Tales of the Honey Badger Read online

  HE KNEW MY PSYCHE AND WAS USING REVERSE PSYCHOLOGY TO URGE ME TO TAKE THE CHALLENGE AND PROVE HIM WRONG.

  After a few beers, a feed and a punt that night – before it was illegal for athletes to do so – Keith dropped me home on his way back to the airport with Dad. It’d been a lot to take in and Dad left me with some very inspiring words: ‘Well, good luck, son. I’ll see ya in a couple of months when you’re back home.’ He left me with a chuckle, more or less suggesting I’d give up and head home with my tail between my legs.

  But I know now that was classic man management. He knew my psyche and was using reverse psychology to urge me to take the challenge and prove him wrong.

  I had saved a small amount of loot from landscape labouring and the new world of money management saw my funds quickly dry up, but crawling back for help was not on!

  I was still living out of his old Port Macquarie Pirates rugby bag and during these times, one Vegemite sanga (no butter) for dinner wasn’t uncommon. But I pushed on. And once my budget was sorted, I was able to eat good tucker again. Souths Juniors did a red-hot T-bone and veggies for $5 and I’d hit three or four of them five or six times a week. The Sunday roast at $7 only became an option a little later. But I firmly believe those meals were a critical factor in making the Australian Sevens squad.

  DURING THESE TIMES, ONE VEGEMITE SANGA (NO BUTTER) FOR DINNER WASN’T UNCOMMON.

  PRE-GAME INTERVIEW:

  “DUNNO HOW LONG IN ME, BEFORE THE OLD PINS GIVE OUT . . . THE OLD GETAWAY STICKS.”

  TRANSLATION: ‘I’ve blown out a few birthday candles in my time and there’s really no telling how many good years I have left in my legs before they give out.’

  CSI: MATRAVILLE

  Adam Ashley-Cooper spends more money on hair and moisturising products than I earned in a full season at Randwick, so suffice to say, times were tough on the old velcro wallet.

  I was sharing a very average unit in Matraville with a few mates from the club. The kind of unit they’d find a bloated dead body in on one of those CSI shows before deducing from the Home Brand two-minute noodles’ point of view that it was murder by way of Playstation altercation. Needless to say, the area was dodgy.

  At night, there were fights and screams in 20 different languages – multiculturalism at its best. Like a Weight Watchers client, I could smell all that good tucker – from each of the five continents – and would have torn off my left nut to get a spoonful. But I never got to taste that bloody stuff. The things I would have done to even be in a position to get salmonella . . .

  AT NIGHT, THERE WERE FIGHTS AND SCREAMS IN 20 DIFFERENT LANGUAGES – MULTICULTURALISM AT ITS BEST.

  Alas, I was resigned to surviving on whatever pasta, tinned soup and noodles were on special. All young rugby players with not a crust – consumable or otherwise – between us, we lived in abject poverty. Our flat needed furnishing, so we worked out a cunning plan – kerbside collection in the ritzy neighbourhoods.

  OUR FLAT NEEDED FURNISHING, SO WE WORKED OUT A CUNNING PLAN – KERBSIDE COLLECTION IN THE RITZY NEIGHBOURHOODS.

  Come collection day, we scoured the northern beaches’ most affluent suburbs on the look out for half-decent furniture. And what we found was a bloody goldmine. To this day I don’t think I’ve been able to purchase furniture as good as some of the stuff that was thrown out.

  We picked up TVs – plural – with remotes and, more importantly, working batteries. We got hold of couches and knickknacks and even beds. But it wasn’t all flash.

  One of the beds looked like it’d been utilised as a mating ground for three generations of gorilla. Better make that four ’cause I claimed that baby and made a nest out of it for many a night. In fact, I grew so fond of that mattress, it takes pride of place in my spare room to this very day . . . Not really. Or does it?

  WORKING FOR THE MAN

  Of course, as an amateur rugby player there’s a lot of spare time on your hands. And I was lucky enough to find work with a bloke by the name of Carl McDonald, who ran a business making flashy signs for real estate agents. Like I mentioned earlier, I was no fan of manual labour and my attention span when it comes to things I don’t much care for makes even Millennials look focused. Suffice to say, I wasn’t employee of the month.

