I want to be a hero … just like Michael Hooper

Back in the early nineties, along with hundreds of others, I used to be entertained by Fat Cat’s alter ego, Perth’s very own singer-songwriter, Keith McDonald, at the Cottesloe Hotel. The crowd, late on a Sunday afternoon, would stand on tables and sing the lyrics to his famous “I Wanna Be Like Indiana Jones.”

There’s a clip on YouTube if you want to see it…

This got me thinking of Michael Hooper.

Why, you may ask? Because my gut feeling is that at some point every rugby player has said the phrase, “I wanna be like Michael Hooper” and after reading some of the headlines on the Roar website, the answer could only be “Why not?”

After all, he has a resume to die for: Wallaby flanker, dual John Eales Medallist, Wallabies captain, captain of the Waratahs when they won the Super Rugby Championship and nine yellow cards at the international level.

Indiana might be able to drive fast cars and ride a wild horse, but Hoops was a Wallaby, and back in the day, everybody wanted to be a Wallaby. Just ask Israel Folau and Karmichael Hunt.

More recently however, the headlines have changed:
5 June 2025: “Didn’t sound like a fairytale ending.”
26 February 2025: “Will Hooper play the Lions?”
30 June 2024: “What a ride: Hoops’ dream and Australian rugby career over as Wallaby legend misses Olympic team.”
14 January 2025: “Bit of a Hail Mary: Former Wallaby skipper comes out of retirement to sign new pro deal.”
22 February 2025: “Hooper carded in rough return to rugby as familiar face dishes out 42-point hiding.”
27 February 2025 on a TV panel discussion the headline: “Michael Hooper reveals what it’d take for him to return to the Wallabies for the Lions tour.”

Whilst Hoops, very sensibly, was not lured into making any outlandish statements to the esteemed panellists about the possibility of kitting up against the Lions I did notice that a few weeks later the various winter football codes were in full swing: it was Round 7 of the NRL, Round 6 and half of the AFL, Week 3 of the Shute Shield, and almost the same for the WARU competition. Even the Central West Rugby Union had just completed their first game.

I wanted to be like Michael Hooper. Whilst there are very few similarities between the two of us, we have both retired and both decided that, on reflection, that time was not quite right. Both of us still had more to offer our respective clubs and associated medical teams.

Let me set the scene.

I am 32, I have little hair, I have just returned from 14 weeks of doing very little in the physical sense, and my ailing body has paid for the new cars that adorn the car park of the local physio and chiropractor.

My plan, after 14 weeks into rugby retirement, was to put the boots on and help out Turd Grade get into the finals by playing the last five games of the season. Thirds, like the Wallabies of the twenty teens, were a bit adverse to holding up silverware of any sort, and I thought that this was my big chance. My friends and family questioned my ability to get into the team this time of the year, but after playing the game for well over 18 years, I understood the cyclical nature of Turd Rugby.

During the early part of the season, fit and healthy men fight for positions. These blokes are keen, these blokes are motivated, these blokes have just followed the Super Rugby series and come off an intense 6-week program of watching First Grade doing pre-season from the clubhouse balcony. These men (and 1000s like them) are ready to pull the boots on, get a second mortgage to pay for the strapping tape and go and play weekend warrior. Their motto: Too old for Firsts and too young for Golden Oldies.

By July, things have changed – the fit and healthy are no longer around -for they are, simply put, no longer fit and healthy, their wives and girlfriends have begun to place unrealistic non-playing demands on them, it gets too cold and wet, and the lawns need mowing. These once great specimens of middle-aged manhood get replaced by ring-ins from the dreaded Under-21s. The 21s are not only younger, fitter and healthier but are also better looking, have no children, are capable of playing two games in one day AND go out clubbing all night.

When this happens, the wise, senior stalwarts know it is time to get out there and relive former glories. The under-21s could go back to Colts, and I would claim my rightful place at the back of the scrum.

This was my plan.

Not being entirely stupid and wanting to demonstrate my commitment to the cause, I decided to go for a jog the night before attending training on Thursday.

My aim was three laps of Raphael Park.

I have been doing three laps of this particular oval on and off for just over 10 years, so the fact that the sun was setting to the West and it was getting a bit dark did not put me off. I always ran three laps, no more, no less and always in the same anti-clockwise direction, which allowed me to begin with the assistance of the westerly wind and after turning the final corner, I could trust the same wind to propel me back to my car. I could do it blindfolded. Those under 21s might say that I “owned” this particular park. The only thing in my way was the boggy grass in the North West corner, where the council tractor had not been. I knew my limitations, I knew it was there, and I would simply run around it.

After a few stretches, I felt good, even though I could not touch my toes, and most of my joints clicked and popped. After the first lap,p my breathing had settled, and by my second I was able to run in an upright position past the good-looking girl walking her Schnauzer.

I was hoping to add a smile and perhaps a nod in her direction the next time round. As I began my third lap, I was really stretching out. I was a man who had reclaimed his body, his mind and Raphael Oval. I was a man in charge.

Coming around the corner, my head was high, the pillars of steel were doing their job, and I was in the ZONE. Then it happened. . .

The hundred-year-old Moreton Bay Fig came from nowhere and tangled its tentacle-like roots around my ankle. I was reliving the scene from Saving Private Ryan where Tom Hanks and Company C stormed Omaha Beach. I had no hope as my ankle buckled under the weight of my lithe, muscular and perspiration-covered body (just to get the girls into it a bit more). To my horror, I was down, to my horror, I was at the furthest distance from my car.

Apart from the groan, all that could be heard was the giggle from the two kids playing footy.

I now have a tennis ball-sized lump on my ankle, I now have great difficulty standing up and have already booked out this year’s health fund physio allowance.

Let this be a lesson to you all. It is okay to let go, it is okay to put the extra 5 kg on. Just say NO. This would never have happened to Hoops or Indiana.