We’re taking a look back at some of our favourite and most popular lifestyle stories of 2023, giving you a chance to catch up on some of the great reading you might have missed this year.
In this story from September, Greg Bruce sits down to watch the most iconic game in All Blacks history with its biggest star.
John Kirwan told me he had never watched the game before; had never watched any of his games before. When I asked why, he said, “I wouldn’t be bothered. I wouldn’t sit around and watch it to be fair.” Not only was this not an answer, but it was delivered in a monotone that made me worry he thought this whole exercise was a bad idea, especially since I couldn’t guarantee he was wrong.
We were sitting on a couch in Sky TV’s Auckland studio in front of a three-metre wide screen on which we were about to watch a full replay of the 1987 Rugby World Cup final between New Zealand and France.
Why? It was obvious he didn’t have a clue. I wasn’t sure I knew either. I guess I thought that watching this landmark game with him would make for an interesting story ahead of the opening match of this year’s World Cup between the same teams. I had suggested it to Sky, where he works as a rugby pundit, and they had suggested it to him and, for reasons I wasn’t privy to but can only assume were contractual, he’d agreed.
On the screen, the game was still a couple of minutes away from kick-off. Dignitaries he couldn’t remember the names of were shaking the hands of his All Blacks teammates. He recited their nicknames with something like reverence: Tails, Kirky, Buck, Foxy, Drakey, Greeno.
Greeno! Craig Green. He used a special tone for Greeno. It was the sort of tone a man might use when yelling “Maaaaate!” across a table at the pub after a few Steinies. The pair had flatted together in Italy in 1989, two years after the game we were watching, by which time Kirwan was seriously ill with regular anxiety attacks. When he went to Green, in tears and looking for help, Green famously told him to “harden up”, thus passing into legend as this country’s leading example of how not to deal with a friend’s mental health crisis.
They’re still mates. Kirwan was planning to meet him for a beer in Italy just a few days after being forced to watch the 1987 World Cup final with me.
On screen, Kirwan’s smooth and beautiful 22-year-old face and thick hair appeared in extreme close-up. He had been the tournament’s biggest star and was described by Keith Quinn in the commentary as, “The big man.” I asked if he remembered his feelings in those moments, just before kickoff in the biggest game of his life. He said he was a bit worried about his leg, which he’d injured the week before, but otherwise had been pretty relaxed.
The game kicked off and we beat around the bush for a bit, talking about the speed of the scrums and the shambles of the lineouts and the way the country’s interest in the World Cup had grown throughout the 1987 tournament, but, in the 12th minute, things finally began to get interesting. That was when he had his first touch of the ball, taking a pass from Joe Stanley, arcing powerfully around the edge of the French defence, taking play deep into the 22 with a 20m run that brought the crowd to fever pitch before his opposing wing, Patrice Lagisquet, finally ran him into touch.
Even 36 years later, it was thrilling to watch him with the ball. That iconic running style, so balanced and powerful, so graceful, so obviously capable of anything.
“Great run!” I said excitedly, and was surprised to hear he begged to differ.
“I’m always pretty self-critical,” he said, “but I probably should have gone back on his inside.”
Fairly quickly, this became a pattern. He would do something on screen, then judge it harshly from the couch: With his second touch, he ran hard at two defenders on the blindside, got his arms in front of the tackle and tried to pass to David Kirk outside him. It was a strong run but he was hit as he made the pass and the ball went to ground.
“That was a s*** pass from me,” he said. “Sorry Kirky.”
His teammates, by contrast, could do no wrong. Greeno’s first touch came just a couple of minutes later: He ran hard at two defenders in midfield, got his arms in front of the tackle and tried to pass to John Gallagher outside him. It was a strong run but he was hit as he made the pass and the ball went to ground.
“Great angle, Greeno!” Kirwan effused. “It’s a great angle! That was such Greeno’s strength. That is such a good angle.”
Presumably unaware of the double standard he was imposing on himself, he then doubled down, criticising himself for the play he hadn’t even been part of. “Where was I?” he said. “I should have been outside.”
From the next sequence of play, Lagisquet fumbled on his own line and Kirwan could have scored the first try of the World Cup (“I thought, I’m in here!”), but missed with his attempted toe-through and, instead, Michael Jones picked it up on the run, spun out of a French tackle and scored.
Surprisingly, he didn’t criticise himself for the miss, but predictably he was full of praise for Jones. The two had a special relationship: “I didn’t have to look for Michael,” he said. “I just knew he was there. This was, I think, a reference to their understanding on the field, but may also have referred to their friendship off it. If Greeno is the archetypal villain in the Kirwan mental health narrative, Jones (”Ice”) is the hero. Kirwan has said many times that when he was at his lowest, while on tour in Argentina and having suicidal thoughts, Jones’ comment, “You’ve got a good heart J.K.” literally saved his life. Kirwan would later name one of his children after Jones.
That try of Jones’, the first try of the first Rugby World Cup final, one of the most important tries in rugby history, was especially notable for the celebration that didn’t follow it: No punching the air, no dabs, no griddies, no flossing, no outpouring of joy, not even a facial expression.
