Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Foreword
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Picture Section
Acknowledgements
Picture Acknowledgements
Index
About the Authors
Copyright
TRANSWORLD IRELAND PUBLISHERS
28 Lower Leeson Street, Dublin 2, Ireland
www.transworldireland.ie
Transworld Ireland is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com
First published in the UK and Ireland in 2015 by Transworld Ireland
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Stephen Ferris 2015
Stephen Ferris has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologize for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781473525856
ISBN 9781848272163
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
All images have been supplied courtesy of the author unless otherwise stated.
(Ulster); (Ireland); (injury, celebration) all © John Dickson.
(Grand Slam) © Brendan Moran/SPORTSFILE.
(Queen) © SPORTSFILE/Niall Carson/PA POOL.
(Attoub) © Oliver McVeigh/SPORTSFILE.
(Lions) © INPHO/Dan Sheridan.
(All Blacks, Australia); (tackle); (semi-final, final); (touchline, tackle); (legend, farewell) all © John Dickson.
(O’Driscoll, back row); (sin-binned); (Best/McLaughlin) all © Brendan Moran/SPORTSFILE.
(Genia) © INPHO/Dan Sheridan.
(Humphreys) © Oliver McVeigh/SPORTSFILE.
(golf) © Ramsey Cardy/SPORTSFILE.
Growing up in Northern Ireland, Ulster Rugby was a big thing. I followed the team from around the age of eight, but the first game that really stands out was the 1999 Heineken Cup final. I was nine and counting down the days to my tenth birthday. It mattered little to me that it was four months away. That game was a big deal. My dad took me to Holywood Golf Club to watch it. I was out practising with mates but was constantly in and out of the clubhouse bar to check the score. The bar was packed and I remember the place erupting when the final whistle blew. Ulster had become the first ever Irish team to win a European Cup title.
Rugby became an even greater part of my life when I went to Sullivan Upper School in Holywood. A big rugby school, it was there that I became good friends with Darren Cave. I only started going along to Ulster games when Darren made his breakthrough to the senior squad. By that stage, 2007, I had turned professional.
Rugby was, and is, another sporting outlet outside of golf. Being on the road so much, I like to have that connection with home. Ulster Rugby allows me to do that. Wherever I am in the world, I will turn on my laptop and catch up on a game. If I have an early round, on Fridays, I will get back to my hotel room and try to watch a game.
Stephen Ferris had already made quite a name for himself by the time I got to see him live. It was 24 April 2009 and the season was coming to a close. I was enthralled to see how a guy so big and powerful could be so fast and cause so much trouble. He was such a danger. It was taking two and three Cardiff guys to drag him down. I got to meet him after the game and his persona was entirely different from this wrecking-ball character on the pitch. He was a friendly, gentle giant who would go out of his way for you.
Around that time, I was privileged enough to spend a bit of time with the Ulster lads – Stephen, Darren, Paddy Wallace, Niall O’Connor. A few of them were keen golfers but mostly it was a couple of great lads’ nights out. Great fun. I got a lot out of it. Being a golfer is a very solitary pursuit. It is completely different from being in a team. They made me feel part of their group; their team. I followed Stephen’s career closely after that, as it reached peak after peak.
When Stephen was on form, he was the best number 6 in the world. Only Jerome Kaino, the All Blacks blindside, could challenge him. Back in his heyday, with Ireland, he teamed up with Sean O’Brien as openside and Jamie Heaslip at Number 8. Even to this day, that is one of the best back rows in world rugby.
Many of his stand-out matches were in an Irish jersey. He was immense; so many game-changing contributions. Picking up Will Genia and charging him back down the pitch, during Ireland’s 2011 World Cup win over Australia, was one of his career-defining moments. However, as any Irish fan will tell you, that was the norm for Stephen. He was a dominant figure in Six Nations matches and against the world’s best – New Zealand and South Africa. It was a great time for Irish rugby. He was part of that Grand Slam team, in 2009, that proved to be a real catalyst of the success that was to come. Ireland has evolved into the top northern hemisphere team and one of the best in the world.
I always felt it was inevitable that someone so physical would end his career earlier than others. It is more likely that players like him – who make the big plays, land the huge hits – will suffer a physical toll. I would liken Stephen to a finely tuned Ferrari or a racehorse. They are likely to break down more but it is only because they perform so close to the edge and are pushing limits all the time.
I have caught him on TV a couple of times in the past year and feel he has the makings of a good pundit. He is very natural and tells the game as he sees it. He will be successful at whatever he puts his mind to. We have played a bit of golf together recently. Rugby players, I find, are so anterior – built-up, tight around the chest and shoulders – that it is hard for them to make a full shoulder swing. Stephen is no different, but what I will say is this: he has a very good five iron off the tee.
Looking back, there are so many fantastic moments from his rugby career – big plays and hits that I will never forget. But there is one overriding feeling that sums up the type of player he was. Whenever you saw him run out on to that pitch, whether it was in a white or green jersey, you were immediately filled with a greater confidence that the team would do well. Stephen Ferris is in the number 6 jersey – we’re going to give it a real go.
