Blindsided

  DEDICATION

  For my family: my special wife Isabella and my beautiful sons Louis, Thomas and Nicolo. Also to my parents, Ian & Marie, and my sister Jane. Thank you all for always being there when I needed you and for being the reason I am still here.

  Love Michael.

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Foreword by Alan Jones

  A Note from the Co-Author

  ONE A Vital Decision

  TWO Transcending Noddy

  THREE The Endless Ordeal

  FOUR A Rugby Baptism

  FIVE Storming the Fortress

  SIX The Bad Old Days

  SEVEN Four Minutes of Magic

  EIGHT Giuliano’s Daughter

  NINE A New Role

  TEN A Rugby Revolution

  ELEVEN Retirement

  TWELVE A Cinderella Story

  THIRTEEN Blindsided

  FOURTEEN The Lowest Ebb

  FIFTEEN The Turning Point

  SIXTEEN Small Goals; Little Milestones

  SEVENTEEN A Stranger’s Story

  EIGHTEEN Reunion

  NINETEEN Back to Work

  TWENTY The Pundit

  TWENTY-ONE The Tour Like No Other

  TWENTY-TWO Much More to Do

  Photos Section

  What is a Stroke?

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  FOREWORD

  by Alan Jones

  IN 1984, I HAD inherited the Wallabies coaching job in fairly difficult and controversial circumstances. The Wallabies, over time, had rarely achieved according to their potential. I was encouraged by players to apply for the coaching job and I was successful.

  I can say what I’ve never said before, that I was genuinely excited by the talent at my disposal. Amongst that talent was a remarkable twenty year old from Queensland, Michael Lynagh. Rugby was fortunate that he was still within our ranks. He was a gifted schoolboy cricketer; but I suspect he would have been good at anything that remotely resembled a ball sport. As a recreational golfer, he was as good as anybody.

  I soon learnt on becoming coach that we had in front of us, in 1984, a very difficult tour of Britain, subsequently to be known as the Grand Slam Tour. But before that, we had the domestic season to deal with and the mighty All Blacks were touring Australia.

  We won the first Test magnificently in Sydney, in what could only be described as a rugby boilover. But in something of a kicking duel, where we were almost embarrassingly without a kicker in Brisbane, we lost in a whistle-blowing affair by one point.

  Already, the ’84 Wallabies had served notice to the rest of the world. The showdown third Test was to be in Sydney. In the lead-up to Sydney, Queensland, with Michael playing, had been hammered by the All Blacks. I sensed that Michael Lynagh was the secret weapon that we needed for Sydney, a brilliant and gifted goal-kicker.

  I pulled him aside after the Queensland vs. All Blacks game into an empty dressing room. He had never played in a run-on side for Australia. After all, he was only twenty. I told him that we didn’t know one another very well, but I wanted him for Sydney as the goal-kicker. I felt it would be a penalty showdown. Typically Michael Lynagh, he was worried about who he would be replacing, and he asked me who. I gently suggested that was my worry—I just wanted him to play. He told me that he’d never played on the Sydney Cricket Ground and he thought he might let me down.

  In the conversation that ensued, I gained a telling insight into this remarkable Australian. He was gifted, yes. He was modest beyond dimension. I told him I didn’t want anyone playing if they were unhappy about the assignment I was asking of them. We left the meeting with the understanding that he wouldn’t be picked. I chose to accommodate his concerns ahead of the urgent needs of Australian rugby.

  We went to Sydney and in the virtual penalty shoot-out with a whistle-happy Northern Hemisphere referee, we lost a critical, indeed historic, Test by one point. But in a way, the dye had been cast. I knew Michael would be central to changing the fortunes of Australian rugby.

  And he was.

  He was always a worrier. Early on, on that Grand Slam tour, he had a whinge to me about the praise I was giving at training to Mark Ella. He obviously believed that if Mark Ella was my preferred 5/8, there was no room for him.

