Blindsided Page 14

  EVERY NIGHT AT TREVISO, the players would all go up to the rugby office before training in the evening. We’d have a coffee, have a chat and collect our mail. There was a letter from the UK waiting for me one night. As I rarely corresponded with anyone in the UK, I thought, ‘This is unusual.’

  It turned out to be from a guy who was involved with Saracens Rugby Club. The gist of his letter was, ‘Would you be interested in coming to Saracens to play?’ I’d never heard of Saracens, but I thought, ‘Yeah, sounds interesting.’

  So Isabella and I went over to meet Saracens’ soon-to-be owner, Nigel Wray, in London in April. The letter confirming our travel arrangements said, ‘You’ll come over on the Friday, stay at this or that hotel and then there’s two tickets for you to go and see Riverdance.’

  I thought, ‘What the hell is Riverdance?’ and when I found out it was Irish folk dancing I wasn’t at all excited—‘God, that’s the last thing I want to go and see.’

  Of course, along we went and it was absolutely brilliant. We bought the CD, bought the program, bought the VHS—we loved it all. Then we met with Nigel on the Saturday over dinner at a nice restaurant in the West End called Quaglino’s. It was a great night and I immediately liked Nigel and his wife, Linda, and felt I could trust him. Luckily, I think he felt the same way about me. On the Sunday we went to Nigel and Linda’s house for lunch and continued to build our relationship.

  Nigel grew up in North London and Saracens was his local club. I liked his vision for it. Not only did he want to create a great rugby club, he wanted to take it a step further and make it an all-encompassing sporting club with a wide range of facilities for members, like those in Argentina, for example. He was after an environment that transcended rugby. I completely bought into the idea and thought, ‘I see where you’re going with this. I want to be part of it.’

  As we departed for the airport on the Sunday evening, the last thing Nigel said to me was: ‘Here’s my number. It would be great to have you on board. If there are any questions, just remember that the answer is always yes.’

  I thought, ‘That’s a pretty nice thing for someone to say.’

  Isabella and I went back to Italy to discuss things. Nigel had said, ‘I see you being around for three to five years.’ There was no contract at that stage. Nonetheless, both Isabella and I decided that we should commit to Saracens. We felt that London would be a nice but neutral place to start our married life together. I wouldn’t be dragging her to Australia and she wouldn’t be keeping me in Italy. London is a great city, and living there would be a challenge, but, as a couple, the decision really suited us.

  NIGEL WRAY, OWNER OF SARACENS: When I got involved in Saracens, rugby was a pretty insular game. The same people were on the touchline and I didn’t particularly want anybody else coming along. I thought we needed a signing that would create some interest. I also thought, mathematically, that someone like Michael Lynagh who scores 12 to 14 points a game would give us a good chance of not losing. We approached him and he joined us.

  Isabella and I arrived in London after a honeymoon that took us to Australia, Hawaii and the mainland US. While we were in Brisbane, Isabella and I went and watched Australia playing New Zealand at Lang Park. It was less than a year since I’d retired.

  Even then, with the smell of dressing rooms barely out of my system, I remember sitting in the stand and thinking, ‘I’m so glad I’m up here watching this rather than being down in the dressing room, sitting with the guys, ready to run out.’ It’s moments like that when you know you’ve made the right decision in moving on. Not that I particularly needed confirmation; I’d been absolutely sure that the 1995 World Cup was the end for me, win or lose.

  I remember arriving in London from New York at five in the morning at the end of our honeymoon. We’d already rented a flat in Hampstead, but it was unfurnished. So we’d gone out to Ikea and John Lewis and said, ‘We’ll be back on the 23rd of August and we need all this stuff to be delivered on that day.’

  But before the deliveries arrived that morning, including basics like beds, wardrobes and cutlery, we sat on the floor of the flat, waiting for the local Tesco Metro supermarket to open so that we could buy some plastic bowls and some milk and cornflakes. We’d arrived with only our clothes and we built it up from there to where we are today. Our life in London is something we’ve created as a couple, and it has worked out very well for us.

