The golden couple: Richie McCaw and girlfriend Gemma Flynn. Photo / DEAN PURCELL
The golden couple: Richie McCaw and girlfriend Gemma Flynn. Photo / DEAN PURCELL
Regardless of this morning’s result, Richie McCaw will go down in history as one of the all time greats. Dylan Cleaver reports.
In December, 2011, in a nondescript room in Auckland's Heritage Hotel, Richie McCaw was informed he was about to be named New Zealander of the Year.
He reacted much like you'd expect, with a sideways grin and that aw-shucks-what-have-I-done-to-deserve-that look.
Truth is, as I wrote at the time, he'd done nothing, really, other than be the embodiment of the perfect All Black captain: humble, resilient, victorious and brave, and then some.
In time, McCaw's foot might achieve the same exalted status of C.E. Meads' broken arm in South Africa. It should. There are ways and means of shielding an arm from attention, but there's only one way to shield a broken foot. McCaw didn't do a lot of hopping when he played the 2011 Rugby World Cup.
The greatest achievement in McCaw's otherworldly career might have been to make playing an entire tournament effectively on one leg seem so routine. It's only when you look back on it now, four years on and another World Cup campaign later, when the magnitude of it is so apparent.
It wasn't until Graham Henry took McCaw fishing at the end of the World Cup that he became aware of how bad the injury was.
While relaxing on the tranquil waters of the Hauraki Gulf, the future Sir Graham glanced down and saw McCaw's grotesquely distended right foot. "Gee Richie, your foot's a bit swollen," he said.
"Yeah, Ted, it is," McCaw deadpanned.
There's been no such medical intrigue this time, despite McCaw missing a pool match with something so trivial as a bruised thigh.
His casual rapport with his fans made him revered and loved. Photo . Getty Images
The only point of suspense, other than whether he lifts the Webb Ellis Cup this morning or has to settle for a silver medal, is when he will officially announce his retirement.
As the most fearless player of his generation recently admitted, there's nothing quite so daunting.
"Part of [retiring] scares you a little bit. I've done the same thing for so many years. To all of a sudden be having to figure out something else to do is a bit daunting but it was always going to come to an end at some point."
There's something about the everyman appeal of Richard Hugh McCaw that is difficult to articulate without sounding fawning. But there's a little bit of Richie that most men wished we saw in ourselves.
He was the chubby-cheeked kid who made it from a farm in the Hakataramea Valley to the All Black No 7 jersey, perhaps the most coveted number of them all, but wasn't satisfied with that.
He was the kid whose uncle made him write down his goal of becoming a G.A.B. (Great All Black) and focused on that goal until it became an inevitability.
He's the guy who is good-looking enough to pose in a pair of undies but who has the good sense to look a little embarrassed.
He's the captain who thanks the right people, keeps his and others' feet on the ground and offers platitudes like pearls of wisdom.
At a time when the demands of professional sport mean the gap between the athletes and the fans has never been wider, McCaw has retained a sense of normality.
There are people lining up around Twickenham who either want to rip his head off or bestow on him the title of the greatest player of all time, yet he treats both as imposters.
All those miles on the clock have not dampened his enthusiasm for winning. All those "cheat" barbs from his critics have not once steered him away from entering the breakdown at an angle that challenges the referees' understanding of geometry.
He has been deliberately smashed by forearms and knees, and accidentally by boots and heads, yet he has always dragged himself off the turf to make another tackle, or to cart the ball up once more.
He's the guy we fool ourselves into thinking we could have been like if we had applied ourselves more when we were younger, yet know deep down that his capacity for work and disdain for pain is unmatched.
If he was named New Zealander of the Year again this year, you can guarantee his reaction will be the same as last time - a half-smile, a shrug of the shoulders, a wonder at what all the fuss is about.
Not that he won't miss the game. "There's no doubt when you start having to watch a few games, I'll miss it like hell," he told the Herald.