  I rather bluntly and impatiently ensured him to stop worrying, he would be in the team. And I dropped the remarkably gifted Australian vice-captain Michael Hawker, shifted Michael Lynagh out of position and played him at inside centre. His adjustment to a new role was extraordinary and he was a significant part of that historic Grand Slam success.

  It was not without its moments. He was young. He’d absorbed a lot of pressure. I sensed after the Ireland Test that I should relieve him of goal-kicking duties. We were, of all things, shopping for Waterford crystal in Ireland. We were queued up and I told him, as we stood in the queue, that I was taking him off the goal-kicking duties for the Test against Wales.

  Michael being Michael immediately assumed he was being dropped. I became impatient with his insecurity and told him that never under my watch would he be dropped. It was just that the great Roger Gould would assume goal-kicking duties.

  Michael had a magnificent match, Roger Gould kicked to perfection and we set a record against Wales at Cardiff Arms Park. And more success was to follow, where this gifted and modest young Queenslander was a central component to our success.

  We’d brilliantly won the Hong Kong Sevens, then the world championship of Sevens rugby in Sydney. We won a Test series in New Zealand in 1986—the only side, apart from the British Lions, ever to have achieved that. The ’86 Wallabies won the deciding Test at Eden Park after a harrowing tour across the country by comprehensively defeating the All Blacks in the third Test. In drizzly conditions, Michael Lynagh’s guts and skill were outstanding. And that ’86 side was the last Australian side to beat New Zealand at Eden Park.

  I feel privileged that Michael Lynagh and I still correspond regularly, to this day. We are, it’s fair to say, closer now than we were then as coach and player. We rallied when we all took fright in 2012 when we learnt that Michael had suffered a stroke. But even then Michael Lynagh was the architect of his own triumph over adversity. He could have yielded to peer pressure when he felt that something had happened and pretended, macho like, that all was okay. Instead, he asked his mates to call for an ambulance immediately. It most probably saved his life. And what a life it’s been to date.

  I write to him regularly. I remind him that Australian rugby will never be able to repay the debt it owes to him. And yet beyond his extraordinary gifts is an extraordinary human being. I always told my players that it wasn’t so very difficult to be a good player, but it was exceedingly difficult to be a good person. Michael Lynagh is such a person.

  His great personal qualities derive, primarily, from the strength of his family ties and from the discipline and Christian teachings of his Alma Mater, St Joseph’s College on Gregory Terrace in Brisbane.

  In the manuscript of life, it is the little things that are indelible. I can’t talk about Michael Lynagh without thinking about his Mum, Marie. She was a school teacher. All parents want to see their children walk across the international stage. So it was with Michael’s parents, Ian and Marie.

  I remember often visiting Marie and she’d be ironing for the family. But while she did, in the oven there’d be things like banana cakes and carrot cakes, which Marie would then sell to the local delicatessen. And all those monies went into a little kitty, which enabled her to, thankfully, be present for her son’s greatest sporting triumphs.

  This biography ploughs all that fertile ground again. It tells the story of an ordinary young boy from Queensland who, at an early age, did
extraordinary things to become one of the greats of Australian sport.

  Wherever the history of Australian rugby is written, the name of Michael Lynagh will always occupy a prominent place. But as I often say, long after the scoreboard is forgotten, the friendships remain. Our friendships with Michael are a consequence of him being, not a great rugby player or a splendid athlete, but rather of being a decent, modest, sharing and loving friend.

  Books of this kind must be written. They offer a signpost for young people of tomorrow as to how talent is identified and success secured. There can be no more indelible proof of the challenge and excitement of the journey towards making something of your God-given gifts than is revealed in this story of Michael Lynagh.

  Those of us who’ve played a small part in that story are immensely grateful that someone like this young man entered our lives and shared something with us in return.

  We are forever in his debt.