  I USED TO GET annoyed when I read about rugby mercenaries moving to England to play. They’d take the field for a year, not play very well, cash in and then go home. That was never part of the equation for me. The money was nice, sure, but it wasn’t just about the rugby or the money. It was a lifestyle choice as much as a rugby decision. And it wasn’t just my choice; it was Isabella’s too. Not just that either: I really wanted to make a positive contribution to the Saracens’ project and repay the trust that Nigel had placed in me.

  Equally, it annoys me a little when I hear people say, ‘It’s not about the money. It’s all about the culture and the experience.’ Yeah, that’s great—it is about experiencing new cultures and a new country. But money is important. If you’re an engineer and you get asked to work in France or maybe Japan—of course it’s about the money. It’s a great opportunity as well, but if they weren’t paying you anything, you wouldn’t go, would you? It’s all part of the melting pot you’ve got to throw everything into when you’re making a decision about where you’re going to live and work.

  So for us, a move to London was about a whole series of things and I was fortunate enough to meet someone at the forefront of professional club rugby and to capitalise on that relationship. My relationship with Nigel Wray was and is a great thing and it changed my life. My life and Isabella’s. And we’re still living it.

  I AGREED TO COME to Saracens on a handshake. Nigel and I could have got lawyers involved and contracts signed, but I said to him, ‘I’m happy to trust you.’ He said, ‘That’s good. I’m happy to trust you.’ We shook hands on it and that was about it. Isabella and I upped sticks and moved to a new country. I always thought that it was a very strong start to a friendship and business relationship, and I think Nigel felt the same way.

  NIGEL WRAY: It was very obvious to me immediately that Michael was a giver in life, not a taker. In those days, Saracens was very much a Cinderella side. There’s no doubt that Michael could have joined what were perceived to be much better clubs. We were actually in danger of being relegated in that last season of amateur rugby in 1995 and I think he may have actually already been approached by other clubs around that time. But he had already agreed to come to us. When I asked him, he said, ‘Even if Saracens do get relegated, I still stick to my word. I’m coming to play for you.’ That’s the type of man Michael Lynagh is.

  A couple of months later we had an exchange of letters. He sent me one—it was no more than two pages long. I signed it, kept a copy and sent him the original back. That was it. Nigel Wray kept all his promises over all the time I was at Saracens and to this day he continues to be very generous. I’d like to think that I did the same.

  I started playing in September 1996. I was in pretty good physical shape. I’d taken my training gear on honeymoon and we’d stayed at nice places where it was pleasant to run. I had a house at Sunshine Beach, near Noosa in Queensland, so we’d stayed there for the initial part of the honeymoon—running along the beach, surfing. Then we did the same thing in Hawaii.

  When we arrived in Los Angeles, we hired a car and drove up the Pacific Coast Highway to San Francisco. It’s one of the best drives in the world—from Malibu up through Big Sur. I couldn’t take my eyes off the ocean.

  Along the way we stopped in the Monterey peninsula for a couple of days. It’s a seventeen-mile stretch of amazingly rugged coastline. It’s just beautiful; I’d happily live there. I got up every day feeling energised and went running around Cypress Point, Pebble Beach and Spyglass Hill—fabulous golf courses that I’d only ever seen on TV. I’d say t
o Isabella, ‘I’m going for a run.’ But the real purpose was to see these great golf courses—‘I’ll kill two birds with one stone here . . .’

  So by the time I arrived at Saracens for the first season, sometime in mid-August, I was in a more than decent state of physical fitness. Not match-fit by any stretch of the imagination, but a few pre-season training sessions would soon see to that, I thought. The first official training session at Southgate Park was memorable for a couple of reasons. It’s a public oval in North London with just a small stand and clubhouse, and I remember we all had to wander around the pitch picking up dog shit before we started. I’d never done that before and there was quite a lot of it. I remember thinking, ‘So this is professional rugby?’ Other than the mess on the pitch, it was really no different from what I was accustomed to.