‘CHOPPER!’
Seventeen months away from the game but I know the call. We are going to put up a high bomb. Johann calls a five-man line-out, Rob finds his jumper and we feed back.
Ruan lets rip and spirals one into the night sky.
My eyes light up, legs already pumping. Scarlets’ Kristian Phillips is under it but he must catch a glimpse of me coming, full tilt. Shoulder lowered; almost on him.
Almost on him. He braces for impact.
Bang!
I hit the guy hard and keep leg-driving, leg-driving, leg-driving. Before I know it, I have dragged him back 15 yards. The boys come flying in behind me. The roof is coming off Ravenhill. The roar is a wave. Right in my eardrum and all around.
Somehow we do not get the bloody turnover but the impact feels unreal. To feel my shoulder searing. For ten seconds, my ankle, my feet, mean nothing. They are forgotten. Play spills on but, for a brief moment, it is just myself and Phillips lying on the ground, side by side.
‘Welcome back, mate, that was a good hit.’
‘Cheers. Ya alright, mate?’
Four hundred and ninety-seven days have passed since I wrecked my ankle on that pitch, under the weight of two Edinburgh players. One year, four months and twelve days since I was carried off to the sideline with my head raised to the heavens: 2 November 2012 until 14 March 2014.
Ulster have played forty-three times, Ireland sixteen. I have been under the surgeon’s knife three times and spent countless hours, either by myself or with Jonny Davis (JD) by my side, in rehabilitation. Inching closer only to slide back.
The Lions tour to Australia came and went. When I missed the 2013 Six Nations, I knew I would not be travelling. At that stage, it was far from my thoughts. I was struggling to get a contract extension. I had few chips left to bargain with, save my reputation, work ethic and vows from coaches and doctors that I could return as the same player.
Initially, Ulster Rugby projected my comeback at six weeks. The time frame doubled, then tripled. Six weeks became six months. Eventually, I was excluded from the squad updates. No point in depressing everyone.
That changed yesterday – Thursday, 13 March – when my name appeared in the match-day squad to face Scarlets. Still, most people will only believe I am back when they witness it for themselves.
On match-day, many of the Belfast-based players would be out in town for a bite to eat or a coffee. The very odd time, if I fancy a wee trip into Belfast or I am up early and need to get out of the house, I would do likewise. Mostly, I try to sleep as much as possible. I usually get up around ten a.m., have breakfast, sleep again, get up, have a sandwich for lunch, and take the dog for a dander – to get the blood flowing in the legs. I have often been caught cold that way – running out on the pitch, getting a shock to the system. Legs have not woken up yet. I go for a walk before the game. That always helps me. It has become a distracting habit throughout my career.
Just about every player will have a pre-match ritual, one way or the other. Mine is to bring Bailey Frank Ferris for a walk. BFF. He is one of the few that understood my frustration during the last couple of years with this injury, because he was the one who sat beside me every frigging day, wagging his tail while I tried to get some positive thoughts in the head.
The last four weeks have finally brought progress and, with the help of JD and Kevin Geary, Ulster’s strength and conditioning coaches, I underwent a pre-season of sorts.
The latest in my long list of targets is our Heineken Cup quarter-final against Saracens. The lads have won all six of their pool matches to top their group and the European seedings. We have a rematch with the same Saracens team that knocked us out in 2013, only this time the game will take place at a sold-out Ravenhill. Win that and we have a semi-final at the Aviva Stadium in Dublin.
The match is three weeks away so my sights are set.
Mark Anscombe is my fifth head coach at Ulster. Everyone calls him Cowboy.
During my recovery, he always came to me on a Monday and asked, ‘How are you feeling? How’s that ankle feeling? You’ll be good to go this week?’
‘Hopefully, Mark. Hopefully.’
Then the medical staff would say, ‘Stevie’s not training today.’
Mark would then turn to me. ‘Are you not training today?’
‘Nah, I’m not, Mark. I don’t think so.’
Even though the medical staff had told him, he was hoping I would say yes, so he could get me out for a couple of sessions. That happened a lot. Of course that is what your head coach wants – their best players playing as much as they can. I missed too many training sessions. Mark has not seen half the stuff I am capable of doing.
I love training. I hate it when it’s pissing down and you have to go through defence sessions. ‘Why is somebody trying to teach me how to tackle when I’ve been tackling since I was eleven years of age? I know how to tackle.’ Otherwise, I cannot get enough.
Everybody has training drills or exercises they hate doing. Tackling or rucking drills, especially when the army net is out and you have to run at a crouch, do my head in. I enjoy the line-outs, mauls and scrums. There is always good banter between the lads and genuine friendship between the forwards; fighting for one another during every game. There is usually a bit of niggle in training though, a few cheap shots and big hits going in. Some of the younger lads try to get the upper hand on the older ones.