  Alan Jones AO

  Broadcaster and Former Australian Rugby Union Coach

  A NOTE FROM THE CO-AUTHOR

  WHEN I WAS BUT a fourteen-year-old schoolboy in 1984, Michael Lynagh’s existence was nothing more than a source of irritation for me. Scotland had won their own Grand Slam that year, and, delusional as it now may sound, there was a feeling among the Scots supporters that the touring Wallabies would not provide any sterner test than the Home Nations had. But by the time the Wallabies arrived at Murrayfield on December 8th 1984, the landscape had changed considerably. They’d soundly beaten everyone else.

  As if tries being run in from every conceivable position by the likes of Ella and Campese wasn’t misery enough to watch from the schoolboy enclosure, it was perhaps more frustrating to know that Lynagh, when presented with a kick from anywhere on the pitch, was almost certain to convert it. He kicked an Australian record that day. The respect I had for his ability was huge—if just a little grudging in a deeply patriotic sense.

  From that day on, as he became increasingly synonymous with both excellent rugby and total humility, I could only admire Michael Lynagh’s career, specifically the way in which he always put the game of rugby first and himself a distant second. He still does.

  When I heard about his stroke in 2012, I was driving. I’d recently returned to visit family in Scotland and the car radio told the story: ‘Wallaby great Michael Lynagh in a critical condition following a stroke.’

  I had to pull over.

  The fact that someone so young and healthy—so seemingly invincible in my eyes—had suffered a stroke really hit me hard. I felt physically sick. The other part that jolted me was acknowledging that Michael was only a few years older than me. That made me suddenly question my own mortality in a way I never had before.

  A year or so later I made contact—‘How about writing a book about your experiences? It could be a really inspiring message.’

  ‘Ah, mate, I don’t know. Would anyone care about what I have to say nowadays?’

  Even after his traumatic life-changing experience, Michael Lynagh was as self-deprecating as he’d always been. He’s also as loyal and as honest as anyone you could ever meet. It also took him almost two years to tell me that he’s half-Scottish!

  ‘Think about it,’ I said.

  He did. Blindsided is the result.

  Mark Eglinton

  ONE

  A VITAL DECISION

  Intensive Care Unit of the Royal Brisbane and Women’s Hospital, April 2012

  IT WAS PITCH BLACK and that was my choice. Via an uncomfortable process of elimination, I’d discovered that if I kept my eyes closed, somehow the pain in them lessened—the opposite to what I’d expected. The crushing pain in my head was much harder to dismiss, though. My head was screaming. Not aching—screaming. My cerebellum was swollen, pressing down to within fractions of millimetres of my brainstem. I could almost feel it straining within the confines of my skull. Any contact would be catastrophic.

  I’ve been blindsided by a few big hits from back-row forwards over the years—the Mark Shaws and Eric Champs of this world have clobbered me a few times. No amount of tactical awareness or raw, self-preserving instinct could avert those. Sometimes you’re just going to get hit. No warning, just a sudden and painful impact. Blindside hits are always the worst. You don’t see them coming. But it’s all part of what you sign up for when you play rugby at the highest level. This was real pain. And I hadn’t seen it coming either.

  As I lay in my hospital bed hooked up to all kinds of monitors—my bedclothes drenched with sweat, yet my bones frozen to their core—I was presented with the most important decision I would ever have to make. This was a choice far tougher than whether to keep the ball in play or kick for the corner; pass or make a cut inside a fast-closing centre: I had to decide whether I had the strength and desire to continue living. It was a profound moment.

  It occurred to me right then that almost every facet of life, much like a game of rugby, boils down to decisions made at critical moments. The obvious difference being that a wrong call on the field might lose you the game, whereas in life’s case, choices can have a much more far-reaching effect.

  Given my awful predicament, the calmness with which I was able to evaluate the situation shocks me a little when I consider it now. First, I thought about my loving wife, Isabella. ‘She’ll be okay,’ I admitted to myself. Let’s face it—as much as we were in love and she meant the world to me, she was still pretty young with a long life ahead of her.

