I should have listened to him. That rookie year “Gotta make weight” was written on the cover of my gym diary. I hit the gym hard and ate. Two years before this I was playing at 88kg, I now needed to be 100. The wisdom of 'that' Brumbies era around me would say, “Mate you're crazy, come and see me when you can't walk at 30!” I didn't listen. A gold jersey now defined my life and I get a taste early and felt complete at such a young age. Then poor form takes that away just as quickly as I seem to inherit it. “Adam if you don't make this 2003 World Cup, you'll never play in a world cup…ever!”

I didn't listen. I make that flight to France four years later. Finally I find my way home in the rugby sphere and play for the club I always loved, the Waratahs. Titles seemed so close, but were so distant. Two finals, with no trophies, although I felt I won a lot more. I'd always looked at the right side of the Paddington end of the SFS to see if it was a sell out, and most nights it was. No championship ring can replicate that era playing rugby in Sydney, it was magic. Pure bliss. You love your teammates wherever you play, but things change and aren't the same. My friends have moved on and some are forced to retire early. I'd think,“Would I be ready if that happened to me?” My mind refuses to go there. I prepare for the local derby against my former club, when the doctor reminded me of my recent good run without injury. Superstition 101. “Did she just say that?”

Adam, do not listen. That match, I am helped from the field. That's when the first rock tumbled from the mountain. I do return from the medicals to find out I've shrunk 1.5cm since 1997. “That doesn't seem right,” I'd be thinking. “Block it out – move forward.” My next match is a Shute Shield club final for Randwick. “crouch, touch, pause… engage.” The pain is now replaced with a freezing cold sensation. I couldn't feel my leg. I am now booked in for corrective surgery on my spine. As a result I should grow 1cm. “Book me in for five then,” I say sarcastically to the Doc. One of these operations 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.” My left foot won't listen and neither will I. Block it out – move forward.

One day, my bicep simply comes off the bone. No reason, it just decided to go. Within 24 hours, I have two screws attaching it back on. A year later, almost on cue, the other does the same. Both arms are now screwed together. Perfect. I am now part-machine and I am programmed not to listen. The phone rings and it's Rod Macqueen, a call that will change my life. I am offered a sporting reincarnation with the Melbourne Rebels. Melbourne are passionate; the sport is vibrant, it reminds me so much of the glory days of NSW rugby. The club opens their 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 felt the same. It felt so right, although something was different. It was 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 lied next to him in Argentina 10 years ago, he knows it and it's written all over his face. Without a word being said, the penny drops. I'm starting 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 Queen”. He wanted to give me some type of farewell, but I didn't listen. And so, I am warming up behind the goal posts during last week's match in Johannesburg. Knowing what only few know: this will be my second last game. There is a man in an old Springboks jersey screaming my name; his accent rich, almost Dutch like. He was overweight, missing a front tooth, and felt it was 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 never usually respond, but this time I 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 feeling I am comfortable with. Crouch. Touch. Pause... Explode. That noise was my calf nearly tearing in two. I am floored, the script will change once again. I will never forget the look on my physio's face, and I am sure he will never forget the look on mine, as I saw my transport arrive from a distance. I finally got that convertible, but it is in the shape of a golf cart. I hitched a ride in my convertible although there would be no waving to the crowd. I see my toothless mate: “I told you Freier, you wouldn't need that jersey.”

“I hear you buddy.” Although it was still on my back, that jumper wasn't mine anymore. It was 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 this sentiment will only grow. At least I know that eventually my body will forgive me. I long for the day I can be in the stands with the baby in my wife's belly, and someone may recognise me and you ask, “Who was that daddy?” That will be the moment in time I'll realise that the scoffing, squatting and injuries were all worth it for the 20 countries I visited, the friends I made, and the fact I learnt that greatness is more than just what happens on stage. I hope then they will listen to me, but maybe they shouldn't listen, and will realise that one's path is there to discover for themselves, just like their father did.

To my coaches of the past 14 years. For the one who yelled at me, but also made me the man I am today. For the one who comforted me, and brought me to the summit of my career. For the one who stripped me bare and built me up again, and kept me atop that mountain.You all know who you are. And to the ones who will sit in the box tonight in Cape Town who found me broken at the bottom of the hill and always had faith I'd return. To my family, friends, physios who rode the wave with me, and sometimes would try and take that pain away for me. If you know me well, you know who you are. To the people who play and pay for tickets, thank you. To my wife, thank you for being my psychologist and my rock.