I have always been a chirper. I run around with a smile on my face and give a lot of talk when play comes my way. A younger guy sees me loping about and decides to stick a shoulder in on a tackle. It hurts but it is enjoyable. Great to be back out there. That is not to say I am just running around, grinning away. If someone gets out of hand with a cheap shot, I am liable to let rip.
‘Oi, dickhead. Do that again, I’ll rip your head off.’
‘Do what? Do what?’
‘I’ll rip your head off and stick it up your arse, see, if you do that again.’
‘OK, OK.’
The niggle, I have no issue with. Especially when you are attacking defences. You take the ball into contact and next thing, smack. You get a shoulder into your chest. ‘Ohh, what are you up to?’ It is the same the other way and I can dish it out too. If someone runs into me, hard, hit them back harder. A ‘hold on a minute’ hit.
I am such good friends with the lads – Chris Henry, Robbie Diack, Iain Henderson, Roger Wilson, Nick Williams. Nick is a bollocks for it. He tries to level you with a hit then breaks into a smile, jogging off. ‘Hee hee, hee hee. Don’t hit me back, don’t hit me back.’
Working closely with JD and Kev, I now weigh in at 109 kilos – five down from the guy that was injured back in 2012. The aim is to keep me as light on my feet as possible while maintaining that explosive power.
The speed drills are a rush. I am setting personal bests again; pushing beyond.
Three weeks before my comeback game, I set a club record for fastest speed.
Usain Bolt runs 13 metres per second. Even for a world-champion sprinter, that is just crazy. In terms of any professional rugby player, I do not think 10 metres per second has ever been done in an international game. It may have been done in training but I would not say any back-rower has done it.
Myself and JD are in training, doing some progressive build-ups into some sprints. Chris Hagan, Ulster’s sports scientist, is not there so we have the GPS units on ourselves. JD is a former Northern Ireland 60-metre sprint champion and he is not holding back. He takes the first couple but I turn it around. Once I get to my top speed and start to slow down, I am limping to get stopped. My ankle is screaming. I push on through. It is great to be competing again.
We think we have clocked some good times. Driving back round to Ravenhill, I say, ‘Here, mate, I felt good out there. I think I have some great times.’ He is not having it, mainly because I was beating him – just edging him – in the sprints. It is not much. Half a metre per second would probably work out as an inch or two in the distances we were running.
‘Mate, I feel like I was getting some speed up.’
‘Yeah,’ he replies, quietly. ‘I’d say 9.3, 9.2. Maybe not even 9.0 on the button.’
I go into the changing rooms and start icing my leg; trying to prevent any swelling.
JD takes the data chip out of my jersey and hands it to Chris.
I am in the shower when Chris bursts into the changing room, shouting, ‘Mate, ten metres per second!’
‘I knew it. I told JD.’
I dry off, quick as I can, and find JD. ‘What did you get?’
‘9.48.’
‘Ah, unlucky, mate. Unlucky.’
None of the lads have ever run that speed, not even Andrew Trimble or Tommy Bowe. So for me to run that, it fills me with confidence. I am going to get there. I have it in my head. Because it was 9.98, it gets rounded up to 10 metres per second. I want to go back and get it over, to 10.01, or better.
A couple of days later and Mark comes over for another chat. He has been talking with the medical staff and the consensus is to give it a rattle.
‘Stevie, let’s give it a go.’
Mark is really pleased I am able to get on the bench for him. He has seen me play two halves of rugby before, more or less, but does not know how good a player I, potentially, am for him. With the season nearing its climax, he needs all the able bodies he can get.
I am grateful to have been spared media interviews. The idea is to leave me be until I get back on the pitch. Hopefully, after a successful comeback, I can then chat away all day. For once it will feel good to talk about my injury and the long, long road to return because I will have reached the other side.
The drive to Ravenhill usually takes about half an hour. Car park space number 28 was always mine. I had parked there on the night I injured my ankle. I have owned cars of all shapes and engine sizes over the years, but 28 was always my space. It’s gone now, though. Ravenhill is nearing the end of a major redevelopment. I park in Aquinas Grammar School. I have had more time than most to observe the ongoing changes to the stadium but tonight, on match night, the difference sinks in. I walk in, then around, the changing rooms. The new rooms will open soon and are oval-shaped, like those used by Manchester United at Old Trafford. Brand-new ice baths.
I take a deep breath. I am excited about playing again.
Gareth Robinson (GG), our physio, arrives and sees to me. It takes five or six minutes to get my knee done – a precaution ever since injuring it in 2007. I already have my feet done. I run the padding along, covering just about every part of my feet, then strap it on. If you strap it on too tight, your feet cramp, very quickly. It is a nightmare. I always strap my feet to get rid of any nerve pain I might have.
It is time to really test this ankle, under duress, in a match setting, and see how it holds out. Or not. It might not all fall into place tonight but twenty, thirty minutes should give us an idea.
Both feet padded up, my right ankle lightly strapped, my left knee strapped unbelievably tight, my left ankle well strapped, my left thumb strapped. I look at myself in the mirror. I am like Paddy Johns from the old days. He used to go out strapped from head to toe. I still need my line-out strapping.
