Purist, obsessive, intense: Why the Michael Maguire I know is an extraordinary competitor

On a perfect winter Sunday in 2015, Michael Maguire was enjoying the sunshine at his Maroubra house. He was the reigning premiership coach, having brought the Rabbitohs their first title in 43 years. Sam Burgess had gone to rugby, but Maguire was still guiding a team featuring Greg Inglis, Adam Reynolds, John Sutton, Luke Keary, Jason Clark, Kyle Turner, Isaac Luke, George and Tom Burgess – the guts of the 2014 team. The 2015 chase was looking good. We were working on a book.

Maguire’s wife Joelle buzzed between us and the kids. “Nice house,” I said. “Great spot”. Joelle sort of agreed.

“It’s a rental,” Maguire explained. “We can’t buy.”

Eh? A Bunnies premiership, maybe another on the way, the club’s gratitude for life, and a good salary. Glory, glory. He couldn’t buy a house?

“You always rent in this job,” he said. “You don’t know where you’ll be in a couple of years. It’s tough for the family.” He didn’t say tough for himself.

I learnt a few things about Michael Maguire that year. None of it was earth-shattering, more the kind of thing you haven’t thought about until, up close, you see how intense it is. Then you understand the proverbial: who would want to be a coach?

An NRL coach has a renter’s edginess. Nothing is permanent. No promise can really be trusted, not long term anyway. Clubs love you and then they don’t. This was true about Maguire: he’s a realist. But the realism sits alongside an almost priestly obsessive belief. Anything (good or bad) can happen. Be ready.

Michael Maguire arrives for NSW training at Blue Mountains Grammar School. Credit: Wolter Peeters

Another ordinary but extraordinary thing about him was his competitiveness. I don’t think I’ve met anyone who wants to win so badly. Quality-wise, our book was no War and Peace. A ghosted sports book aspires to Andre Agassi’s Open. It was no Open. There was a reason. No matter how hard I tried to get him to relive 2014, Maguire’s brain was ticking over in 2015. The book would be called A Year to Remember, but Maguire wasn’t in the mood to reminisce. He’s a polite and respectful man, but talking about 2014, his eyes would glaze over. He had put the premiership behind him. He wanted another. He could barely remember grand final night. Our reviewing of 2014 had value for Maguire only if it could give him something for the next round in 2015.

His playing group was getting jaded, he feared. The 2014 title had sharpened his appetite, but for others, it had filled their stomach just enough to take away that critical 1 per cent. He was desperate to stir them up.

Here was another part of Maguire: he is a perpetual student, restlessly searching for stories, information, techniques from other fields that he could import to rugby league. His curiosity was insatiable. His reputation as a meat-and-potatoes, field position, kick-chase, plain NRL coach sits alongside his interest in new voices and ideas to stimulate his players. In his first days as the NSW Origin coach, it’s been no surprise to see him set up special presentations and bring in novel ideas. Anything to keep young minds fresh, as long as they’re open to it.

Luke Keary was coached by Maguire at the Rabbitohs.Credit: Getty

His competitiveness, he admitted, owed something to the business left unfinished by his playing career. Maguire was a centre at the Canberra Raiders during their golden 1990s period. To get a game, he had to wait for Mal Meninga or Laurie Daley or Jason Croker to get injured. Instead, he got injured himself, playing 11 games in five seasons, his ambitions beyond his body. He had to do a lot of watching. He watched Tim Sheens.

Who would be a coach? Who would allow their life’s work – winning – to be decided by the bounce of the ball, an injury, a poor refereeing decision, a moment of madness or genius, half a field away from the limits of your influence? Who can suffer that insane imbalance: control-freakery and meticulousness of preparation while sacrificing it all to blind luck and the brain snaps of 20-somethings? Leaving nothing to chance, while leaving everything to chance? Honestly: who would do it, and who, having suffered so much from it, would keep coming back to do it again?

After our year of trying to remember, Maguire was dumped by Souths in 2017. He became referees’ coach, then the Wests Tigers’ coach, New Zealand’s coach, now the Blues’ coach. He’s a glutton for punishment. He is a genuine person, simple and straight, without the showmanship of Wayne Bennett or the shamanism of Des Hasler. He has never been thrown the keys to the family Maserati like Trent Robinson. He’s in the mould of Craig Bellamy, his boss at the Melbourne Storm from 2004 to 2009, but the pair are too competitive to be close.

Compared with some coaches, Maguire is a purist. In our occasional contact, he stresses how he just likes to coach footy to footy players. He hates the other crap, the politics, the media, the ducks and drakes. His 10 years as an assistant at the Raiders and the Storm, before his first head coaching job at Wigan, he remembers fondly. As a consultant to Canberra since 2022, he has returned to that first love.

So why take on the job that has more politics, more media, more ducks and drakes, more reliance on the uncontrollable moment than any other in the game? Why become coach of rugby league’s Wile E. Coyote?

It’s true that NSW Rugby League was not overwhelmed with contenders after Brad Fittler ran out of magic. But it’s also true that Maguire interviews well, letting his optimism and ambition and belief overflow. Every aspiring head coach is professional. But Maguire is more than that. It takes a realist to believe in miracles, doesn’t it? He convinced the Tigers board he could turn that roster into premiers. (Imagine what he could have done with Nick Politis’ money.) Maguire has his heart in it, and when he analyses players, he tries to see what’s beating inside their ribcage. He has picked his NSW team on form, it’s been widely observed, yet he’s also selected on heart. He’s chosen two players with heart, Cameron McInnes and Luke Keary, whom he coached at Souths a decade ago. He and Keary fell out, reportedly, but he never doubted Keary’s heart. Not one to dwell on eight or nine years ago (or even one year ago), Maguire thinks only of the next game. Keary has been one of the form playmakers in the NRL. Decision made.

Maguire wants to win so much, the NSWRL probably wished it could have him on the field. I’m sure that even at 50, he wants to be out there, trying to control what happens when that bouncing ball, that bad reffing call, that freakish moment always seem to go Queensland’s way. History suggests the Blues carry a curse. The Michael Maguire I got to know didn’t go for hocus-pocus. He didn’t believe in curses. He didn’t believe in promises either. He just believed in winning the next game.

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