Sam Warburton - Open Side - The Official Autobiography

HarperCollins Publishers

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published by HarperCollins Publishers 2019

SECOND EDITION

© Sam Warburton 2019, 2020

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Cover photograph © Andrew Brown

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

Sam Warburton asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

Extract from Western Mail , 17 October 2011 courtesy of Western Mail /Media Wales

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

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Source ISBN: 9780008336592

Ebook Edition © June 2020 ISBN: 9780008336608

Version: 2020-04-05

To my wife Rachel, daughter Anna, my family and close friends – thanks for being on the journey with me, supporting me and helping me through all the tough times. I could never have done it without you.

1 Cover

2 Title Page

3 Copyright

4 Dedication

5 Contents

6 PROLOGUE

7 1 WHITCHURCH

8 LEADERSHIP 1: PERSONALITY

9 2 TOYOTA STADIUM, CHICAGO

10 LEADERSHIP 2: PROFESSIONALISM

11 3 EDEN PARK

12 LEADERSHIP 3: PERFORMANCE

13 4 MILLENNIUM STADIUM

14 LEADERSHIP 4: PERSPECTIVE

15 5 ETIHAD STADIUM, MELBOURNE

16 LEADERSHIP 5: POSITIVITY

17 6 TWICKENHAM

18 LEADERSHIP 6: PERSISTENCE

19 7 WESTPAC STADIUM, WELLINGTON

20 LEADERSHIP 7: PEOPLE

21 EPILOGUE

22 AFTERWORD

23 APPENDIX A: THE FUTURE OF THE GAME

24 APPENDIX B: MY BEST WELSH XV

25 APPENDIX C: MY BEST INTERNATIONAL XV

26 About the Publisher

Landmarks CoverFrontmatterStart of ContentBackmatter

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Friday, 30 June 2017

The Rydges Hotel, Wellington, New Zealand

Two in the morning.

Can’t sleep. The witching hour, when the darkness comes flooding in: thoughts tumbling and cascading over each other like a Snowdonia river in full spate. The darkness comes flooding in, and it’s all I can do to stop it drowning me.

Everything hurts. My body, my mind, my heart. Everything. I’m a wreck.

It’s easier to list the parts of me that aren’t in pain. My eyelashes. That’s pretty much it. I’ve had more than 20 injuries over my career: the concussions, the broken jaw, the plate in my eye socket, the trapped shoulder nerve, the hamstring torn clean off the bone, the knee ligaments.

Before I go out to play these days, I have to neck painkillers while the physios strap me up like an Egyptian mummy. I have to stand there butt naked in front of them, cupping my twig and berries, while they bind my knees, my ankles, my shoulders and my elbows.

It’s not just tonight. It’s the relentless grind: week on week, month on month, year on year. Smash and be smashed. Try to recover. Smash and be smashed again. The equivalent of strapping myself into a car like a crash test dummy and driving it at a wall every weekend.

I get out of bed. Shards of pain as my feet touch the floor. I push myself slowly upright, gritting my teeth as the aches flare and settle.

If my body’s only at around 70 per cent fitness, my mind feels around half that. I’m exhausted, but also wired: antsy, yet craving rest. Yes, these are the small hours when everything seems worse, but even in broad daylight the doubts and questions are never far away.

Sam Warburton shouldn’t be captain.

Sam Warburton shouldn’t be playing.

Sam Warburton’s past it.

What I know is that there are plenty of people out there who think that.

What I fear is that they might be right.

I take one step, gingerly, then another, and another. Walking – hobbling, more like – across the carpet over to the window. I pull back the curtains and look out.

Below me is the Wellington waterfront. It’s quiet and empty now, but earlier this evening it was packed, as it will be later tonight and tomorrow night. Many of these people will be wearing red rugby shirts and will have saved up for years to come all the way across the world just to watch us play.

Because tomorrow evening I’m going to lead out the British and Irish Lions for the second of three Tests against the All Blacks. We lost the first in Auckland last week, which means we have to win this one to stay in the series. I’ve played in some big games in my life – World Cup semi-finals, Grand Slam deciders, Lions Tests against Australia – but nothing that comes close to this.

Nothing that comes remotely close.

The best of the Home Nations, a once-every-four-years touring team, against the double world champions. I came off the bench in Auckland, but now I’m starting and I simply have to deliver.

It should be the highlight of my career. It feels like anything but.

This is a game that’s been the biggest part of my life for almost two decades, a game that has largely defined me. It’s a game I love. Rather, it’s a game I thought I loved. Right now, I hate it.

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.