level pegging at half-time, 6–6, and in the second half we stretch away to win 19–9. It’s the seventh time I’ve played an England representative side – Under-16s, Under-18s, Under-19s, Under-20s, in the Six Nations earlier this year and at Twickenham last week – and the first time I’ve ever beaten them.
God, it feels sweet. It’s not that I hate England – how can I, when my dad’s English? – and I certainly don’t have that mentality typical of some Welsh people that beating England is the be-all and end-all of Welsh rugby. But when you’ve only ever known defeat against a side and you finally get one over on them, it means more and tastes better than just your average common or garden victory.
‘Smiler’s out.’
‘What do you mean, Smiler’s out?’
‘His neck injury’s worse than we thought. We’d reckoned he could get through the World Cup and have surgery when the tournament’s over, but there’s no chance of that now. In Poland there were times when he couldn’t sleep for the pain. Losing feeling in his hands, that kind of stuff. Really struggling. He needs half a disc removed, and he’s going under the knife in Bristol any day now.’
Poor Smiler. He must be gutted. Every player dreams of playing in the World Cup. But I know what’s coming.
‘So,’ Gats says, ‘we’d like you to carry on as skipper on a permanent basis. To the World Cup, and beyond.’
Smiler rings me. He’s still on the ward after his operation.
‘Gats says you’re not sure about taking the captaincy,’ he says.
‘Yeah. I just feel it’s too early for me. I don’t captain the Blues, and I’m still quite new in the national set-up.’
‘Well, that’s one of the reasons Gats wants you. He’s looking long-term, for the next few seasons rather than the next few matches, just like the All Blacks have done with McCaw. And for what it’s worth I think you’ll do a great job. You’re guaranteed a starting spot, you’ll get a lot of help from the senior boys like Gethin and Alun Wyn, and most of all everybody in the squad respects you and likes you.’
Maybe, I think, but I know quite a few of the senior players disagree with my selection as captain. No one says anything bad to my face, but I can still tell. I guess that if I had 60 or 70 caps and fancied my chances as captain, and then someone with a quarter of that number was suddenly catapulted over the top of me into the hot seat, I’d probably feel the same way too. Knowing that there’s disapproval out there makes me feel as though I’m walking round with a sign hanging from my neck and a huge weight on my shoulders, both of them dragging me down when I should be standing tall and proud.
‘Listen,’ Smiler continues. ‘When I was first offered the role I wasn’t sure either, even though I’d already played for the Lions. Anyone with any sense doubts themselves. But I got great support and felt more comfortable with every game that passed. You’ll find the same. Trust me. Opportunities like this don’t come round too often, and if you turn it down you’ll kick yourself.’
I really appreciate Smiler’s call and I tell Gats I’ll do it, but deep down I’m still not sure. And I’m so immature in some ways that I can’t bring myself to front up and tell Gats my worries, even though I see him every day at training. I use Andy as an intermediary, which is chicken of me but at least gives me the chance to talk through things with him first.
‘I hate captaincy,’ I say. ‘It’s a strong word, but it’s the right one. I hate it.’
‘OK,’ Andy replies. ‘What don’t you like about it?’
‘I hate having a room on my own. I like having someone to bounce off.’
‘I’m sure we can change that. What else?’
‘I hate doing press.’ Not because I dislike the journalists personally – quite the opposite, they’re mostly good guys who know their rugby – but because all that press stuff gets in the way of everything else. The other day I had to miss lunch to do the press conference, but I couldn’t afford not to eat, so I got a plate of turkey, potatoes and vegetables, put it in a blender, added water and drank it like a protein shake. And yes, it was every bit as rank as it sounds.
Or I might have to miss the analysis sessions, which means I have to catch up on the calls and the moves everyone else knows perfectly, and then I risk being the one who messes it up. I especially hate live interviews, because they always want you there 20 minutes early and so you’re kicking your heels all that time for what ends up being a 90-second piece.
‘OK,’ says Andy. ‘Let’s ask that you do press once a week, no more. What else?’
‘Sponsorship appearances.’
‘What about them?’
‘There are too many.’
‘Then let’s delegate them among the boys.’
It sounds so simple, because it is, but until Andy goes through all this with me I don’t realise that captaincy, like everything, is give and take. Very few things are set in stone, and there’s almost always room for discussion. When we take my concerns to Gats, he’s fine with all of them.
But even so, he senses that I’m still unsure.
‘Have a look at this,’ he says.
It’s a clip from our victory over England at the Millennium. I tackle Mark Cueto, then immediately jump back up and take my position in the defensive line. Josh Turnbull competes at the ruck and wins the penalty. Immediately I march to the ruck, punching the air, pulling Josh to his feet and slapping his back, geeing everybody up.
Gats pauses the clip. ‘That’s leadership,’ he says simply.
Now I’m beginning to get it. I smile and begin to walk away.
‘Sam,’ he calls out. I turn. He’s pointing to my new sponsored Range Rover. ‘If you still don’t want to be captain, your profile won’t be as high and Land Rover might take that nice car off you.’
He smirks. I laugh. He’s got a point.
In his book The Captain Class, Sam Walker, former global sports editor at the Wall Street Journal, identifies seven traits that elite captains demonstrate. What Gats has just shown me is an example of one of them: ‘motivates others with passionate nonverbal displays’.
The others are:
extreme doggedness and focus in competition
aggressive play that tests the limits of the rules
a willingness to do thankless jobs in the shadows
a low-key, practical and democratic communication style
strong convictions and the courage to stand apart
ironclad emotional control
As descriptions of both my style of play and my personality, all seven seem pretty much spot on.
Friday, 2 September. We land in Wellington. Including the time difference, it’s two days since we left home.
We go for a walk to help ease the stiffness after so long in an aeroplane. Look, someone says, there’s a bar up ahead. Let’s go get a drink.
The bar is called Mermaids. There are a few half-dressed women in there, and a pole on a stage, but we’re all a bit jetlagged and zonked so we don’t really twig what’s going on. We think it’s just a mildly risqué place. Most of us order coffee. A couple of the boys have a beer.
Then we see it. A huge, illuminated neon arrow pointing up the stairs, and beneath it in equally huge illuminated letters the word ‘SEX’.
We’re