‘Flipping hell, I’m just strapped together here.’
The nerves arrive as the game draws near.
I have played in front of 82,000 people at Croke Park and would not have felt a flicker. The new stand at Ravenhill is not fully complete so they are expecting 14,000 in. My legs are twitching, non-stop.
Cowboy approaches. ‘Stevie, just go out and do what you do.’
‘No worries, Mark.’
I am an experienced enough player not to go out and do something silly or get myself a yellow card or something like that. All I want to do is get my way into the match, make whatever impact I can and get a bit of game time under my belt.
Ten minutes into the second half and Mark tells me to warm up. The ankle is playing on my mind as I am running on my toes. I do not want to close the front of the ankle joint up by keeping my foot flat as that causes it to bite, snapping at the tendon. I start hitting the few bags Kev is holding when the nerves wash back. My feet are killing me. I have been out of the game for so long.
‘What’s going to happen here?’
I have to have a word with myself. ‘Right, just get on the pitch, do what you normally do and see what happens.’
We are winning the game pretty comfortably, 21–10, so there is not much pressure on. Kev pats me on the back. ‘Right, big man, you’re up. Best of luck.’
‘Right, OK.’
I jog back up to the touchline and the crowd starts chanting my name. People often ask, ‘Can you hear the crowd singing? Can you hear what they say?’ Tonight, I can. Every word. It embarrasses me, slightly.
‘One F in Ferris, there’s only one F in Ferris …’
‘Oh shit. Let me be the guy they remember.’
I take off my woolly hat as I wait for play to stop. The last thing I do before I go into a game is put on my head-gear. I scan the plays; try to get myself up to the speed of the game. I have another few words with myself. My feet are sore but I am feeling good.
A break in play. I pull my head-gear on, tighten the straps. A couple of slaps on the head. Here we go.
I walk on to the pitch, then break into a slow jog.
Big Nick is coming off. ‘Best of luck, chief. Welcome back.’
‘Thanks.’
The ‘Chopper’ play, moments after I come on, involves Johann Muller’s call, Rob Herring’s throw, Johann’s catch and Ruan Pienaar’s garryowen. The three lads do their job perfectly just to set me up with a target. It is that teamwork and brotherhood – working for one another – that I have missed most.
The reception I receive at the final whistle is astounding. Our fans stay on to applaud us off, many still chanting my name.
I take longer than I usually would to leave the pitch. Hands criss-crossed on my head, I draw some deep breaths and take in the sights and sounds. The Scarlets players form a guard of honour and my number 20 jersey is almost slapped off my back. I walk up the tunnel but am encouraged back out. An encore.
Back in the dressing room, and Cowboy grabs hold of me.
‘Jeez, it is good to have you back, Stevie.’
It is strange because my ankle still feels like shite. Even when the final whistle blew, I felt I was limping off. People were probably watching, saying, ‘He’s not too bad.’
The pain is agonizing.
‘It’s killing me, it’s killing me.’
Having beaten Scarlets 26–13, our next fixture is away to Edinburgh, the same side I had injured myself against in 2012. I miss training on Monday, do a little bit Tuesday, catch a few line-outs on the Wednesday, and take part in the captain’s run – a light work-out and a team-talk huddle in the stadium – the following day. This time around, I am named to start. The Saracens game is a fortnight away and I feel ready to get involved from the off.
It is sopping wet; a night for the forwards. Before the half-hour mark, with the scores level at 3–3 and not going anywhere fast, I take a heavy blow. I try to hit their big second row, Grant Gilchrist, high but underestimate how strong he is. I rise to smash him, just as he ducks his shoulder down. The bony point of his shoulder catches me in the temple.
I hit the deck.
Somehow – I am no longer sure of anything – I get up and run back into the defensive line. I finish out the half, scrum, lift at line-outs, make some defensive hits, but not once do I touch the ball. I am running around in a daydream. I do not go looking for the ball; do not want it. When we get our hands on the ball and are passing it out, I am calling the other guys on. ‘Hit, Darren. Hit, Iain.’
I know something is not right.
We go in at the break 6–3 up. In the dressing room, Michael Webb, our medical director, comes over to see if everything is OK. Straight out, I tell him about the bang to the head. ‘I have been running around for a while and feel OK. I don’t feel sick or anything.’
Michael asks who we are playing.
‘Edinburgh.’
‘What is the score?’
‘Uh, 3 … 6–3.’
‘Who did we play last week?’
Nothing.
‘Do you know who we played, Stevie?’
I am trying to process the information but my mind is a jumble. I am thinking, ‘Pick a team, any team.’
It is no good. Michael is looking at me; a frown of concern.
I meet his eyes and start laughing. ‘Michael, I can’t remember.’
Seventeen months out of the game and all I was ever focused on was that first match. I lived for it. Dreamt about it. It was my obsession; my fuel. Now I am sitting here in Murrayfield, against Edinburgh, again, and I cannot remember one of the biggest games of my life. The lads head back out on to the pitch but I will not be going with them. For the first time in my professional rugby career, and after injuries to just about every part of my body, I am concussed.