  IT’S A DIFFICULT POSITION TO BE IN WHEN YOU’RE SO CLOSE TO YOUR DREAM IN ONE FIELD AND THEN SOMEONE’S SHIT-KICKER IN ANOTHER.

  It’s a difficult position to be in when you’re so close to your dream in one field and then someone’s shit-kicker in another. Lucky for me, Carl was a very tolerant human being. Though at times I’m certain he wanted to kill me, but held back. In saying that, there was the odd occasion when I thought about hammering him, too, but he was a tough little rooster and it could have gone either way.

  I remember one day I was supposed to be working – apparently every day in the office is one of those days – and instead I was making planes from the corflute signs and launching them from the warehouse roof. It would have been all right had the boss not caught me. And I probably could have kept my job had I not been yelling ‘To infinity and beyond!’ as it happened. It was pretty hard to explain it away as an accident.

  I REMEMBER ONE DAY I WAS SUPPOSED TO BE WORKING – APPARENTLY EVERY DAY IN THE OFFICE IS ONE OF THOSE DAYS

  Carl’s face went redder than a bad rash, but lucky for me, we hit it off outside of work hours. He’s a good bloke and turns out the reason he never knocked me out (apart from workplace health and safety rules that I don’t think counted for much when it came to me) was because he wanted to manage me. And today, he remains my manager. And I can taunt him all I like without fear of getting bashed.

  RACE FOR GLORY

  It was the Olympic year and the only year in history prefaced with the word ‘year’ before the number – the year 2000, of course. And I was 13, about to take on the school running race called The St Francis Gift. And let me tell you, it wasn’t the kind of gift most 13-year-olds are used to. No wrapping paper. Nothing. It was a 400 m dead straight, uphill slog. Come to think of it, the school must have been pinched for cash because the ‘gift’ was actually contested on a hot bitumen street connecting the main road to the back of the school. Nonetheless, it was a big event, with the whole school lining the entire track. ‘Finally, the gauntlet of applause I’ve been dreaming of.’

  IT WASN’T THE KIND OF GIFT MOST 13-YEAR-OLDS ARE USED TO. NO WRAPPING PAPER. NOTHING.

  I was in the boys’ division – years 8 to 12 – and not only were bragging rights and a Macca’s voucher on the line, but the winner was going to get his name on the school honour board and get the coveted title as ‘fastest kid in school’.

  I WAS A COMPETITIVE LITTLE BUGGER AND BELIEVED I COULD PUT THE WIND UP A FEW OF THESE OLDER KIDS

  Now, I’d only just turned 13. And I’d barely developed a stray underarm hair let alone the kind of brussels the Year 12 lads were parading about. But I was up for the challenge. Hopefully cut a few of the big Year 12 lads down and have my mates know I could outrun the seniors – an imperative and invaluable asset for a Year 8 battler. That’s as good as being the bloke with the cigs in the prison yard – the guy who ‘can get you things’.

  Anyhow, a couple hundred lined up on the start line – aged 13 to 17. And before the start of the race I positioned myself at the front of the crowd against the strict commands of the teachers. I was a competitive little bugger and believed I could put the wind up a few of these older kids if I just had the chance. And hell, there was no way the teachers could catch me if they tried. So, there I was, standing at the front, shortest by a long shot – a Shetland in a thoroughbred race. And getting pushed around by the big kids who were all talking the strategy of ‘not going hard early’ and ‘just keeping a medium pace’.

  I’d taken a good ol’-fashioned police beating before the start gun had even gone off and ended up about five metres behind the start line – absorbed by the heaving mass of puberty.

  Then, boom! We were off! And it was lik
e Mick Hooper’s hotel room after a win – absolute chaos as people were falling and getting trampled on just to get across the line. But I had my wits about me. This was like the dinner table rush in a family of eight. So I jumped over a couple then realised I had to get out of the traffic and strategically ran to the side of the pack and into the greenery beside the bitumen – through that soft mulch – and made up a heap of ground.