  People have told me that George Chuter—who would later play a few games for England—tells a good story on the afterdinner circuit about that first session. He was there as a fresh-faced youngster. He was just nineteen and this was his first-ever training session with a professional club. He was there on trial, I think. Apparently I walked into the Saracens dressing room for my first training session and George is sitting there in a replica Australia jersey. He says that I just looked him up and down and said, ‘Nice jersey, mate’, before jogging out to the training ground. He was probably thinking, ‘Here’s Michael Lynagh, however many international caps, and there I am in an Australia jersey. A replica jersey at that!’

  There was a strange atmosphere for the first few sessions. It felt like some kind of boarding-school initiation was being played out and that I was being scrutinised. I think some of the old guard were a little suspicious of guys like me, Philippe Sella, Kyran Bracken and all the other high-profile new recruits turning up. I’m sure some of them thought, ‘So what if he’s got seventy-two caps; let’s see what he’s really made of.’

  The thing is, I’d already addressed that issue in my mind. I’d assessed how I might be perceived and had thought about how I’d respond. The last thing I wanted anyone to think was that I was there to wind my career down and collect a nice fat pay cheque for good measure. That idea never even entered my head. I was there to do a job for the period I’d agreed and that, to me, meant total commitment to the task. If anything, I was determined to over-achieve. I did much more than necessary in the way of training, more in the way of preparation, so that there could be no doubt in anyone’s mind as to my motives.

  George’s story also talks about the tackling drill we did at that first training session. Cones were put out to make a square, roughly 25 metres by 25 metres. Half of the thirty guys who were there that night lined up in one corner; the other half in the opposite corner. One group was attacking; the other was to defend. As the guys went through their paces, some tried tricky moves to beat their defender, whereas others kept it simple, with strong, direct running. When my turn to defend came round, Charlie Olney was standing in the opposite corner. As he got ready—scraping his foot on the ground, almost like a bull—I could sense a few of the old guard looking at each other as if to say, ‘Here we go, boys.’ I’ve often wondered if it was staged—‘Let’s get a 100-kilo-plus hooker to run at the highly paid prima donna.’

  What these guys didn’t know, but soon would, was that I was no prima donna. I didn’t particularly fancy Olney’s fast-moving, 100-kilo bulk running at me, but refusal, or indeed any adverse reaction, just wasn’t an option. There was a lot riding on my actions.

  So I grabbed him around the legs as he approached and put him to the floor with a textbook tackle. No dump-tackling, no drama—just a correctly executed tackle. Then I calmly jogged back to my corner, showing no signs of effort. I just did what was required. And from that moment on, I had the total respect of everyone. All their doubts were removed. My commitment or motives were never questioned thereafter. After that, I’m sure they were thinking, ‘Okay, this Lynagh’s the real deal.’

  It was a very significant moment, but it probably wouldn’t happen nowadays, because the arrangement of bringing internationals into club sides is completely understood. Nobody is going to stand Dan Carter in a square and ask Bismarck du Plessis to run at him. The game has moved on from those old-fashioned rites of initiation.

  That said, I admit that I’m not a physical person; I don’t like being hurt. Who does? Yet I played rugby for fifteen years. Getting hit went hand in hand with it. But physical contact was an aspect of playing rugby that I never really relished. I actually got really nervous about it in the days before a game. I worried about it during the game too. I was never particularly big and there were always, all the way through my career, people running at me—trying to get to me. I got round it by thinking, ‘Right, I know I’m going to be run at by big people. I’m going to get hit. Targeted.’ You’ve just got to close your eyes and do your best. What I never wanted was a reputation as a guy who shirks tackles—a turnstile letting everyone through. Once you got that reputation, you were in trouble: you’d be targeted even more as a potential weak link. They’d just run at you all day—‘Let’s run over the top of this guy.’

