Affable All-Blacks a wee bit special - to my eyes anyway
See the All-Blacks in training? You don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, so off I go, Stade Jean Bouin plugged into the sat nav, reached in record time.
9.30 came, and 9.30 went; eventually, however, they arrived, ambled across the tartan track surrounding the pristine pitch, wearing an assortment of tops – some in sleeveless white, some wearing the new body-hugging adidas vests, some in All-Black t-shirt; there was also an assortment of fashion accessories — sunglasses, flip-flops, sandals, sneakers. They spend a few minutes joking and jostling, and really, at this stage, you could be looking at any group of young bucks away on a holiday.
Slowly, it starts. They’re called into a circle by strength and conditioning coach Graham Lowe, split into four groups, and the ground rules are spelt out. A series of drills, and just to make it more interesting, “There will be a competition in each exercise,” says Graham, “And we will have winners, second, third and fourth.”
The first set in that series is all ball-handling, everyone fairly static on their feet but very much on their toes, concentration the essence as they go through a few eye-catching routines; collective juggling it looks like at times as balls are spun left, right, right, left, from one set of hands to the next, dazzling coordination.
Over the last week of access I’ve learned that this is one ultra-competitive group; no-one wanted to finish last, effort was maintained, increased even, so that in every routine, those finishing third greeted their own achievement with a rousing cheer.
Soon, we move on from the ball-handling, from the fun, and the serious business is starting.
“Front rows, second rows, warm up your backs and shoulders!” and the big boys take off on their own, indulge themselves in a series of baffling individual and collective manoeuvres, some of which involve a running tumble and roll on the pitch, back onto their feet in double-quick time.
Then there’s the lifting routine, every player using a team-mate as his loaded barbell. Dan Carter is the number-one ranked number 10ten in rugby — here he’s just a load, hoisted across the shoulders and used as a dead-weight for squatting warm-up.
Gradually, the drills are becoming more physical; still in their four groups, we have what looks like a leg-burning lung-bursting sprinting/weight-carrying exercise.
A partner across his shoulders, fireman’s lift, one guy sprints from end-line to 22m, where they switch positions, sprint back; then another two, ‘til everyone in the group has had his turn. Then it changes, again out to the 22 and back, this time ‘bride across the threshold’ type lift, carrying your partner in front, again the switch on the 22.
It looked like the players were enjoying it all, but also it looked like it would kill most of us ordinary mortals.
And then, just as it was getting really interesting, into the meat of the training, we were ordered out.
Ah well, we’d had a glimpse.
Back to their team hotel, where the team was due to be announced at around 1pm, followed by individual player interviews.
No commotion, no security heavies paving their way, the All-Blacks came sauntering through, down to the outside pool, and one after another, a series of dives that won’t threaten anyone in Beijing next year, into the cool of the water. Has to be said, most of the ladies on the terrace, venerable many of them but still venal, shifted their chairs that bit closer to the pool.
Cosseted, closeted? Not even a hint. They’re the number-one-ranked rugby team in the world, favourites for this World Cup, taciturn enough in interview, most of those I’ve spoken to anyway, but these guys don’t appear to be expecting any special kind of treatment. In a world that has become obsessed with stardom, that already makes these All-Blacks that bit special, in these eyes anyway.
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