  I might have reeked of eucalyptus but I’d managed to get myself right behind the leaders. At only 100 metres in, I cracked a smile – ‘This is my time’. I knew their plan was to cruise early and then finish strong – a strategy I’ve implemented many times under the doona since. But then and there, I knew I had to act swiftly in the narrow window of opportunity I had.

  So I accelerated with all my might and harder and longer than I’d ever done before. And it was working! With 50 metres to go I had a commanding lead. And the looks on the faces of the girls in my grade (which even under fatigue I couldn’t help but notice) spoke of shock and awe at what they were seeing – a boy becoming a man in front of their very eyes. Spurred on, I pushed harder again. It was mine. But then with 30 to go things started slowing down rapidly – and not in a glorious slow-motion way either . . .

  THEN WITH 30 TO GO THINGS STARTED SLOWING DOWN RAPIDLY

  I turned to see where the rest were and spotted one bloke closing in fast as I began to get dizzier than a cat stuck in a dryer. I tried to kick again. No response. The lactic acid had taken over.

  And with 10 to go, my eyesight blurred and swirling as the proverbial greyhound snapped at me heels, I even tried to run in the line he was taking to buy myself a metre. But with five to go my vision had deteriorated so badly that I could barely make out the finish line, which was marked out by two fluoro witches hats. I was delirious.

  I got top heavy and as I tried to hold on for the win I began to stumble and fall forward. I put in one last step to dive head-first over the line – remembering we’re on Brisbane’s finest bitumen – as I passed out unconscious. I was like an Eskimo at the fair – out cold. And when I finally awoke some minutes later on the grass beside the finish line, I was lost. Couldn’t move. My lower body had seized up from the lactic acid and my legs looked like literal greyhounds had in fact been snapping at my heels. They were a bloody mess.

  I WAS LIKE AN ESKIMO AT THE FAIR – OUT COLD.

  I still didn’t know the result. And as I was being carted to the sick bay a teacher walked up to me and said ‘Great run, Nick’ and handed me a medal. And this was before the days when ‘participation medals’ were handed out like flyers. I clenched it hard and opened one eye to see what colour it was . . . silver.

  It was crushing defeat. If I wasn’t already feeling sick I certainly was now. All for nothing. Never had I felt like I deserved something more than that day.

  I CLENCHED IT HARD AND OPENED ONE EYE TO SEE WHAT COLOUR IT WAS . . . SILVER.

  But I sucked it up, cleaned the sickbay out of bandages and that stingy red fluid, and an hour later walked back to class bandaged like a mummy.

  “MATE, WE’RE JUST MORE FOCUSED ON TREADING SOFTLY AND CARRYING A BIG STICK.”

  TRANSLATION: ‘We’ll play it cool. Sneak up on the pricks real quiet and then smash ‘em before they’ve even had a chance to know we were coming all along.’

  TEST DEBUT

  When I was about 17 years old, my old man told me he’d had a dream that I would score a try in a really important match. Possibly even a Test match.

  Had he had a few beers? Sure. Did he often wake me up on a school night to tell me of his prophecies? You betcha. Did they ever come true? Rarely. But this dream was an exception for two reasons: One, it would come true. And two, it didn’t feature Elle Macpherson.

  Fast forward to 2011 and low and behold, I found myself in the Wallabies squad. And Dad was contemplating giving up the landscaping game and throwing up a ‘Palms Read $5’ sign out front of the house.

  Anyhow, I was training for a month and every other bugger was getting a run. But not me! Every injury brought me closer to a gig but still, I was down the line. And Dad’s new-found psychic abilities weren’t any help. He just kept telling me stuff I already knew.

  Mentally, it was getting really difficult. We’d go to open training sessions and the public would come to meet their heroes. Kids lined up to get autographs but not mine. I was talking to a few of the boys and the mums were giving me the deadlies. ‘Stop pushing in and give the kids a chance!’ Nathan Sharpe, who played with me in Perth, started signing my jumper. Not even my own teammate recognised me. OK, that’s a lie, but that’s how low I felt. The groundsman was getting more love than I was.

  But the Perth Test was coming up soon and I thought surely I’ll get a gig there, in front of my home crowd. But not this time either.

