Remembering Ian McIntosh: The legend who turned the Sharks into a powerhouse

Next week marks the third anniversary of the passing of rugby legend Ian McIntosh, the innovative coach responsible for the powerhouse that the Sharks are today.

"Mac" transformed Natal from the "Cinderella team" of the 1980s — a side that made many friends with their good fellowship but never won anything — into South Africa’s "Team of the ‘90s".

The thousands of rugby people that Mac touched will each have a special story about this remarkable man, so forgive me if I tell my favourite.

It is set in the scenic splendour of the New Zealand mountain resort of Queenstown. Nestled in the Southern Alps, Queenstown is breathtakingly beautiful; its rugged landscape provided the setting for much of the Lord of the Rings films and, unsurprisingly, it is the adventure capital of New Zealand.

The Sharks were pioneer visitors to Queenstown in the mid-1990s, and great fullback Hugh Reece-Edwards loves telling this tale. The Sharks were about to start a training session at the Queenstown Rugby Club, which nestles on a rare piece of flat ground at the foot of a mountain.

However, one player was missing. John Allan was conspicuous by his absence, and Mac seethed that he would drop him if he did not appear within ten seconds. Just then, a shadow grew over the coach as an apparition drifted from the sky.

It was the missing hooker. Having parachuted from the top of the mountain with an instructor while wearing his practice kit, Allan landed, unclipped himself, and said deadpan: “Right Mac, let’s get cracking.”

Nobody laughed louder than Mac.

Queenstown is like the Drakensberg on drugs. Snow-capped peaks rise from a tranquil lake teeming with trout, though you must return your catch unless you have a note from a restaurant confirming they will cook it. The world's first bungee jump originated here, and adrenaline junkies have flocked to the town ever since.

One year, Springbok number eight Warren Brosnihan signed up for "Fly by Wire". Strapped to a metal arrow attached to a cable, he was shot across mountain peaks at startling speed. He climbed out of his leather suit, ashen-faced, and remarked: “That was the most thrilling two minutes of my life I never want again.” I noticed on my next trip that the attraction had closed.

Another enthusiastic tourist was Springbok flanker AJ Venter. In just two days, he went hang-gliding, bungee-jumping, go-karting, and river rafting. In the evenings, he joined Stefan Terblanche at the casino, where the winger showed the same slick skill at blackjack as he did when scoring for the Boks.

There was a memorable moment during AJ’s bungee jump. A cable car was ascending the mountain just as Venter dived off the precipice.

A Japanese tourist’s face became a mask of terror as 110kg of bellowing Bloemfontein beef hurtled towards her — a sight compounded by the fact that he was clad only in his underpants.

But it was not all play. There were training sessions at the rugby club, and one year, a local player got an adrenaline ride of his own by annoying Ollie le Roux. Mac had organised a practice match with the Queenstown team, and this fellow hoped to impress the home crowd by niggling Ollie, only to be knocked out cold. The crowd was indeed impressed.

One year, a tall, dark, and handsome flanker, who shall remain anonymous, met a Swedish backpacker. Each night she snuck into his room, and his roommate found a spare bed elsewhere. On the morning of departure, a roll call was made on the bus and the love-struck player was missing.

“Where the hell is X?” yelled Mac. “Erm, still in his room,” the roommate timidly said. “And he says to tell you he has retired.”

He probably believed he had — for the five minutes it took the coach to kick his backside onto the bus.

This column is based on an extract from Mike Greenaway’s best-selling book, The Fireside Springbok.