rod in hand, resting my bad foot up on the side.

  Ted looks at the foot, ‘That doesn’t look too flash.’

  It doesn’t. It’s a horrible-looking object, swollen, red and purple. Munted. Since the final, I’ve pretty much ignored it, and while the alcoholic intake might have helped with the pain, it’s done bugger all to improve the condition of the foot.

  I caught up with the family in the early hours of the morning following the final. Jo’s got the champagne and Mum’s got the Cup. Sam and Dad just look content.

  When I finally get it X-rayed, it’s found to have three fracture lines—effectively three breaks. That same metatarsal. The screw went in longitudinally down the bone to hold the original stress fracture together, and that’s fine. But at the point where the screw ends, the breaks begin—looking back, probably one for each clunk I felt in the pool game against France, the quarter-final against Argentina, and the semi against Australia.

  In late November I finally have the foot operated on. There’s no pressure on me any more, but I still want a rehab plan. Crutches for four weeks, then two in a moon boot. I’ve got things I want to do. A certain beautiful carbon fibre and Kevlar bird is waiting for me.

  When I’m down in Omarama, on a beautiful late January day, Dad and Mum and I drive over the big hill and down the valley to Kurow. The hay bales at the beginning of the wooden bridge now sport a metre-high replica of ‘Old Bill’, made out of a milk barrow and irrigation sprinklers. Barney McCone is there with his wife Gill, and lots of other locals I know. It’s the first time I’ve seen my old coach since the Cup. Barney looks me in the eyes as he shakes my hand and says, ‘Good on you, Richard. We’re very proud of you.’

  Then we do the parade down the main street, Bledisloe
Street, the full Kurow ticker-tape, with the fire engine, the cop car and ambulance, all with their sirens going. The parade’s been kept under the covers, so that it’s a local show and no media, but through word of mouth everyone in the district turns up.

  From the top of the fire engine, I can look south-east over the town towards the fields where I trained and played with the Kurow Under 9s, 10s, 11s, 12s and 13s. For a sense of completion and of coming full circle, it’s hard to beat. I’m enjoying every second.

  Statistics

  (to 31 July, 2012)

  Acknowledgements

  When I started giving serious thought to doing a book late last year, Greg McGee’s name was one that immediately sprang to mind as a possible writer. While I didn’t know Greg well, I knew he was originally from my neck of the woods and that he was highly regarded as a writer. I knew, too, from people close to me that he was a decent bloke. Now, after the work has been done, I can look back on a thoroughly memorable experience. Greg has been great to work with and has made the job of telling my story not feel like a chore. I hope he’s as proud of the book as I am. Thanks, Greg.

  Richie McCaw, July 2012

  Being part of Richie’s world for six months or so has been a privilege, not just for the insights it’s given me as to how he does what he does, and why, but also for the opportunity it’s given me to meet and talk to some of the people who are important to him, particularly his mother and father, Margaret and Don, and his sister Jo, who are never far from his side or his thoughts. Margaret and Richie’s uncle, John McCaw, went to a lot of trouble to locate family photographs.