BYRNE ON DEPRESSION, DYSLEXIA AND GAMBLING
THE FINAL INSTALMENT OF OUR BRILLIANT LEE BYRNE BOOK SERIALISATION:
I WASN’T the first and won’t be the last to find retiring from rugby difficult. On top of that, there’d been the stress of chasing my insurance money and the negotiations with the Dragons, added to which I’d been hit with a huge tax bill from France. I’d also lost Jerry Collins – one of my best mates – in a car crash, and my sister was fighting cancer.
That September, the eyes of the rugby world were on the World Cup. I was a recently-retired player with an uncertain future, and I was struggling to cope.
The extent to which I’d been affected by all the problems soon revealed itself. I was watching Andrea host an awards ceremony in Cardiff, sitting in the front row not far away from members of the Cardiff Blues team, when I suddenly felt very strange indeed.
I started seeing flashing lights, and everything around me went purple. I dashed out of the room and ran outside, where I was sick.
I couldn’t face going back in and drove home to Bridgend, texting Andrea to let her know what had happened. I had no idea what was going on – frankly, I thought I might be dying.
The next day, I went to my GP and explained what had happened. Physically, I was fine: they told me I’d had a panic attack brought on by stress.
It wasn’t the first time I’d experienced such an episode.
Following the Lions tour, I’d gone off to Las Vegas on holiday with a group of players including Mike Phillips, Gordon D’Arcy and Tommy Bowe. After several days of heavy drinking, one morning I suddenly felt gripped by a terrible feeling of anxiety.
Without saying anything to the others, I took myself off to the airport and bought a ticket to LA, where my girlfriend at the time was staying.
On the plane, I was tossing and turning in my sleep,
I found myself sliding into a deep depression.
I’d never been one to find getting out of bed difficult, but now I just couldn’t see the point.
I’d get up with Andrea, tell her I planned to do this or that, then go back to bed until 2pm.
The gym in my garage, always a favourite refuge, went unused. I’d walk in, maybe sit on the bike for two minutes, and walk out again. There seemed nothing to stay in shape for.
At the time, I must have been a nightmare to be around at home. Once again, Andrea was my rock. She encouraged me to visit my GP, who prescribed me with Sertraline, an antidepressant.
To begin with, I lied to her about taking the tablets. I’d always prided myself on being mentally tough, and I didn’t like the idea of having to rely on medication. I thought I could pull through on my own – the truth was, I couldn’t.
I have to say the pills have helped: I’m still taking them now.
I can only say that my depression and anxiety felt very real, and certainly affected my quality of life.
Medication helped, as did seeing Lisa Harrison, a psychologist to whom I was referred.
DYSLEXIA
PROMISING sporting careers have been cut short by many things: an inopportune injury, an over-fondness for partying, selectorial whim. But I’ve never heard of anyone who nearly failed to make the grade because he couldn’t understand his own team’s play-sheets.
Fundamentally, rugby is a simple game, whatever level you play at. But the better the standard, the more ways there are to complicate it.
When I was playing for Bridgend Athletic in Division 5, we generally had one backs move: a ‘miss two’ straight to me. When I moved to Tondu, things got a bit more complicated, and when I turned pro with the Scarlets, trickier still.
By the time I was playing international rugby, remembering the various different plays became the rough equivalent of rocket science – well, for me, anyway.
You hear people talk about big match nerves, the pressure of performing on the big stage. For me, by far the most nerve-racking, stomachchurning aspect was learning the calls.
This was where my dyslexia, usually well disguised around my fellow professionals, came to haunt me. I never feared an opponent, but I was petrified of forgetting a call. It was the worst thing about training and playing.
I would dread the bus journey to the ground before big games. The thing that would be going through my head was the calls. The irony was we’d only use one or two, but we’d have to have about 20 ‘in the locker’ – just in case.
I had a few tricks up my sleeve to help me mask the problem. During Wales training, there’d always be two full-backs. When we’d first run a move, I’d pretend to be stretching or doing up my laces so I could watch the reserve do it; then I’d know where to run when it was my turn.
I’d also print out the play sheets and pin them up at home. There’d be about 15 of them stuck up around the house; above the toilet, on the fridge, above the bathroom mirror. The place must have resembled the den of some mad scientist.
