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  It was a two-Test series in France and we narrowly lost the first, 16–13, in Bordeaux. We didn’t play particularly well. We had a few defensive issues and the French backs exploited them. I had a long kick to tie the match, way out on the left touchline—probably 55 metres from the posts. That’s right on the end of most goal-kickers’ range and probably outside mine. I missed it. I struck it really solidly—no complaints at all—I just couldn’t get it there. But it wasn’t one of those misses that haunted me. I never thought, ‘That’s one that got away.’ I prepared, executed but just couldn’t get it there. That happens. It wasn’t like Eden Park.

  The second Test was in Paris at the old Parc des Princes. It was one of those great occasions when lots of people who were close to me converged on one place. It was almost as if they knew they should be there. Isabella was there—it was the only time she ever saw me play for Australia in person. Her parents were there too, my dad was there, my great friend David Coe was there—it was a nice feeling to have so much support.

  Bob Dwyer decided that it might be an idea if I didn’t kick goals that day. I think it was partly a tactical decision to give us a few more attacking options. Campo, Timmy and Jason Little were obvious attacking threats and we all felt that there might be an opportunity to use me in a slightly more attacking role in an attempt to move the big, but not overly mobile, French back row around.

  I also think that Bob recognised how much weight not goal-kicking might relieve me of. Marty Roebuck would take over. Bob’s plan worked to perfection. If you look at the stats, you won’t see my name associated with any of the points we scored in a 24–3 victory. What the stats don’t say is that it was probably my best running performance in a Wallaby jersey.

  With no kicking to worry about (and Marty kicked everything he looked at that day) I felt incredibly free. A gap opened; I went through it. A defender came at me; I stepped inside him. The French back-row forwards chased shadows all afternoon. My shadow mainly. It felt great to show what I could do as an attacking flyhalf, and to have my future wife and family there to see it only made the win sweeter.

  BOB DWYER: We always thought that Michael subjected himself to self-analysis too much. In some ways it restricted him. He wanted so much not to make a wrong decision that he removed a number of potentially good ones from his repertoire. We were a better team than France in 1993. Losing the first Test was incomprehensible to me. So then we played them in Paris, which is a traditionally much more difficult place to win. Michael was already planning to end his career after 1995; we’d discussed it. I thought, ‘I don’t really want him to end his career without showing the French the full level of his ability.’ I thought that goal-kicking imposed a number of restrictions on his performance, so I said, ‘I don’t want you to kick for goal.’ He said, ‘Why not?’ I said, ‘I want you to show people what you are capable of in an attacking sense.’ He said, ‘Righto’, and then he tore France apart. Afterwards the French media said to me, ‘So, this is a new Michael Lynagh?’ And I said, ‘No, this is normal. This is his normal capacity.’ And it was.

  We had a great night all together in Paris after the game. We were in one of those typically French places where they serve dinner and then, at about midnight, they move all the tables back and it becomes a nightclub. It was a really chic place to be. There were people like Yannick Noah wherever you looked.

  I remember Abdel Benazzi was there that night too—the French flanker. He turned up with a bunch of the other French guys, carrying this great methuselah of champagne. When he saw me, he ran across the club, grabbed me and said, ‘This is the first time I’ve been able to get you all day.’

  TEN

  A RUGBY REVOLUTION

  PRIOR TO THE 1995 World Cup in South Africa, the debate about members of the squad being based somewhere other than Australia was reignited. Campo’s approach wasn’t helpful, just as it hadn’t been back in 1992 when the debate first flared up.

  A background issue was that the Australian Rugby Union had been in an awkward position for a few years over the level of control it had over the players. There were no meaningful contracts at this stage, so, as the game still wasn’t professional and nobody was being paid, the Union really had very little control over what we did. In the past we’d been given a tacit message that essentially said, ‘You can go where you want and do whatever kind of promotional work you like.’ But at the same time we were given a list of the ARU’s affiliates and told not to do anything in competition with those entities. The Union technically didn’t have control of the players, but at the same time it was trying to dictate what we could and could not do.

  I’d been on the wrong end of that scenario a few years earlier when I’d been approached by Power’s Brewery to do an ad for them, even though Castlemaine Perkins was one of the Australian Rugby Union’s (and Queensland’s) main sponsors. Prior to that, I had requested a contract from the Union and it wasn’t forthcoming, so I thought, ‘I’ll just go and do it.’ I did—and it caused a controversy.

  I’d taken a stand. I understood why the Union felt it had been caught on the hop when one of its star players appeared in a commercial for the rival of one of its main sponsors. But at the same time, I felt that, in the absence of a contract, it was something I was perfectly within my rights to do. In the end it was resolved when the Australian Rugby Union told me they’d ban me if I didn’t stop promoting Power’s, but it was indicative of the uncertainty concerning just what level of control the Union had over amateur players. Playing for clubs overseas was just one aspect of the wider issue that continued to crop up in the years immediately prior to players being paid.