And then it comes to me.
‘We played Scarlets last week.’
Every time I get off the phone with Declan Kidney, I feel no closer to a decision than when our conversation started. Our call on Sunday, 28 October 2012 is no different. Deccie has a marvellously frustrating way of empowering his players.
I have only featured in three of Ulster’s games so far this season. I came off the bench in a great away win over Ospreys, from whom we had just re-signed Tommy Bowe. I started the following week, at Ravenhill, as we showed our title aspirations by narrowly beating Munster, 20–19.
The high of that victory was cast aside twenty-four hours later. The club, community and entire country reeled at the tragic passing of the talented, selfless Nevin Spence. Our team-mate. Only twenty-two and destined for a super career with Ulster and Ireland, Nevin died in a horrendous farming accident while trying to rescue his father and brother from a slurry tank.
David Humphreys, Ulster’s director of rugby and a past legend on the playing field, admirably kept the lads together and ensured we had all the support we needed. It took weeks for Nevin’s loss to well and truly hit home.
He was a lad with a bubbly, infectious demeanour, and carry-on; we teetered on the brink as we wondered what the next step forward would be. Rory Best’s words, at a memorial service at Ravenhill, on a day that was sheet-metal grey, gave us the strength and courage to go on. Nevin was born and raised in Ulster. It was his ambition to play for Ulster and his dream to win trophies with Ulster. His passing had left us punctured but we vowed, as a squad and in moments of private reflection, to fulfil his dreams.
Somehow, the team kept a match commitment in Cardiff only thirteen days later. Playing with the initials N.S. stitched on to our kit, the guys beat Cardiff Blues 48–19. I missed that match due to a back spasm issue, but I returned for another home game as we comfortably saw Connacht off. The spasms flared up again and I missed our Heineken Cup successes over Castres and Glasgow, and a league tie with Newport Gwent Dragons.
We only have one more match – Edinburgh at home – before Ireland’s November internationals. A calf injury caused me to miss our three-Test tour to New Zealand in the summer and I am desperate to get back in the green jersey and make up for lost matches.
The Sunday after the Dragons game, I get a call from Deccie. He starts with a recap, to get us both up to speed.
‘Stevie, you have been out injured, with your back, in the last few weeks. The Argentina game is coming up. You don’t have to play as you are probably going to be in the twenty-three next week. It’s your call, whether you want to play or not.’
‘Look, Deccie, I haven’t played in five or six weeks. I need some game time.’
‘Well, it’s your call.’
Not for the first time, he leaves it up to me. For once I would love to hear him say ‘No, don’t play’ or ‘Yes, I need you to play.’ Either would be a relief. Other coaches I have dealt with in my career are black and white, but not Deccie. He often leaves big calls up to the players. ‘It’s your choice.’ This way of dealing with me, with other players, always grates. It should be his choice. He is the Ireland head coach. If he wants me to play, let me play. If not, just tell me.
This has happened a few times during my career with Ireland.
‘Do you really need to play this weekend?’ he would ask.
‘I feel like I do, Deccie.’
‘Right, that’s your call. I’m not sure if you really need to, but it’s up to you.’
I want to tell him to stop beating around the bush but hold my tongue. However, I stand my ground. I need the game time, I tell him, especially if I am going to be starting two of these three Tests. The Argentina game is crucial in terms of us securing straight passage to the 2015 World Cup.
Paul O’Connell would feel the exact same way if he had a Test window coming up and was short of minutes, of match fitness. He would want to play.
‘It’s up to you.’
‘Right so, Deccie. See you next week.’
I feel really good going into the Edinburgh game. My back has settled down. It is a slick, wet night but we are determined to spread the ball wide and make some plays.
Early on, I jump to catch a ball and, on landing, roll my ankle slightly.
‘Flipping hell, this is a bit sore.’
I stay down for treatment but thirty seconds later am back on my feet and feeling fine. I hit some rucks and make a few decent tackles. We are 24–17 up after a frantic first half and, just about, on our way to our seventh win in a row.
A few minutes into the second half and the ball comes my way. Jared Payne is on my outside and is calling for the ball. I should pass the thing but I opt for contact – see if I can bust the line.
Allan Jacobsen, their replacement loose-head, tackles me around the neck but the hit from the hooker, Andy Titterrell, does the damage. He hits me around my knees and my ankle gives in on me. He drives me one way and the ankle pops the other way.
Immediately I know I am in trouble and I let out this massive yelp. A couple of the boys are nearby.
‘Holy shit, what is going on here with Stevie?’
The referee stops the game immediately and, within ten seconds, I know something is badly wrong. I am carried off the pitch by Davy Irwin, our doctor, and GG.
First thing, David Humphreys is in to me. ‘Are you alright, are you alright?’
‘I’ve absolutely wrecked myself. I don’t know what I’ve done.’
Already my ankle is starting to swell; getting bigger and bigger. Before I know it, it is in a protective boot and I am leaving Ravenhill.
