A rugby player can impress with a dashing run, a pinpoint pass, or a raking kick into the corner. But in my time watching rugby, there was always one feat a man could perform that took the breath away more than any other: successfully tackling Jonah Lomu.
The degree of difficulty involved made it a spectacular act every time.
Lomu was a monster, a mythical beast emerging from the mists of legend to terrorise the helpless villagers of the rugby world, viz: everyone not in a black jersey.
For New Zealanders he must have seemed like a blessing from the Lord, their ultimate reward for their faith and good behaviour. For opponents he was a nightmare, an unearthly being of such stunning size, terrible power and blistering speed that it seemed unfair that he should exist.
But the things he did on the field were so brutally beautiful that even those who winced while he was doing them could rhapsodise over him once the game was over.
Before Jonah swept onto the world stage at the age of 19 and started detonating defences, a player like him would’ve been considered impossible. He was the answer to the eternal question: what do you get if you combine the DNA of David Campese and a semi-trailer?
The amazing thing, when you look at the highlights of Lomu’s career, is how many defenders he didn’t actually trample. Most of the time he just left them grasping at air, weaving in and out, stepping and swerving and shimmying, like a rhinoceros in a ballet.
That’s how he was planning to do it, in the 1995 World Cup semi-final, when he blasted through the English line and prepared to dodge artfully around fullback Mike Catt. But he was ankle-tapped as he approached, and stumbled: the second’s delay left him with no space to sidestep. Seizing the advantage, Catt crouched, ready to cut the legs from the behemoth.
He never knew what hit him. Lomu barrelled straight into, through, and over the poor guy. It was like a deleted scene where Indiana Jones turns around and tries to stop the boulder.
Now, there have been players who can stampede over smaller opponents. There have been players who can jink through traffic. There have been players who can explode through gaps with stunning acceleration. To see a player who could do all three made you throw your hands up in exasperation.
The fax sent by a fan to the All Blacks during that ’95 World Cup summed it up: “Remember rugby is a team game. All 14 of you pass it Jonah.” Lomu’s only weakness seemed to be that there was only one of him.
Of course, sadly, that wasn’t the case – the body that appeared to be the pinnacle of physical excellence had hidden vulnerabilities that cut short first his career, and now, devastatingly, unfathomably, his life. The frailty of existence strikes us like a hammer blow when someone who once embodied invincibility is snatched away.
But how thankful we are that he lived. Anyone who loves rugby knows how lucky they are that they got to see Lomu, even if much of the time he was tearing your own team to shreds. To see him flying downfield, kicking easily away from despairing dives, stretching out one huge hand to rebuff vain attempts to grab hold of him, still bullocking towards the line even with two, three, four tacklers hanging on for dear life.
Has anyone made rugby more exhilarating? Has anyone so exquisitely captured the most glorious parts of the game, while simultaneously evoking a poignant sense of pity for any poor sap forced to live on the same field as him? Has anyone ever more deserved in every way the tag ‘a giant of the sport’?
Ten years after Lomu bulldozed Mike Catt, my wife and I had a son. We named him Jonah, a noble name written indelibly in our minds by the most indelible of sportsmen. Ten years after that, here we are saying goodbye to him.
We have lost the giant, far sooner than is fair or reasonable. But it will be impossible to forget him. Today, go look at some videos of his rampages over the years, and celebrate the astounding Jonah, one of the most extraordinary men ever to tuck a ball under one arm.
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