Exit with a bang - and a bit of a whimper, too
I AM an ignorant bastard. If only I could practise what I preach. But then maybe I wouldn't have made it this far.
Thirteen years ago was my rookie year as a Brumby. "Got to make weight" was written on the cover of my diary. I hit the gym hard and ate. Only two years before this I was playing at 88 kilograms, I now needed to be 100 kilograms.
The wisdom of ''that'' Brumbies era would say: "Mate, you are crazy, come and see me when you can't walk at 30!"
I didn't listen. A gold jersey now defined my life. I got a taste early and felt complete at such a young age. Then poor form takes that away just as quickly as I seemed to inherit it. "Adam if you don't make this 2003 World Cup, you'll never play in a World Cup … ever!"
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I didn't listen, and I made that flight to France four years later.
Now a Waratah, I prepare for the local derby against my former club, when the doctor reminds me of how good I've had it recently with injury. Superstition 101. Did she just say that? Adam, do not listen.
That match, I am helped from the field. The first rock tumbles from the height of the mountain. I do return to make the medicals to find out I've shrunk 1.5 centimetres since 1997. ''That doesn't seem right,'' I think. Block it out, move forward.
My next match is a club final. "Crouch, Touch, Pause … Engage."
The pain is now replaced with a freezing cold sensation. I now cannot feel my leg. I am booked in for surgery on my spine.
One is enough to ruin my career, two certainly would. The second operation leaves me with limited feeling in my left foot. The voices in my head begin to argue, "You've done enough, Adam." Followed by "You're not finished yet, Adam."
The phone rings. It's Rod Macqueen, a call that will change my life. I am offered a sporting reincarnation with the Melbourne Rebels.
Crowds are passionate; the sport is vibrant. The club opens its arms to my footy talent as well as my body's problems. I start to appreciate the game more, although that's not saying my body feels the same. It felt so right, although something was different. In my second season, my mind starts to fray and my resilience starts to fade.
My first Wallaby roommate, Matt Cockbain, is now my forwards coach, and has to tell me the news I am dropped. I am not the player that bunked with him in Argentina 10 years before; he knows it and it's written all over his face.
Without a word being said, the penny drops. I start to listen.
I have the conversation with my coach Damien Hill. In the next room, the marketing team makes face masks for Stirling and video packages for retiring players, I want no part of it. "I don't do convertible cars waving to crowds, Hilly. Leave that sort of thing to the Pope or the Queen."
He wants to give me some type of farewell, but I don't listen.
I am warming up behind the goalposts during the match in Johannesburg. Knowing this will be my second-last game.
There is a man in an old Springboks jersey screaming my name, his accent rich, almost Dutch. He is overweight with no front tooth, and feels it is his duty to destroy me.
"Hey old man Freier! Give me your jersey! You're useless Freier! Why don't you just hand it over to me now?"
I respond, which I never do. "I'll be needing it mate, besides you're too fat and it won't fit you." The crowd around him jeers. He replies in Afrikaans.
I take to the field, knowing next week will be my swansong and it's a beautiful feeling.
Crouch. Touch. Pause … Explode. That noise was my calf nearly coming off the bone.
I will never forget the look on my physio's face, as I am sure he will never forget the look on mine, as I saw my transport arrive from a distance.
I finally got my convertible, but it was in the shape of a golf cart.
I hitched a ride in my convertible although there would be no waving to the crowd. I saw my toothless mate again: "I told you Freier, you wouldn't need that jersey."
''I hear you buddy'' - although it was still on my back, it wasn't mine any more.
It's time Peter Pan stepped out of this ''Never Never'' world and grew up a little.
Although you may feel it, you can't be young forever, especially in this professional sport of rugby.
So, was it worth it? Absolutely, and that sentiment will only grow.
I long for the day I can go to AAMI Stadium with my kids, and someone may recognise me and when they ask, "Who was that, dad?" that will be the moment I'll realise that the scoffing, squatting and injuries were all worth it for the 20 countries I visited, the friends I made, and that, in fact, greatness is more than what happens on stage.
I hope that then they will listen to me, unlike their father.
At least I know that eventually my body will forgive me.
I now walk away, comforted by the memories and the knowledge I gave it my all.