  THE GROUNDSMAN WAS GETTING MORE LOVE THAN I WAS.

  Now, I’d done tours with the Aussie Sevens but this was different. It was a Test match and I was mixing with the big boys now – even if they didn’t recognise me.

  It was a Tuesday I’ll never forget when Robbie Deans pulled me aside and I prepared myself for the usual ‘Your time will come’.

  But as I walked towards him, he was grinning like a dead sheep – no Kiwi pun intended. And I just thought: ‘Bugger you, Robbie. Don’t crush my dreams again.’ And then he said those three little words I’d been waiting to hear my whole life: ‘Badge, you’re in!’

  I couldn’t believe it. I just smiled. He’s not such a bad bloke — for a Kiwi. A pretty good one, actually.

  The phone rang at home. ‘Hey, Dad. I’ve got you some Wallaby gear.’

  He replied: ‘Good stuff, mate. I appreciate that. It’ll probably look better on me than you anyway.’ Then I dropped the big one: ‘And by the way, I’m starting for Australia on Saturday.’ Dad: ‘Mate! Do you want me to come over?’ Me: ‘Well, I can’t do it on my own.’ Dad: ‘Right, mate. I’m in. But where the bloody hell are you?’

  Rosario, Argentina, was the answer.

  It’s a reasonably big town of about one million people and they love their rugby. There is a moat around most of the ground separating the spectators from the field. And it’s about five metres deep and three metres wide. Throw some water and barra in there and the place would be heaven.

  Better yet, the crowd in Rosario cheer when anyone gets hammered and whip out the lasers when anyone has a shot at goal. Sport at its best!

  The old man and my manager, Carl, flew out of Sydney on some airline which shall remain nameless. And by all reports, the flight was average at best. They had one movie which was in Spanish – with no nudity – but the language barrier didn’t matter because the headphones didn’t work anyway.

  Surprise surprise, the old boy was pretty thirsty but there was no hostess to be seen.

  In those situations Dad has always taught us that if someone won’t help you, you help yourself. So with Dad as their leader, a group of no less than six men took turns at the bar stash. By the time the hostess had returned, the boys had drunk the bastard dry. And David Boon wasn’t on this flight.

  As a result, they went to sleep soundly but no one else on the plane could, as the snores echoed through the cabin to deafening effect. But with a good night’s sleep under his belt, Dad’s optimism was just what I needed when he arrived in camp.

  Like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs, I was pretty nervous.

  There was a fair bit of tension because the team were under the pump in the media back home — Australia just had to win.

  The jumper presentation was very humbling and the old bloke was proud as. I turned 25 next day before the game and Dad couldn’t help but organise a cake and candles at a local restaurant – just to add some embarrassment to my nerves.

  I found Dad a room with the only person who’d take him – Federico Pucciariello, a former Italian international front-rower. He was a big wheel in town who didn’t speak all that much English – or at least could pretend he d
idn’t – so I knew Dad wouldn’t get under his skin, because all he kept harping on about was how he had a dream four years ago that I’d score a try for the Wallabies in a Test match. And his powers of prophecy were about to be put to the test . . .

  Game Day

  The captain’s run was okay the day before but I was still a bit dodgy. I was rooming with big Kane Douglas and he was almost as untidy as me.

  The place was a shambles – like my guts – and I could have forgiven the room service for contemplating self-harm. It was game day and I’d have given anything to curl up in that mess of a bed.

  But this was my debut. My moment. And we grabbed our gear and onto the bus we went. And just quietly, the bus ride did little to calm my nerves.

  The bloody thing roared through the town flat-out and the pedestrians just had to jump out of the way. The bus driver was Argentina’s answer to Evel Knievel. He was a mad bastard. I can’t be certain, but I was sure he was drinking.

  THE BUS DRIVER WAS ARGENTINA’S ANSWER TO EVEL KNIEVEL.

  Finally, I’m on the field. Kitted up. And the national anthems were just a blur. I was so focused on not ballsing things up I don’t think I sung a word of the Aussie anthem. But somehow knew the Argentinian anthem by heart. Was I a genius, after all?

  The whistle finally went and it was more of a relief than anything. No more waiting.