By the time I was 15, I had put two rugby players in hospital. I broke the arm of one and knocked the other unconscious. Both were legitimate tackles, I was just better developed: bigger, stronger and more aggressive than my opponents.
I got my comeuppance in New Zealand when, as a 19-year-old, I launched myself at a Polynesian second row in an Under-21 match. I have a photo on my wall of the aftermath of my attempted tackle. My face is a tapestry of pain: a broken nose, a broken cheekbone, one eye black and the other glazed with concussion.
I came off lightly by comparison to Max Brito. He was an enthusiastic but inexperienced winger for the Ivory Coast in the 1995 World Cup; three minutes into their game against Tongan a ferocious tackle left Brito paralysed below the neck. I visited Max three years later, one of the saddest encounters I’ve experienced.
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