The situation looks no better, or the ankle less swollen, the morning after.
The IRFU send up a Game Ready set, which is basically an ice machine, because I am supposed to be going into Ireland camp on the Monday. They want me to try and get the ankle settled down. Ulster do not have a Game Ready – it is on the wish list – so the union pays out €200 or so to get it up to Belfast, from Dublin, in a taxi. It is a reminder of how much I am needed for the upcoming Tests but, preoccupied by my ballooning ankle, the gesture goes unnoticed.
Two days and nights with my leg in the ice machine but the swelling does not go down. It never goes down.
I head down to the Sports Surgery Clinic in Santry, Dublin, as we suspect it may be torn ankle ligaments and a scan may be required. The swelling around the ankle makes it tough for the medics to determine what is wrong. I stay in Ireland camp, out at Carton House, in Kildare, and, with more icing treatments and gentle physio, try to calm the ankle down. Nothing seems to be working.
About ten days later I get another scan and it shows that I have torn my deltoid ligament. It is a significant injury and the medics are talking about six weeks out. That is the autumn internationals out the window. And yet, as soon as I go back to rehab or put weight on the ankle, I get this popping sensation at the back of the joint. It is killing me. The swelling remains. I cannot take my dog for a walk 500 yards up the road without my ankle blowing up.
I am confined to the house. The only times I venture out, risking aggravating the ankle, are for physio sessions at Ulster or medical appointments. Weeks drag into months. Heineken Cup games come and go. I undergo an operation in Dublin but, after two weeks encased in a protective boot, it does nothing to ease the pain or swelling in my ankle. There are low moments, times when it feels like I am getting nowhere. Up against a brick wall, all the time. It is soul-destroying.
The darkest days arrive when Ireland are preparing for the 2013 Six Nations championship and all I am doing is going in, getting some physio, maybe doing some balance work in the morning. All the while, my ankle is throbbing. It is absolutely killing me.
This is not a ‘rugby player gets injured’ story, however. The support I get from family, friends, supporters, team-mates and Laura, my girlfriend, is insane. It makes me believe I am not fighting to get back just for myself. I have a purpose. Through my rugby, my contribution to the team, I mean something to people. The realization gives me great strength.
During this time, I finally have a chance to take stock and catch up on my career. By rights, and in so many ways, I should not be here. I am unbelievably lucky.
I leaf through the stacks of scrapbooks lovingly put together by my nan, Florence, and recall the quiet, awkward teenager that almost chose to stick with the £200-a-week job in the gelatine factory rather than pit himself against the best schoolboy rugby players Ulster had to offer.
My mum always says I was born with stars in my eyes. At my lowest ebb, I finally begin to understand what she means.
I never knew my older brother, Andrew, but he is still cherished by my family and he played such a huge role in my life.
In 1979, my mum, Linda, married my dad, Rab. She was nineteen and Dad was a year older. Mum was a nurse at the Royal Victoria Hospital in Belfast while Dad was employed in his family’s roofing business. Andrew was their first child and he was followed, a little over two years later, by my other brother, Dave. The four of them lived in Lisburn.
Andrew was killed in 1984, in a tragic accident. He was just four years old. Earlier that day, Andrew had picked flowers for Mum and they had taken a trip into town. When they arrived back, near home, Mum was pushing Dave in his buggy. Andrew was a little ahead of them and went on to the road. Mum ran after him but he was clipped by a passing car. He died within a few hours.
My parents were beyond devastated and they struggled to come to terms with his death. As part of the healing process, they decided to try for another baby. I was born on 2 August 1985, to the sheer delight of my parents. We became four again but Andrew was never ever forgotten.
When I arrived on the scene, my mother changed careers and became a classroom assistant. The pay was not as good but she worked fewer hours and was able to look after Dave and me. My dad began to work as a postman for Royal Mail.
As the years passed, I would often ask myself if I would even be here had it not been for Andrew’s tragic loss. What I knew for sure, however, was that both my parents were devoted to myself and Dave. We never wanted for anything and, even though they both worked long, hard hours, they always made time for us.
In years to come, my mum would often say to me, ‘You are a bloody good rugby player. You are blessed; you’re blessed. Somebody has always been looking down on you.’
‘Yeah? Then how come I’m bloody injured so much?’
We lived in Lisburn for another six months but my parents wanted to get out of there. It brought up too many painful memories. We moved to Maghaberry. My mum and dad lived at the bottom of the hill, close to the primary school, and life started afresh.
As for the flowers that Andrew picked that morning, my mum and dad still have them in a Bible in the house. They are not religious at all. And yet the Bible, with those flowers, is something that is very close to them.
Mum is walking ahead, chatting with a couple of her friends from the housing development. Our house sits near the bottom of a hill that, to a four-year-old, is the steepest drop he has ever seen.
It is right in the middle of summer so our development, Edenview, is full of children. Laughter and screaming everywhere. There is a good audience for my latest stunt but, with my brother not around, I only want to impress my mum.