  All that said, from a control perspective, Campo had a point. He probably felt that if he was going to be dictated to, he should somehow be compensated. By suggesting that he’d go and play and promote himself in other countries, he was merely choosing to exercise his options, which is fair enough. We just had slightly different ways of handling things, both of them valid. My main feeling was that I loved playing for Australia and wanted to play for Australia. I felt obliged, for the love of the sport, to do what guys had been doing for a hundred years: to play for my country for the love of it, and to do so with the best interests of my teammates foremost.

  Part of the problem was that, with a World Cup buildup in full swing, the Australian Rugby Union was a little uncomfortable about having a member of the squad—the captain of the squad, no less—living and playing in another country. From that perspective, I guess the Union had a valid point. However, I’d already signed an agreement with Benetton that took me through until after the World Cup, and I wasn’t about to renege on that arrangement for the sake of a few training camps. I thought, ‘I’m caught in the middle here.’

  Unlike my previous three seasons in Italy, when I’d only returned to Australia once the Italian domestic championship was over, late 1994 into early 1995 was different in that the ARU had arranged five squad training camps, spaced at various intervals throughout that time period. The aim was to monitor how everyone was doing, first of all, but they were also intended to facilitate the integration of a whole new group of support staff who were now considered part of the squad. Everyone was expected to be there—no excuses.

  The rationale behind this dated back to the period immediately after we won the World Cup in 1991. It was an obvious pinnacle and we’d continued to be successful for a couple of years afterwards with what was still a very good side. The game was moving forward and becoming more technical, and in response to those technical demands, Bob Dwyer (and the other major nations’ coaches) jumped on the popular idea that you needed to bring in experts to advise on specific aspects of play, preparation or recovery that neither he nor we, the players, were particularly knowledgeable about.

  In principle it all made sense. It was rugby evolution in action. But when we’d all get together for a training camp, a large proportion of our time seemed to be taken up by the various focus sessions with the new experts
. In the past, we’d just trained.

  Now, the dietician might want her hour here, and the weights trainer his hour there—all these people wanted time with the team, and justifiably so. After all, if I’d been employed by the Australian Rugby Union to talk to the team and be the designated dietician or psychologist or whatever, I’d want to stamp my influence on the team; my reputation would be on the line. I understood that. But I worried that if the support staff’s expectations weren’t managed properly, there was a real risk of a situation where we were trying to run before we could walk.

  From the time the squad training camp issue was first raised, at no point did I think, ‘Well, screw you, guys. I’m staying put in Italy because my fiancée is here.’ (Isabella and I had got engaged a few months earlier.) I was the captain of the team and I never adopted a confrontational stance at any point. The role meant a lot to me. I led by example and I would lead by example going forward. It wasn’t as if I had ever disappeared to Italy and said, ‘Okay folks, see you next year.’ I was always in touch with both the Queensland and the international selectors when I was in Italy, keeping myself in the equation by playing fair with them, and setting a good example to the younger Wallaby players by being an integral part of the squad. The bottom line was that my commitment was not going to be in any way influenced by where I was living or playing.

  In the end, the ARU saved me from having to initiate what would have been an embarrassing ‘You know that agreement I just signed? Well, I’m going to have to back out of it’ conversation with Benetton. They agreed that I could stay in Italy, on the condition that I kept in close contact with the coaches and returned for some of the squad weekends.

  On that front they perhaps underestimated me. I took it upon myself to send regular videotapes of my matches back from Italy to the coaches. Not just that, I flew back for all the training weekends. I paid for the flights out of my own pocket. I didn’t complain about it, nor did I do it for show. Did I have jetlag? Of course I did. But I wanted to demonstrate, via my actions, that I was part of the squad and that as captain I’d do anything required to lead by example. Not just that, I wanted to be there to be part of the team spirit.

  In the end it worked out okay. The trips were constructive from a ‘let’s get everyone together’ standpoint. That part was really worthwhile. Isabella even came with me for one of the camps. But the issue I still had was with the structuring of the camp sessions, now that we had several extra staff kicking their heels on the touchline. I was wary of this before we even got to the World Cup.

  WHEN WE GOT TO South Africa for the 1995 World Cup, the general atmosphere had ramped up significantly from what we’d experienced three years earlier. While it had been a great, if at times a little scary, atmosphere in 1992, the interest in the game had been largely confined to the white population. While the black population was supportive of us Wallabies, as I recall, and mildly interested in the concept of touring rugby teams, there was a sense that apartheid wasn’t far enough in the country’s rear-view mirror for them to feel truly included in all the excitement.

  By 1995, all that had changed. Nelson Mandela’s charisma seemed to have had a unifying effect in the intervening three years and that meant that the entire country was massively excited about the prospect of a World Cup where the home nation seemed to have an excellent chance of winning the tournament.

  I really noticed the difference. The population felt like this powerful sixteenth man. And that’s before we even set foot on a rugby pitch. We were the reigning World Champions and all eyes were on us. With hindsight, I’m not sure that we wore the mantle particularly well.

  When you’re in the spotlight, part of you wants to hide, whereas another part of you quite likes it. It’s entirely natural. I wouldn’t call it arrogance, but I’d be lying if I said that there wasn’t just a little bit of over-confidence around that squad, although I wasn’t conscious of it at the time. You try not to believe the hype around being the defending champions, but as hard as you try to push hubris away, when you’re the World Cup holders I don’t think you ever fully shake it off.

