Anywhere there is a ball, a screwed up piece of paper, a field, a suitable space, or a discernible goal-line in New Zealand, you inevitably start playing rugby.
You commentate out loud, or in your head, pretending to emulate your heroes.
In the 1990s there was only one guy I wanted to be, Jonah Lomu. The ball would head in my direction and I would bellow Keith Quinn style, “It’s out to Lomu land”. The effort was always genuine, the impact less obvious.
When Robin Williams – another great perished too soon – first met Jonah he said:
“I never knew how huge he was. I felt like a peasant in a Godzilla movie. Quickly! Tell the other villagers! We go now! I realised I could fall out of Jonah’s nose, and he wouldn’t even know.”
Jonah was the biggest thing in rugby, utterly bewildering at his best. He dropped jaws to the floors. If somebody was playing for your life it would surely be Lomu – rugby’s Godzilla.
Jonah always seemed like a mythical figure to me, too big to be true, that was until I met him in 2012.
In my role as a secondary school rugby reporter for Sky Television I was befriended by the effervescent Rob Gabb. Gabb is a dyed-in-the-wool supporter of Wesley College, Jonah’s old school. Gabb and Jonah were tight, and Gabb was present when Jonah signed his first contract for Counties.
While staying with Gabb one night he casually announces at about 11pm, “We’re going to get KFC for Jonah.”
“What?” I reply. I can hardly contain my excitement. I am a nervous wreck.
We arrive at Jonah’s house and I feel like Robin Williams, gazing in awe at a tall tower. Jonah shakes my hand firmly and I check to see if my arm is still attached.
Jonah is a gracious host. I never had much of an appetite for fried chicken, but I get through eight pieces, a tally Jonah at least doubles.
I find him to be a gripping raconteur. I ask Jonah, “Mike Catt has one thing you don’t have. Would you trade it all in for the William Webb Ellis trophy?” Jonah laughs and replies, “No, I wouldn’t be a millionaire.”
He recalls the time he and Trevor Leota were outnumbered five on two by skinheads on a Melbourne tram. There was only one winner in that fight.
“Why did Lawrence Dallaglio clobber you after scoring against England in 1999?” I ask.
“I mimicked a syringe being inserted into an arm. Lawrence had been done for drug taking. He got smart earlier so I gave him one back,” Jonah replies.
We’re watching the French Open final on TV and I noticed Ilie Nastase in the crowd. Jonah interrupts, “I have met Ilie Nastase. We played a doubles exhibition for Adidas together. We played these two cute Japanese girls and Ilie served an ace. He said to them, ‘I can’t wait to ace you later as well’.”
Lomu’s biggest passion was perhaps boxing. He had Marvin Hagler’s cell phone number. Muhammad Ali was great, but Sugar Ray Robinson was the best. Lomu recites the story of Robinson killing a man in the ring and later paying for the victim’s mother’s house. Did you know Julio Cesar Chavez won 87 fights in a row? Lomu’s knowledge of boxing was encyclopaedic.
I leave at 3am with the obligatory selfie and a box of ESPN DVDs. I hope this is not the last time we meet.
Remarkably Jonah keeps in touch via email and Facebook. I see him on a few trips to Auckland. He shouts lunch and breakfast. He signed copies of his book addressed to special young friends, one who is being bullied at school and the other desperate to crack a top First XV. The boost to those boys’ confidence is immeasurable.
One day he is a surprise guest speaker at the Auckland Grammar School assembly, a pompous affair akin to a Latin mass. When Jonah appears the place erupts. Afterwards the earnest headmaster apologises profusely for the racket, Jonah laughs.
On the subject of hysteria I was irate in 2013 when Sky TV refused to pay for my attendance at the National Top Four final in Hamilton.
An airfare from Wellington with only a few days notice costs hundreds of dollars. I spend the whole season covering these games and I could miss being present at the biggest match of all. Does my work not mean anything? I ring Rod to vent. Jonah overhears the conversation and he sorts it for me.
Jonah’s strides were huge, but the way you treat small people really counts. Vince Lombardi once said, “It’s inches that make champions”.
RIP, Jonah!
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He was born 1905, 1904 or 1908 according to various reports, in Wairoa, Hawkes Bay, and is remembered as one of the great Māori players.
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