Sam Warburton

Open Side: The Official Autobiography


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      Having been on the other side of the fence, trust me, you remember these things. In the summer of 1999, Mum and Dad took us to Copenhagen. Spurs had won the League Cup a few months before with a 1–0 victory over Leicester City, and Allan Nielsen had scored the winning goal.

      In my 10-year-old mind, the logic was clear. Nielsen was Danish, we were in Denmark, therefore we were definitely going to see him. Dad tried to explain that Denmark was a big place with millions of people, so we weren’t going to see Allan Nielsen.

      But one day, in the Tivoli Gardens, there he was! I plucked up the courage to go over and ask him for an autograph, and to this day I remember how nice he was: asking my name, where I was from, that kind of stuff. I was so thrilled that Mum laminated the piece of paper with his autograph, and for years it was my pride and joy. So when a kid asks for my autograph, I always remember that I could be their Allan Nielsen.

      As Alan Phillips said to me: ‘People are looking at you and they’re dreaming, aren’t they? When they look at you, these people, when they see you, they’re seeing their dreams.’ That was my responsibility as a professional: to be worthy of their dreams.

       EDEN PARK

      36.8750°S, 174.7448°E

      Saturday, 15 October 2011. Wales v France, World Cup semi-final

       Come on, son. Come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough.

       Vincent Clerc comes flying onto the pop pass. I line him up perfectly, driving up and forward with all the force I can muster as I hit him. I absolutely unload on him. But he’s two stone lighter than me, so suddenly he’s up in the air and his body’s twisting beyond the horizontal.

       So I let go. Clerc hits the deck and I’m on him again, competing for the ball and ripping it from him. That’s an awesome tackle, I’m thinking. I’ve melted him there. That one’s going on my all-time highlight reel for sure.

       The next thing I know, there’s a French fist in my face, and another one, and the Welsh lads are hauling me up and away while the French forwards are still trying to use me as a punchbag.

       Rolland reaches into his pocket and pulls out the red card.

      Monday, 9 May. ‘I’m calling to see if you’d like to be captain against the Barbarians.’

      I’m speechless. I don’t know what to say.

      Actually, that’s not quite true. I do know what to say, but I don’t think Gats would like to hear it. I hate captaincy. That’s what I’m thinking. I hate captaincy. I don’t want to do it. I’m just 22 years of age. I’ve only started 10 games for Wales. I’m one of the quieter members of the squad. I’m not given to rousing speeches. Off the top of my head, I can think of half a dozen guys who’d be better at it than me, who have the experience and the personality to do it: Alun Wyn Jones, Stephen Jones, Bomb (Adam Jones), Gethin, Shane, Phillsy (Mike Phillips).

      I’m standing in the front room of my house. I glance at the mirror above the fireplace. I look as stunned as I feel. I never expected this, not in a month of Sundays.

      On the other end of the phone, Gats is silent, waiting for me to answer.

       Why me? He must see something in me. Buggered if I know what it is, though. But he’s a smart coach and a smart guy, and I trust him, so whatever it is, he must genuinely believe in it.

      ‘Yes, of course,’ I say. ‘I’d love to do it.’

      ‘Great. There’s a press conference at the Millennium in half an hour.’

      Flippin’ heck. I go upstairs three steps at a time, grab a Welsh Rugby Union polo shirt, slip on some tracksuit bottoms and trainers, and rush out of the door, phone crooked in my neck as I ring first Rach and then Dad.

      They both ask me the same question: ‘Do you want to do it?’

      And I give them both the same answer. ‘I have to.’

      All the way to the stadium, driving with a calmness I don’t feel, two words chase each other through my head. Wales captain. Wales captain. Wales captain.

      In Portugal with Rach. So much for a week of relaxation and switching off. I’m in the gym twice a day, and in the small hours I’m wide awake, making notes about what to say and do.

      ‘Please just switch off,’ Rach says.

      I can’t. I’m worrying about anything and everything.

      When it’s announced that Gavin Henson will be playing for us – his first match in a Wales shirt for two years, even though he’s currently not attached to a club – I almost weep with joy. All the media coverage will be about his return rather than my captaincy. Gavin’s a hundred times more box office than I’ll ever be, and that suits me fine.

      Sergio Parisse is captaining the Barbarians. He’s a class player, and we know we have to get to him early and often. ‘Put the heat on him,’ Shaun Edwards tells us.

      ‘Shall we have a call for that?’ says Josh Turnbull.

      Shaun looks at him like he’s mad. ‘Get up and f***ing twat him. That’s the call.’

      Saturday, 4 June. One thing’s totally clear in my mind: we cannot, must not, dare not lose to the Barbarians. It’s not that they don’t have good players, because they have some great ones: Doug Howlett on the wing, Carl Hayman at prop, and a back row I know well: van Niekerk, Martyn and Parisse.

      It’s that they won’t be taking it seriously, because that’s the whole ethos of the Barbarians. Five-star hotel, all expenses paid, out on the piss day and night, and five grand at the end of it.

      So I just can’t even