But, even after that, I’d still panic during the game. I’d be on the pitch at the Millennium Stadium, shouting to Tom Shanklin or Mark Jones to tell me where I should be standing. They must have wondered what the heck was going on.
Doing concussion tests was also embarrassing. Following a head knock, one of the exercises the doctors made you do was to recite the alphabet backwards off a chart. I had problems reading it forwards, let alone in reverse!
In the end, I’d cheat by writing the letters down on the back of my hand.
The whole issue escalated when I moved to France. After I joined Clermont, the club paid for weekly French lessons for me and the other overseas players.
These I soon came to dread. As I’ve described above, being a rugby player didn’t entirely protect me from dyslexia, but at least I was in an environment where I felt comfortable.
The French lessons transported me back to my schooldays and the miseries of the classroom. I could barely get to grips with grammar in English, never mind French, and I quickly fell behind. I was forced discreetly to tell our teacher what the problem was: after that, he started giving me private tuition.
The upshot was I never learned to speak the language. I could understand what was being said to me, but found replying impossible.
This was not only embarrassing, but could cause problems with some of my French team-mates. I’m sure they thought I just couldn’t be bothered. ‘Parlez Français,’ they’d say, reminding me I was in their country. But I was too embarrassed to admit the truth, to them or the coaches. In the alpha-male rugby environment, I presumed dyslexia would not be considered a valid excuse for my failings with the language.
Not for the first time, I have to thank my wife for helping me with this. Had it been left to me, I would no doubt have continued as I had previously in my career, muddling on and sweeping my dyslexia under the carpet.
But after seeing how I’d struggled out in France, she encouraged me to seek help. That’s how I came to meet Anne Rees, the specialist in Cardiff who diagnosed me.
Slowly, with Andrea’s support, I came to realise my condition was nothing to be ashamed of. She even persuaded me to make a programme for ITV Wales about the condition, entitled Dyslexia and Me.
During filming, I returned to see Anne, and we talked on camera about my experiences. I was starting to understand that while the learning difficulty had caused problems, in other ways it had been a big positive.
And that’s how I view dyslexia: something that’s helped me get where I am today. Recently, Tomorrow’s Generation sent me a drawing done by one of the youngsters.
It was of me, in rugby kit, and underneath it said: ‘My inspiration’. If being open about dyslexia inspires one youngster to have a happier time, I’d say it’s been well worth the effort.
GAMBLING
IN common with other sportsmen, I’ve lost my fair share through gambling. For me personally, the habit started on the Lions tour.
But there was no shortage of kindred spirits in the Wales camp. It ended up becoming a bit of an obsession for us: we’d do lots of ‘spot betting’ – that is, gambling on who’d win the next point in a given sporting contest.
Often the sport would be really obscure: German handball or Chinese table tennis, or a beach-volleyball match between Brazil and Italy. It was utter madness, really.
Like any gambler, I had some great successes – like the time I won several thousand on a football spread bet – but some equally sobering losses.
A particular stinger was the time I put £15,000 on Andy Murray, at 1-15, to beat John Isner in a first-round match in some ATP tournament. Murray lost.
Unsurprisingly, I won most often on rugby. I never bet on a game I was playing in (it’s against the rules) but my insider knowledge would come in handy when putting a bet on, say, Glasgow v Ulster in the Pro12.
I was cleaning up most weeks, to the point where the manager at my local bookies eventually banned me from gambling on the game altogether.
But of course a gambler only tells you what he’s won, never what he’s lost. For me, a turning point came when Andrea moved in and unwittingly opened one of my bank statements.
She was shocked to read I’d done a couple of thousand in a month (small beer, it must be said, compared with some of my losses). She gave me what for, and I had to acknowledge that things had got out of hand.
Happily, I haven’t had a bet since. I feel lucky that I’ve been able to quit so easily – others have found it much harder.
I suppose it’s a strength of mine: although I’d say I have an addictive personality, when I DO decide to quit something, I can do it more less straight away.
In this case, I’d certainly needed a push in the right direction from Andrea, mind you. It took me a while to realise it, but she’s definitely changed me for the better.
Perhaps, if I hadn’t met her, I’d still be gambling.