  Jonny Wilkinson, a modern great player in my position, took it to the other extreme for a while. He seemed to relish clobbering people, often injuring himself in the process. A few flyhalves nowadays have followed his lead. The position is much more confrontational than it used to be, and Wilkinson’s a big reason why. It almost looked as if he viewed defence as a personal challenge—‘Run at me if you dare.’ People took him on and got hammered. Thereafter it was, ‘Well, I’m not running down his channel anymore.’

  I always thought, ‘All right mate, we know you can tackle. You can slow down now. You’re of more value to the team when you’re on the field, not sitting in the stand, injured.’ But that was just the way he was. I wasn’t like that by nature. Alan Jones, our Wallaby coach up until 1988, said to me once, when he saw me getting too physically involved in a game: ‘You’re a thoroughbred; you don’t belong in there.’ Anytime I got stressed about tackling in a game, I just thought about my friends up there in the forwards. The Tommy Lawtons, Phil Kearnses and David Wilsons of the world. Now when they tackle you, that’s a physical confrontation. I used to say to myself, ‘You think you have it hard. Imagine how they are feeling.’ That’s how I got through it. The actual running of the game and making decisions never worried me a bit. If that had been all I had to do, I’d probably still be doing it now.

  The few occasions that I played centre, mostly playing outside Mark Ella in the early 1980s, actually helped my defence a little. All of a sudden I had to make tackles against bigger men than me, whereas a flyhalf in those days was mostly cover defending, picking up chip kicks, that kind of thing. All of that suited me fine. I used to say that defence for a flyhalf in those days was more managerial than physical. And I was very good at managing other people to make tackles for me. I never shirked, but making hits just wasn’t my forte.

  In retrospect, I don’t blame the Sarries guys for wanting to test me physically. It was the very early days of professional rugby and nobody really knew how bringing in highly paid players from overseas would work out. I would have tested me too!

  NIGEL WRAY: I’d only seen Michael play on the great stages. We all had. But somehow it was even more impressive to see him play up close on a small pitch at Enfield. His hands were just incredible to watch. I thought that the first time he trained. If you watched his hands, you just never knew whether he was going to give a short pass or a long pass. He also had incredible awareness of where to put a rugby ball. He had that in spades.

  But the key to that first season at Saracens wasn’t simply that they brought in big names. It was much more to do with exactly which big names they acquired—the right kinds of personalities, not just good rugby players. Anyone can go out and acquire big names. Lots of teams did it. Some worked out, some were disasters—and the ones that didn’t work were usually because the players concerned were there with the wrong age
nda.

  ROB ANDREW: This is where everything moved so quickly. You went from a World Cup in South Africa to almost signing up for a rugby circus. Then the IRB said the game was professional, almost overnight. Everybody just looked at each other and went, ‘Blimey, now what?’ In England, people stepped in and bought clubs: Newcastle United via Sir John Hall bought the old Gosforth Rugby club, which then became Newcastle Falcons. Things moved at a frightening pace. I was working as a chartered surveyor in London. I got a call on a Wednesday asking if I wanted to come to Newcastle, and by the following Monday I’d decided to go. The financial incentive was there, but there was also a game-changing decision to be made about what I was going to do next. When I look back on it now, it was a bit like the Wild West for the first few years. Nobody knew how it was going to play out. Everyone just jumped on the bandwagon, but nobody really knew where it was going. Michael and I were in right at the beginning, right at the end of our careers. 1995 will go down in history as the key year in the game. We just happened to straddle that period.

  By approaching guys like myself, Philippe Sella and, later that year, Francois Pienaar, Nigel Wray had chosen extremely wisely in his first year of running a professional rugby team. It was a combination of good judgement and a big slice of luck. While all three of us are completely different types of people, we all went to Saracens with the view that we were there to do a job. We weren’t there just for the money; we were there to train hard, play hard on the weekend and do the very best for the team. We all wanted to leave a footprint by being part of something exciting.

  Even the ever-laidback Philippe, whom you wouldn’t necessarily see as someone who’d relish training in the freezing cold on a Monday night on a dog-shit minefield in North London, was there to do well. He’s an easygoing kind of guy, yes. But he also knew his job and took it very seriously.