My red bike is the greatest possession I have in the world. Dave and I have our little diggers that we use on the muck hills to the side of our house but, lately, I have been all about the red bike.
Once I mastered the pedals, and staying upright, the hill became my next challenge. I have been up and down it more times than I can count, yet each time I reach the bottom I think, ‘How can I do that faster?’ I have shot down without brakes, tucked low, leaning forward, after running starts and with my hands off the handlebars. Today, I have a new trick.
Mum turns to check on me and her face drops. There I am, smiling away at the top of the hill.
‘Stevie!’ she calls. ‘Stevie!’
Here I come.
After a couple of houses fly by, I start to really pick up speed. I can hear my mum’s cries increase as I prop both my legs over the handlebars.
‘Stevie!’
My arms shoot up in the air and, seconds later, I flash by Mum, her friends, the younger kids. A bend is coming up.
‘STEVIE!’
I somehow scramble back into the seat and grip the brakes. The back wheel sprays pebbles but I stop before clattering into a wall. I spin the bike and, careful to sweep wide past my mum, I cycle back up the hill.
She glares at me but I swear, as I pedal by, I can make out the hint of a smile.
Blessed, so you are.
As soon as I am able to walk, I am out the door, as quick as possible, playing in the muck, in the fields.
Mum comes out, shouting, ‘Where are you? Where are you?’
There I am, popping my head up from behind a mud pile, playing with a couple of friends next door.
Mum never lets me out of her sight. She always knows where I am but I am always outside. Always. Rain, hail or snow; always outside.
Some people say we live out in the sticks. Maghaberry is all I know so I cannot say any different. There are four housing developments and Finlay’s, a gelatine factory, in the middle of the town. There are a couple of shops, the Maghaberry Arms pub, and the prison is out the road.
The Troubles are words Dave and I hear about on the news but, mostly, it does not affect our lives. We live through them without ever really being fully aware of their true scale and wider impact.
Maghaberry is quite a Loyalist area. The majority of the people living here are Protestant. Years ago, it would have been where the prison officers lived because it was so close to the prison. Each year, on 12 July, the Union Jack and Ulster flags go up. There is always a bonfire, every year. Neither of my parents have much to do with religion and I have taken their lead. I am not a Loyalist or a Unionist but I love getting involved in scavenging for, and building, the bonfire. The older boys do most of the work but never refuse the offer of free help, or firewood.
My school, Maghaberry Primary, is up the hill and right across the road from our development. The school itself is small – it has about 150 pupils – but the grounds are massive. We go over there to play golf, tennis, American football. Whatever we want to do, we have the space to do it. Football is the main sport of choice. The school is heated by gas and there is this massive wooden box, to the side, that covers the boiler. Six metres wide, over two metres high. We use that as our goal.
There are potato fields right behind the school grounds and there are trees, at the far end, that are perfect for putting up swings. The field is protected by big gorse bushes but there are a couple of pockets and holes you can fit through. On the rare days we are bored with playing sports or cycling our bikes, we climb a tree, jump into the fields and have potato fights. If you get caught with a potato on the side of the head, it is bloody sore.
If one of the guys can get hold of matches from the shops, another has to run home to steal a pot. We start a wee fire, peel potatoes, put water in the pot and boil them. Here we are, aged eight, sitting in the middle of a field with a fire going, boiling potatoes.
‘How brilliant are we?’
‘This is unbelievable.’
My dad works night shifts and has done for as long as I have known him. He usually gets home from work around five a.m. As my school is close enough to home, I am allowed to walk over for lunch. When I get in, I wake Dad with two rounds of toast, marmalade and a cup of tea. We have a catch-up before I nip back over for a game of football with the lads. The games continue when school finishes up. Some days it is rounders or running. At certain times of the year, all on the school grounds, it is tennis or cricket.
June and July mean Wimbledon so the tennis rackets come out. We bring across two of Mum’s old PVC patio chairs and tie a net up. Once that is done, we go into the potato field, get a couple of pieces of flint and draw our lines out. This is tournament tennis, of course, so we take our time and pace out the steps to get all the right measurements.
Although he is three years older than me, myself and Dave have a fierce rivalry. He has a slight height advantage but with every passing week I am catching him. A couple of my closest, life-long friends, Stephen Williamson and Darren Gamble, are involved. My group of friends would be about ten boys and two or three girls that hang around. Many of them take part but the most brutal, bitter matches are often fought out between myself and Dave.
By the time Wimbledon usually wraps up, we are right into the Ashes and we hunt down any cricket balls and pads we can find. I steal a petrol lawnmower from Samantha Pearson’s parents’ shed and wheel it, fast as I can, up the road and get it across, into the school. We mow our own cricket strip and, while we are at it, a couple of putting greens. I get the lawnmower back and the shed key slipped into the kitchen without getting caught.
Stephen Williamson, who only lives around the corner from me, is mad into his cricket and has all the big pads, the shoulder-guards, helmets and a 200 lb bat. Trying to lift that bat is tough enough but we get the swing of it and think we are Brian Lara and Darren Gough.
