‘The most surreal, crazy, heartbreaking hour of my life’ – Stephen Ferris recalls tragic death of teammate John McCall in 2004

In an exclusive extract from Man And Ball, former Ulster and Ireland flanker Stephen Ferris recounts the tragic passing of teammate John McCall in 2004.

Our opener is the toughest game imaginable. On 27 March, 2004, we face New Zealand at the ABSA Stadium in Durban. A little over 20 minutes into the game and there is a lineout. Jumpers from both sides miss the throw. I am standing at the back of the lineout so catch it and set off in attack. I am tackled and John is the first man into the ruck. We get up and the lads drive around the corner. John remains on the ground. We keep folding around the corners, inching forward. Peering back, I can see John; immobile. We keep playing and go through a few more phases until there is a break in play. Getting my breath back, I wander closer. John has not moved. ‘What’s going on?’ I wonder. ‘He must have been knocked out.’ Next minute, the trolley comes out and John is getting wheeled off the pitch. “Fucking hell lads, this doesn't look good. He's going to miss the end of the tournament here.” At half-time we walk into the changing room. Allen Clarke is one of the coaches, assistant to Pat Murray. He is trying to talk us up; encourage us. He says, “John is fighting for his life in there.” That hits home. Fighting for his life? What is that about? A coach would never say that. It would be like ‘John is in there with a busted knee’ or something. “Come on,” shouts Allen, “go out there and give it your all for him. John is in there fighting for his life.” Those words stick with me. They will for the rest of my life. John is fighting for his life. ‘What the hell?’ All I can think of is that it must be a really bad condition or, at worst, a broken neck and that he may never play again. We go back out and play shit. Not well at all. The final whistle blows and we have been beaten with over 20 points to spare. I just want to get back into the changing room to see how John is. He did not show on the sidelines in the second half. We are called into a huddle on the pitch. One of the coaches says, “Lads I don't know how to break this to you, but your team-mate John has died.” They tell us this on the fucking pitch. I break my bind with the lads. I break free and sprint off 20 metres with my head in my hand, crying my eyes out. ‘What has just happened? What has just happened? I am only 18. John is only 18. What has just happened?’ Management are probably in shock, just as much as we are, so are not thinking straight. Of course they realise their mistake, in telling these guys out on the pitch, in front of the watching world. “Guys, come in. Come in guys.” We all gather ourselves and get into the changing room. Our heads are all over the place. ‘What the hell is going on? This cannot be real.’ About five minutes later, a priest comes into the changing room and it hits home. My team-mate has just died. It is the most surreal, crazy, heartbreaking hour of my life.

****

We remain in South Africa, trying to get to grips with the tragic situation. John’s father, Ian, flies over. We go for a barbeque at a club-house right next to the ABSA Stadium. Ian McCall stands up to address us. It must be incredibly tough. Recalling his words, as best I can, he says:

“Look guys, this is just a freak accident that has happened. I don't want any of you to stop playing rugby. I don't want any of you guys to walk away from this tour and say ‘that could happen to me’. This is something that has happened to John. It was his time to go. Everybody is, obviously, really sad about this, but, from his dad, talking to you guys who have known him, John would want you to play rugby and keep playing rugby.”

Amazing words. I walk outside, away from everybody again. I find I detach myself from situations, and people, if I am finding it tough to cope. I walk over to the training pitches - four of them lined up, side by side. This is where all the warm-up drills take place before the matches. People park their cars here before the game. I walk all the way to the end of the pitch that is furthest away. I am crying my eyes out. Two days have passed and, still, I cannot get my head around it. By the time I get back, a few of the lads are standing out the front. One of them steps forward and gives me a hug. “It’s going to be okay.” The next day, we go to the funeral home to say our farewells. It is the first time I have looked at a dead body and, I swear to myself, the last. A lot of the guys from the south are a lot more used to it than I am - removal services, wakes, seeing the body before a funeral. We walk up, into the funeral home. I am petrified. I have no idea what to expect. I figure the coffin will be in the room and someone will say a few words at a service. When we walk into the main room, the coffin is sitting at the front, open, and there is a long line leading up to it. I am in the middle of our squad as they join the line but I slip out and go to the back. I find a seat and drop my head. I ask myself, ‘Can you do this? Can you walk up and look at your mate who is now dead in a coffin?’ I have never done it before. I never seen any of my grandparents or anybody in a coffin. Every single other person has done it. I have to do it. I cannot be the only one not to say my goodbyes, as such. I wait right until the end and I walk up to the coffin. John is lying in it. He has this striking, ginger hair. The most ginger hair and an unbelievable, thick head of hair. He is lying in the coffin and is at rest. I rest a hand on his shoulder and say ‘Rest in Peace’. I touch his chest and walk away. The first and last time I will ever do that. Ever. Even my mum, dad, brother, if they passed away tomorrow, I would not do it. I would prefer to remember them as they lived. I would rather envisage John on the pitch, playing, than lying in a box. The whole service is tough to take. We take a vote and most of the squad want to go home. There is talk of playing on, in John’s memory, but we are in no fit state. We sit in a team room at our hotel. Pat says:

“Look, obviously a lot of people want to go home. It might some of you guys want to stay and play on. There might be guys here who want to play for John and try and get something out of this tournament. It is up to you.”

About two guys express an interest in staying on, for John, but most, including myself, want to get of here as quick as possible. We want to be home, be at John's funeral and give him a good send off. He was a good character. A great talent; a wasted talent too. We are flown home and attend his funeral, in Armagh. There are more than 8,000 people at the service. Sitting there, back home, it all starts to sink in. I realise how lucky I am to be in my position. Some of the lads access the counsellors organised by the IRFU. I feel capable of dealing with his death myself. I am not alone, however. Support comes, in the main, from my mum, dad and brother. I try to put the tragedy behind me and move on with my life. I try to live out the vows we took to John’s father - to play and keep playing. https://twitter.com/StephenFerris6/status/706055761118547968 *Man and Ball: My Autobiography is available and in stores now