  Then I turned my attention to my three boys: Louis, Thomas and Nicolo. I flinched inwardly for a moment as I considered the prospect of them growing up without me. Without a dad. But as hard as it was to accept, I had to acknowledge that they’d ultimately be fine too. Yes, in time, without me—Michael, Dad—everyone would be all right. Their lives would go on. That was reality.

  It seemed so strange to be thinking in this cold, pragmatic way, and for someone as intrinsically positive as I am it was certainly a barometer of how exhausted I was. And of how much my brain hurt. It was as if I’d become detached from my addled mind and exhausted body and was a mere stranger looking at my situation from a purely practical perspective: ‘This is how it will be.’

  Maybe it was easier that way? After all, to remove emotion from the equation would certainly make my decision more straightforward, and that, at that precise moment, was perhaps what I needed. Selfishly, I just wanted no more pain and relief from my seemingly endless exhaustion. It might sound weak, but I was just too tired to keep going.

  It also occurred to me that I’d had a really good life. I’d played top-level rugby successfully, worked in great jobs and, most importantly, had a wonderful family and a wide circle of true friends; I was very lucky. Part of me thought, ‘This isn’t where I want it to end, but if it has to, I can’t really complain.’ I’d reached that point.

  Something was distracting me from this strange feeling of resignation, though. Initially it was irritating, but then it focused my mind and made me a little curious. In retrospect, it seems to me that because my vision was impaired, my sense of hearing had been greatly enhanced, as if to compensate.

  Consequently, I had a heightened awareness of the continual, chaotic noise in the space around me, mostly made by the many machines I was attached to. Rest was impossible, given the loudness of the racket, and it began to really bug me—to the point where I vaguely remember asking if the machines could somehow be turned down. But the nursing staff told me that the alarms were necessary and that they weren’t actually very loud anyway.

  But as day merged with night and the unrelenting headache and the morphine drip forced me in and out of fitful sleep, I gradually became aware of some kind of order within the background cacophony. I had to focus hard to identify it, but when it came to me it seemed really obvious.

  ‘That’s Canned Heat,’ I said to myself.

  It was almost comical in its incongruity. I like the song; it’s really catchy.

  ‘Why this song and why here?’


  In my head, the sounds of all the bells and whistles were combining, again and again, to mimic the short flute intro to the song ‘Going up the Country’. Somehow their pitch and tone and the order in which each noise was produced by an alarm, sensor or monitor kept that two or three-bar musical motif looping round and round all day and night. I was pleased with myself that I’d managed to figure it out. Of course the song itself wasn’t important. But the fact that it was a song was. It reminded me that the world I used to inhabit was still there, albeit a little out of reach for the time being.

  But it was there.

  More importantly, so was everything and everybody that mattered to me: my wife, my children, my parents, my friends; everything that I do and am . . . everything that I live for.

  ‘I’m getting out of here; I want to see my kids again.’

  Suddenly I had made my decision.

  What on earth had I been thinking?

  Me?

  Giving up?

  Not a chance.

  One thing I had never been was a slacker—and I’ve never been one for self-pity. In my head I’d gone to that place of giving up and made a choice that it wasn’t for me. Giving up wasn’t me at all. I’d always faced situations head on, good or bad, and searched for the best way forward. If a situation was getting to me or wearing me down, I usually found a way to seize back control. I’d been that way since I was a young kid growing up in Queensland: on a surfboard, in business and with rugby ball in hand.

  I decided to engage the proven mind-set that had guided my life and career: to dictate what happened next with my thoughts and attitude—‘This is the way this is going to go.’ The alternative didn’t bear thinking about. Its cautionary voice in my head chastised me into action.

  Seriously, mate, do you really want to die here, miles from home and not see your wife and children ever again?

  Sound good?

  Oh and by the way, you’ll never play golf again, host a family barbecue or taste a glass of your favourite red wine. Are you fine with that too?