NRL Rich 100: Matty Johns reveals the untold stories of contract talks during Super League

With the NRL Rich 100 revealed this week, MATTY JOHNS reveals the untold stories of contract talks during Super League – and rest assured it was a very different era.

With the annual NRL Rich 100 unveiled, I couldn’t help but think about how training has been for some teams this week.

It’s always awkward when the right back-rower finds out he’s only getting half of what the bloke on the left is on.

It took me back to the days of negotiating contracts, particularly in the days when only an elite few had managers. And, of course, some of the great yarns from Super League.

EATING HUMBLE PIE

It was the start of the 1990s, and the Newcastle Knights were in financial peril.

Players were taking pay cuts, others leaving for rival clubs, as our late coach Allan McMahon called the under-21s players into the dressing room for a grim discussion.

Macca had, alongside him, a whiteboard with a pie chart, divided into three parts.

“The large part of the pie, with 80 per cent written within it, represents all the first-grade players, and how much money we need to pay them – 80 per cent of the club’s fund,” the coach explained. We all nodded.

Former Knights forward Steve Haylen, playing for Muswellbrook.

“The second part, with 19 per cent, represents the second-grade players.”

We nodded solemnly, realising the last slither of one per cent wasn’t going to go far between 20 of us.

“And boys, unfortunately, that last speck, is all of you … So, you tell me what we should do?”

At which point, Steven Haylen, our chunky little, hardworking, front-rower from Muswellbrook, who had repeated Grade 7 three times, called out, “Maybe get some f***er to bake another pie.”

UTE BEAUTY

There are so many great stories that came out of Super League. Knights players had made a pact to try and stay together. As a collective, we decided to sign with the ARL, and after a discussion with Phil Gould, brother Andrew and I put pen to paper. As we were leaving the office, Gus asked, “Anything else I can do?”

I replied, “Yeah Gus. Do me a favour and look after our great mate, Billy Peden, from Cessnock.”

Billy was a lifelong friend, who would go on to have a great career. But at that point, was an unknown, in his mid-20s, on the cusp of a first-grade debut.

Phil Gould was a key figure in player negotiations.

Former Knights teammate Bill Peden.

Gus replies, “Sweet. Send Billy in.”

Gus: “What do you want, Billy?”

Billy: “I want to buy a ute.”

Gus: “How much are utes, Billy?”

Billy: “About twenty-five grand.”

Gus pulls out a cheque. “There you go Billy, buy two utes.”

NEVER LET A CHANCE GO BY

When the figures were being made public about what players were offered in the ARL/Super League negotiations, recently retired footballers were cursing their timing.

However, one recently retired Knight decided to do something about it.

Let’s call him ‘Norm.’

Norm arrived at training explaining he wouldn’t mind making a comeback. Our coach, Malcolm Reilly reluctantly agreed, but he’d have to make his way through reserve grade.

“No problem,” said Norm.

Armed with this, he immediately drove down to ARL headquarters, walked into the office where the late, great, Bob Fulton, was holding negotiations.

Kangaroos coach Bob Fulton talks to us during training Kogarah Oval in 1995.

Norm: “Bozo, what have you got for me?”

Bozo: “Norm, I thought you’d retired two years ago?”

Norm: “Yeah, but I’m making a comeback.”

Bozo laughed, shaking his head. “What are you after, Norm?”

Norm: “You tell me Bozo?”

Bozo: “How does twenty grand sound?”

Norm: “Not as good as fifty, Bob.”

Norm left, a happy man. Although I don’t think he ever got around to that comeback.

STICKY SITUATION

I was always fairly naive when it came to money, which made negotiations in the early point of my career tricky, considering I had no manager, along with no idea.

After a great 1993 season, I penned a new two-year deal, worth $12,000 a season. I thought I was flying, until the early part of 1994 when I was selected for Country Origin.

With my new $12,000 contract, I was feeling like a Packer. Until I found myself literally stuck in the middle of an enlightening conversation.

Sitting nervously as a rep rookie, I was petrified when two of the game’s greatest, Glenn Lazarus and Ricky Stuart, took a seat either side of me.

I was sweating bullets as the two old teammates were deep in conversation across my face, talking contracts.

Glenn Lazarus once called Matty Johns “Chris”. Picture: NRL Photos

Lazzo was regarded as one of the game’s highest paid, while Ricky was coming off contract. Suggestions were he could be rugby league’s first $500,000 player.

With numbers like 500 and 600 being thrown around, my number 12 no longer felt so imperial.

Suddenly, Lazzo says to me, “So, Chris, (yes, he called me Chris) what are they paying you blokes in Newcastle?”

There’s no f...ing way I’m going to say 12, but I don’t want to be caught out bullshitting either.

“Listen fellas, I was always taught that it’s rude to brag about money. But let’s say I’m doing all right,” I said, adding a wink for effect.

THE PAY RISE

I returned to Newcastle feeling like I’d been a little short changed. I mentioned the figures that Ricky and Lazzo were throwing around, and the Knights’ official countered by saying that the price of living was out-of-control in Canberra.

Nonetheless, he agreed to give me a bump up.

The only problem was, they were strapped for cash, and would a sponsor car suffice?

Would it what! I’d always fantasised about driving around town in a sponsored sports car, with my name emblazoned on the side.

I agreed. However, this time my rookie error was not specifying what type of car it had to be.

After two weeks of nervous anticipation, I was presented with my new sponsored car.

Matty Johns was given a 1982 Ford Falcon as a sponsor car.

Apparently, Enzo Ferrari was away in Italy, so instead I was given a 1982 Ford Falcon, which they’d purchased from a mate’s mate for $3000.

That was only the start. It had four bald tyres, no antenna, there was a blood stain on the back seat, the driver’s door didn’t open (so I had to climb in Dukes of Hazzard style), and when I took my foot off the accelerator, the thing would cut out.

After six months of throwing myself in and out of the driver’s side window, I abandoned it on the side of the road and got myself a manager.

Originally published as NRL Rich 100: Matty Johns reveals the untold stories of contract talks during Super League