I FEEL LOST. Like I don’t know who I am, like I don’t know where I fit into this world. What’s my purpose?
I’m 33, so it’s about 30 years too early to start collecting my pension. Ha bloody ha.
I can’t believe I’m actually here at this moment in my career, my last game.
My Testimonial.
Sixteen years, and it’s gone by so fast, too fast. Sixteen amazing, testing years; teaching me, shaping me into the man I was destined to become, the man I was meant to be.
But what’s next? What am I going to do now?
When I was just breaking into my first team, a fresh-faced kid of 18, I had a teammate named Scott Nadler, who was one of the senior players. He was a great guy who guided me and gave me some good advice (starting with not to hang my clothes on his peg—players are very territorial about their spot in the changing rooms so you’ve got to earn your place).
“Enjoy this,” said Scott. “Try be present in every moment: in rugby, in sport, in life, because it can pass you by in a blink of an eye, if you let it. When your career is nearing the end, you’ll wish you could do it all over again, only better, stronger, smarter … and injury free.”
I didn’t really know what to say so I laughed.
“Don’t be daft, Scotty! You’ve got plenty of seasons left in the tank.”
Of course he hadn’t, and that turned out to be his last year of playing.
But his words stuck with me. But it was only when I was older and wiser that I really understood what he meant. All players worry about the game we just played; then we worry about the future and how we’re going to play; instead of being conscious in the now, in the present moment with all our senses—just breathe, relax and enjoy being alive. Easy to say, hard to do. It’s one of our biggest weaknesses.
It’s funny how things work out. Advice given years earlier only makes sense when your experiences have made you wise enough to truly understand what it all meant. God, that makes me sound old! But these days 33 feels ancient.
Looking back, as a young player it seemed like the seniors would always moan about recovering more slowly as they got older, always hurt, the body just not being able to do what it used to do.
They would have a laugh with us young lads, “These kids don’t know how good they have it! Take a long look, young whipper snapper, because you’ve got this to look forward to!”
Then they’d show all their ailments: bust up hands, broken noses, funny fingers that had healed crooked; always in first for physio and massages.
And now I’m one of them.
Rugby is a bloody tough game—the human body can only take so much impact, so much trauma, so much punishment, before it starts to scream No More! Even then, it’s hard to handle because, as athletes, we won’t accept it. Even when you know it’s time, you refuse to believe that your body is broken. Your mind is strong, so you carry on for as many seasons as you can. You take painkillers to get you through the games: paracetamol, ibuprofen, tramadol, cortisone injections: any concoction the doctor can give. Post-game, we take sleeping tablets or diazepam in case the painkillers wear off during the night while we sleep and try recover.
With all the injuries I’ve had, I should be glad it’s my last game, but deep down I’m not. I don’t know what I’m going to do next—midlife crisis here I come. It’s like leaving home again—I’m leaving the comfort of team sport, leaving the lads I’ve grown to call brothers, leaving the commitment, the comradery, the lifestyle, the sense of being a part of something bigger than myself. I feel empty.
Snap out of this! You knew this day would come, and there’s more to life than playing rugby. I’ve got a life with Anna. Life off the field is good.
But what the hell am I going to do?
I need to relax. My testimonial board—the team of people organising this event—have done all the hard work for me. They have arranged everything right down to the post-game meal and celebrations. All I need to do is show up at these last two weeks of training sessions, put in the work with the boys, and enjoy this game. My team and the opposition team will be made up of friends, teammates and former teammates. It’ll be amazing.
My last game. That sounds so weird.
I know it’s natural to feel like this, because playing rugby is all I’ve ever known. I’m institutionalized. My whole adult life has been dedicated to this, to this lifestyle.
I keep trying to get out of my own head. Who needs critics when you wrestle with your own personality on a daily basis? I’m my own worst nightmare sometimes. I swear, playing this game makes us all crazy. Probably just too many knocks to the head. I’m joking. Maybe.
I’m sure Anna would analyze it all for me if I told her. But it seems too weak to share all this crap I have going around inside me. I need to focus on the here and now, not worry about everything else.
Only one fortnight of team practices to go.
I’m nervous but not in the usual way. The testimonial isn’t about winning or losing—it’s about respect and honour among brothers.
I’ve played in testimonial games for other players. Now I’m joining the retirement list.
There are no trophies, no anticipation of winning, no disappointment of losing—it’s just about putting on a great performance.
Who am I kidding? I’m playing to win: I always do.