“No emotion,” Kirwan said. “Just run back. Classic eh?”
I asked if he used to celebrate his own tries with more emotion than that.
“Nah,” he said, “we weren’t allowed to back then.”
He stopped a promising French attack by picking up legendary French fullback Serge Blanco, then one of the biggest backs in world rugby, and dumping him on his back.
“Oof! Look at that!” I said.
“More like a hug than a tackle,” he said, then segued effortlessly into a comprehensive accounting of Blanco’s qualities as both player and person.
He smashed Lagisquet into touch in another great tackle, but when I asked him about it he again diverted the conversation to his opponent: “He’s a good man, Patrick,” he said. “I went and saw him in Biarritz a little when I was coaching. He sold insurance.”
From a French dropout, he identified himself as being out of position, and from a kick shortly afterwards he did the same: “Where the hell am I?” he said. “I’m supposed to be there.”
He made a threatening run into the French 22 but then, under pressure, threw a forward pass.
“S*** pass J.K.!” he said. “Man, you’re having a shocker so far.”
It was nearly half-time and I asked what he’d give his performance out of 10.
“Four” he said, “lucky four.”
He watched the replay of his forward pass: “That is s***!” he said again.
“Were you torn about who to pass to?” I asked.
“Nah,” he said, “That’s just a s*** pass.”
Meanwhile, Greeno picked up a loose ball and made a short run before turning the ball back into the forwards. “Go Greeno!” Kirwan said. “He’s having a great game. He’s a great player, Greeno.”
Greeno made a clearing kick. “Greeno!” he said again. “Look at that, son! Left foot too! He’s having a great game, Greeno. He always did. Like consistently good.”
“Underrated?” I said.
“Totally underrated. But we all rated him. I guess when your peers rate you that’s sort of all that matters.”
Watching himself in another one-on-one with Lagisquet, Kirwan came as close as he got all day to self-praise, noting briefly that he’d learned from his earlier attempt to beat his man on the outside. “See,” he said, “I changed my angle there, thank goodness.” After a brief pause, he added: “That was a Greeno angle.”
Finally, midway through the second half, the moment was upon us: Kirk ducked under the French defence and ran 30m up the right wing before he was tackled, then Buck Shelford picked up and passed to his right, and the crowd rose for Kirwan.
He was 35m from the try line and he’d had to slow down to take the pass, and as a result French halfback Berbizier caught him from behind, but Kirwan pushed off him with a perfect fend, accelerated rapidly, out-ran the cover defence and scored in the tackle of Philippe Sella, bursting the corner flag like a firework.
It’s the moment the World Cup was won, a fantastic try, one of the best of the tournament, and an iconic moment in New Zealand sport. From the couch, Kirwan described it thus: “Haven’t done much all day. Just as well, eh?”
On screen, he took his aspirational physique back to his goal line in preparation for the French kick-off. Keith Quinn was yelling: “He’s gone right back to that corner and they’re giving him the big standing O down there!” The camera cut to the standing O. “Look at that for John Kirwan!” Quinn went on. “Amazing scenes!”
On screen, Kirwan’s face betrayed no emotion. Taking in the amazing scenes from the couch, he said, quietly: “My people”.
With the result beyond doubt, all the tension was gone. Kirwan watched himself pass to Fitzpatrick outside him and jokingly complained about how many tries Fitzpatrick used to score on his wing: “I used to give him breakfast and lunch AND dinner,” he said.
“I got dropped from the All Blacks and they said I wasn’t scoring tries. I said, ‘Well, get the bloody hooker back into his position instead of him sitting outside me seagulling all bloody day, scoring all the tries.”
The final score was 29-9. He remembered his feeling at the final whistle as euphoric. “Just so happy,” he said. “A dream come true, really.”
Less than two minutes later, he and the rest of the All Blacks were ascending the stairs of Eden Park’s south stand to receive the Webb Ellis Cup. He said: “I can’t even remember doing this.” At the presentation of the winners’ medals, he said “S***, I wouldn’t even know where that gold medal was.” He couldn’t remember whether or not he’d hoisted the trophy.
I asked if watching that 1987 final now, in the wake of his mental illness diagnosis and recovery, and everything that came after, made it feel different.
“Yeah, I think so,” he said. “I think I said to someone the other day, I probably played half of my All Black career at 60 per cent of my mental capacity.”
He told me he’d suffered several panic attacks during the 1987 tournament, although he was still years away from knowing what they were.
“I’d think ‘F***, that was weird’ and just carry on,” he says. “But every time it happened, it’d leave a little scar, and that scar was fear. So as the years went on, I was living more and more in fear of them coming back.”
After the broadcast had cut to black, I asked if his tendency to engage in seemingly relentless self-criticism was the reason he’d never watched the game before.
“It’s in the past,” he replied. “I think one of the things that my mental health journey has taught me is that yesterday is gone.”
As we walked out of the studio, I thanked him for watching the game with me. He replied: “It’s the only time I’ve ever watched it and I won’t be watching it again. I played like f***in’ s***, so thanks!”
He was laughing as he said it, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was joking.
This story was originally published on September 4, 2023