  SEAN FITZPATRICK, FORMER ALL BLACK CAPTAIN: After we won the World Cup in 1987, we turned up in 1991 with a bit of complacency. We were wandering around London in black coats, not talking to anyone, thinking we were pretty cool. A bit fat, a bit lazy, and it seemed to me that the Wallabies were in a similar frame of mind in South Africa. I remember seeing them arrive somewhere in their tour bus, all wearing sunglasses and thinking they were pretty special. I remember saying to Phil Kearns, ‘You guys think you’re better than what you are—look at you with your sunglasses.’ I recognised that immediately because, as former World Cup winners, we’d been there. Australia was there for the picking—too many of them were a bit long in the tooth.

  I had basic concerns about our preparation. First, and I’ve thought about this a million times since, I always felt we spent far too long in South Africa prior to the tournament. I’m all for acclimatising—getting there, shaking off the stiffness, the jetlag, getting a feel for the lie of the land, but it seemed we took it way too far by arriving a full ten days in advance of our first group match against South Africa at Newlands on May 25th.

  It probably sounds like a petty thing, but I think that when you’re trying to peak for a sporting event, it pays to be fresh and energised when the whistle blows, rather than feeling bored and stale. Don’t get me wrong, Bob’s idea of getting to South Africa in time to acclimatise and prepare was okay in principle, but I think we took it a bit far. We were like a boxer who’s ready for a fight. He’s been training for months, waiting for the bell to ring. He wants to arrive at the venue, go to the dressing room, get taped up, get his gloves on—and then all he wants to do is fight. He doesn’t want to be sitting in that dressing room, days in advance, tired, bored and on a downwards track in terms of physical and mental sharpness.

  So there was that, and, as I mentioned earlier, by the summer of 1995 the culture of getting specialist coaches involved in every aspect of the game was very much part of world rugby. Everyone was doing it. Dieticians, psychologists, physiologists, weight trainers, backs coaches, forwards coaches—you name it, they were all on board.

  SEAN FITZPATRICK: We were adding support staff to the squad but to a much lesser degree. Australian sport in the late ’80s and early ’90s was on a high and they were really pushing the envelope more than anyone else. They were by far the best rugby team in the world in 1991. That continued in 1992. They were pushing the envelope, but we were doing things that our Union just wasn’t paying for. Zinzan Brooke and I had to pay for our own trainer. We were using Swiss balls and our coach would say, ‘What the hell is that? Get that out of here . . .’

  As an interesting reference point, I often thought about 1984. We had thirty-two players for the nineteen-match Grand Slam tour, plus a coach, a manager, a forwards coach and a doctor. Four support staff; that was it. It really was changed days. Somebody told me recently that when England tour nowadays, there are two support staff for every player. So for a thirty-man touring party, there would be sixty staff tending to every aspect of getting the players ready for a game.

  ROB ANDREW, FORMER ENGLAND FLYHALF: I always felt that the period between 1991 and 1995 was the build-up to the professional game. In fact it was pretty clear after the 1991 World Cup that—at some point in the very near future—the game was going to go professional. It was more and more coaches, more and more commitment to training, more preparation time. We had more and more staff by 1995; that’s just the way the game was going. We had forwards coach, backs coach, head coach, kicking coach, more and more support staff. Not like they have today, but a lot more than we had in the ’80s. You felt like you were heading towards being a full-time player.

  In retrospect, it might also be that the 1995 World Cup represented the end of a cycle for Australian rugby. I always think that five years is about the natural lifespan of a rugby coach anyway, particularly when he’s got more
or less the same players to work with in those years. There is a definite shelf life. Very rarely in rugby do you see a Sir Alex Ferguson, an Arsène Wenger. Guy Novès, who’s been the coach at Toulouse for over twenty years, is the exception.

  Beyond five years I always think that—certainly at national level—there’s a risk of the coach–team relationship becoming a bit jaded. That’s not a criticism. It’s just that, by that point, the team has heard all the coach’s ideas. Eventually, nobody talks and nobody listens. It’s like a marriage in its final throes. That’s how it had worked with Alan Jones, who took us from before the Grand Slam tour in 1984 through the World Cup in 1987. As fantastic a man and coach as Alan Jones was and still is, he had nothing left to give. The relationship had run its natural course.

  But when Bob Dwyer came back to the team in 1988 for his second spell in charge, it was as if the imprint of his first tenure had been erased. Any fantastic results he’d achieved still stood, of course, but his old habits had gone and even if some remained he had a new set of players to work with who didn’t know them anyway.

  Bob had matured a lot as a coach since his first stint from 1982 to ’83. The game had moved on—so had he, and to his credit, there’s no doubt that he was a lot more thorough when it came to preparation than he’d ever been back in the early 1980s. The evolution of the game demanded that.

  Back in 1983, Bob had been very old school in his rugby ideas, although in fairness to him he was probably a little less old school than many of his contemporaries. But by the time his second tenure came around (after we’d been knocked out of the World Cup in ’87), he had become much more interested in training methods and preparation. You had to be, or you simply didn’t survive.