If there is a World Cup on, the footballs are never far away. When the Olympics come round, we get out the stopwatch, run 100 metres and time each other. See how far we can launch potatoes like the Eastern European shot-put throwers.
Every day brings a different adventure. I have a big brother who plays with me, looks out for me, and a great group of friends. Our whole world is within a space that surely cannot measure a kilometre from one tip to the other. If Mum needs me for anything, all she need do is walk 100 metres up the hill and find me playing one sport or the next on the school grounds.
My dad works every hour going just to get food on the table. Although Mum is employed as a classroom assistant at Ballycarrickmaddy Primary School, she takes shifts as a cleaner there too, to get extra money in.
Some afternoons, if Mum is working late at the school, Dave and I head over. The school is like ours and has big grounds. We go in and lift the cones and beanbags. There is a small football pitch so we play there, play hide and seek or chase around the school itself and jump up on top of the prefabricated classrooms, which we call mobiles. Mum is buffing the floors and we are running about for a couple of hours.
My proudest footballing moment arrives at Maghaberry Primary as we beat Ballycarrickmaddy 9–0. I score four goals and set up another two. Mum is at the game but is not upset at all that I helped beat her school. I play up front for the school team but, because of my pace, I am occasionally stuck out wide. It is rare that I stay on my wing for long. I prefer scoring goals and taking the glory, so I drift in.
As the weather is often rubbish, our school enters indoor football competitions. We get to the final a couple of times but run into a school called Tonagh. The school is in Lisburn and tends to get the best footballing talent. We do well on the way to the final but Tonagh, both times, have our number.
On the days, or evenings, both my parents are about, they bring us over to the sports-day running track, out the back of the school. All four of us race around the track or run relays. Mum attended an athletics club when she was my age, growing up in Ballymena, and once won a district championship. She must smoke a packet of cigarettes a day and has done for as long as I have been around. My dad says longer.
That did not stop her from chasing me around the front room one day when she arrived back from work and spotted me smoking in there. I tried to flick the cigarette into the fireplace but missed. From that day on, I did my smoking out the back of the school.
Dad is tall, around 6 foot, and wiry. Still, Mum is the main threat. The big race is never the one around the track. It is the one back home, down the hill. On the track, Mum always wins. Sometimes, though, if I jump off to a good start, I am the first one home. When I reach the front door and turn around, beaming, I find my parents just as pleased.
After my eleven-plus at Maghaberry Primary School, my parents have to decide where I will go to secondary school. My mind is made up. Dave has been at Friends’ Grammar School, in Lisburn, for the past three years. It takes a little convincing but I get to follow my older brother. It is about six times the size of my old school, holding around a thousand pupils, and on my first day, I am in a daze. I am convinced I have counted ten thousand, at least.
My results in the first couple of years are great. The school has a broad range of sporting pursuits and I pitch myself into athletics, swimming and football. I have Manchester United on the brain and my sporting dreams centre around, one day, playing at Old Trafford.
The first person to throw me a rugby ball, at Friends’, is Barney McGonigle. He is the head of PE and, although he praises me for picking the sport up so quickly, shares my passion for a wide range of sports. He never pushes one sport or another on me but is quick to scold if he catches me skiving out in the corridors.
Elizabeth Dickson is the principal and she supports me when she sees how much I am getting out of sport. My studies are dipping a little but she is encouraged to see me taking an interest in sporting pursuits. A few of my teachers – Misters Gamble, McElheney and Thompson – are also supportive but Barney is key to my progression. He is the point of contact to go to about any sport, yet he knows everything there is to know about rugby. I am not good with remembering names but Barney knows everybody, first and second names.
‘Stephen Ferris, what are you doing over there?’
‘I’m a first year,’ I think, ‘and this guy knows who I am?’
By the time I’ve reached thirteen I have shot past Dave, who’s sixteen. I have a couple of inches on him but, in my eyes, he remains public enemy number one. Oddly, as only brothers may know, he is also my mate and a guy I share so many great times with.
‘I’m stronger than you,’ I often jeer.
‘I’ll put you in your place,’ yells Dave as he leaps off the couch or away from his homework.
That competitiveness comes out if we are playing darts, pool or soccer.
‘I’m going to beat you.’
‘No, I’m going to beat you.’
Brotherly sparring is a big part of our relationship. We battle on every front. That includes boxing the head off each other, whenever and wherever. Most of the time it is us rolling around on the couch or swinging away out the back garden. We have bouts in our tiny kitchen. We gather up every pair of socks we can find and bundle them into football socks that we have pulled down to our elbows. The padded socks are taped up and we have home-made boxing gloves. Two or three rounds.
Ding ding.
At Christmas, when our parents are not around, we take all the baubles off the tree and play football in the front room. Dave’s goal is the coffee table, mine between the two settees. Mum comes home that evening and finds the tree looking extremely bare. One look into the bin and she discovers about ten broken or flattened baubles. There is no point asking who the bright spark was, as she knows we will never tell. Thick as thieves.