I want to be one of those fans, on the piss and singing their hearts out, with no problem more pressing than who gets the next round in. Instead, I’m here, torturing myself with questions to which I have no answer. Why? Why am I doing this to myself? Why am I putting myself through all this pain, all this pressure, when I could be doing something – anything – else? Why am I in a job which right now I detest?
Round and round and round. Body, mind and heart. Physical stress, mental stress and emotional stress, all working on and off each other. I feel as though I’m in a submarine going deeper and deeper, springing leaks as the hull creaks and flexes, and soon I’ll come to the point of no return, the moment when the pressure gets too much and crushes me like a tin can.
Two in the morning, and no one to talk to.
For once in my career I’ve chosen to have a room on my own rather than share with a team-mate. It’s the captain’s prerogative, to have a room to himself, but one I’ve rarely used as I don’t like to be set apart from the other boys.
This time, I have. I’ve told everyone it’s because I need the sleep, which is true – my daughter Anna’s not far off a year old, and like all babies she’s up more times in the night than a vampire – but it’s not the whole truth either.
It’s because I need the space too. The six weeks of this tour are what my entire career has been building towards, and I want to win so much, so much, that the desire is almost in itself a physical pain. Another physical pain, more like.
A submarine. A volcano. All this pain bubbling up inside me, and if I don’t deal with it, it’s going to explode and consume me in all its molten fury.
I need to talk to someone. There are several people I could call, but there’s only one person I know will really understand. I dial her number.
‘Sam?’ Her voice is full of concern. It’s lunchtime back home in Cardiff. She knows what time it is where I am, and that I wouldn’t be phoning for no reason.
‘I’ve had enough, Mum.’ My throat is tight with the effort of not bursting into tears. ‘I really have. I’m just going to go.’
‘Go where?’
‘To the airport. Do a bunk. Leave all my kit here, get on the first plane home. I’ll be in the air before they realise I’ve gone.’
I didn’t, of course. Can you imagine the headlines?
LIONS CAPTAIN DOES MIDNIGHT FLIT.
WARBURTON QUITS.
THE RUNAWAY SKIPPER.
I’d never have lived it down, and rightly so.
But at the time I was deadly serious. And no one knew, apart from my mum. She talked me down: told me that I didn’t owe anything to anyone, so all I had to do was get through this week and the next and then the series would be over and I could do what I wanted.
She was right, of course. She knew the way love for and hatred of rugby oscillated within me, because they did for her too. She loved what the game had given me and the pleasure I’d got from it, but she hated seeing me beaten up, or under the knife, or criticised. Even though I was 6 ft 2 and 16 stone, I was still her little boy.
No one knew, apart from my mum. The spectators in the Westpac Stadium the following evening certainly didn’t know when they watched one of the most titanic and dramatic Test matches imaginable. And there’s no reason they should have known. The rugby public see what the players want them to see, and no more.
I played most of my career with 7 on my back. For me 7 has, in rugby terms, always been a sacred number. This book is arranged according to that number. There are seven main chapters, each centred on a different rugby ground in which something important in my life happened: a red card or two, a debut, a barnstorming run, a horrific injury, a goal-line stand, a split-second decision with a referee.
In between those chapters are seven sections centred around different aspects of leadership (Personality, Professionalism, Performance, Perspective, Positivity, Persistence and People), because over the years as captain for Wales and the Lions I’ve learned a bit about all of those too.
Number 7 is the openside flanker, the one who packs down in a scrum furthest from the near touchline and therefore has more of the field to patrol than number 6, the blindside. I’ve played a bit at six too, and in writing this I realised that openside and blindside aren’t just positions on the pitch. They’re also reflections of how much people really know about the life of a professional rugby player.
Most of the time, that knowledge is the blindside, the narrow side. You see us on match day, and maybe in social media videos or promotional appearances too. That’s some of our life, but it’s only a very, very small part. The rest of it, those wide expanses which the number 7 needs to patrol, is kept hidden.
This is the story of those expanses, the parts of the iceberg beneath the surface. It’s a story of highs and lows, of triumph and disaster. It’s a story of what it’s really like to be in the thick of it, on and off the pitch. It’s not every rugby player’s story, but it’s my story, told as clearly and honestly as I can.
This is my open side.
1
51.5132°N, 3.2234°W
2002
We’re playing Llanhari. Their number 8’s a big lad, running to fat, and he’s nasty too. We’re not yet a quarter of the way through the match when I see him choking our scrum-half: proper choking, lifting him off his feet while holding him by the neck, all that.
I see red. I smash into this lad as hard as I can, picking him up and throwing him down, head first. I don’t know how dangerous this is, of course; none of us do. I’m just enraged that he’s picking on one of my team-mates, and the smallest lad on the pitch to boot. Besides, dump tackling’s my trademark, my way of stamping my authority on the game and getting my team behind me. In each game I play, I don’t look to dump the smallest guy on their team, but the biggest one.
Having seen red once, I see it again when the ref sends me off. I can’t complain, but equally I won’t apologise. I’m not a dirty player, and I never do anything illegal unless provoked; but if someone starts something, I’m determined to be the one to finish it. And I’ll never back down from defending a team-mate. Even a chopsing scrum-half, talking back to people.
1995. ‘I want to be a footballer.’
I’m seven years old. Mum’s putting me and my twin brother Ben to bed. We’ve been playing football all afternoon, like we always do. There’s a grass verge on the corner of our street, and we play there for hours at a time. The neighbours must hate us, but we don’t know, and even if we did we wouldn’t care. We’re just kids playing football.
When he’s not on shift at Whitchurch fire station, Dad plays with us. He was pretty good when he was younger – he had a sweet left foot and a trial for Bristol Rovers – but he couldn’t be bothered with the whole professional lifestyle, certainly not in the days before the big money came flooding in. He just wanted to play locally. Now he teaches us how to pass, and control, and shoot, and head the ball: all the things that will make us better players.
We’ve both got little Spurs kits. Mine has ‘Sam, 9’ on the back; Ben’s has ‘Ben, 10.’ Dad’s been a Spurs fan all his life; he was born in the northwest London suburb of Kingsbury, even though his family are originally from Bury, and he came to Cardiff via Birmingham. ‘Once Tottenham, always Tottenham,’ he says. Playing for Spurs and Wales, that’s my dream.
‘Really?’