NRL Premiership winning captain Royce Simmons refuses to let dementia write the last chapter
The carton that changed everything
For me, the cruelest part of dementia is that an ordinary moment can suddenly become terrifying, and Simmons found that moment in the back of his car.
About a month after having his shoulder replaced, with his arm still in a sling, Simmons and his wife headed to Kiama for one of their regular breaks. He opened the back of the car, spotted a carton of beer and cheerfully thanked her for remembering him. She told him he had bought it himself at the pub.
He could not remember doing it. Simmons knew then that this was no harmless lapse. He went to a doctor, underwent MRIs and other tests, and was eventually put on medication intended to slow the disease.
His reaction was raw: “When he told me it, it, it, it, it bowled me over.” It took time to absorb, and I understand why the disease still makes him angry. A man who spent his life leading, coaching and trusting his instincts now has to live with his mind occasionally letting him down.
He chose movement over misery
I admire Simmons most for what he did after the shock wore off: he gave himself roughly a month to feel sorry for himself, then decided that sitting still was not going to help anybody.
“I said, oh, I'll stop sitting around and sooking and whinging and try to get out there and try to do something a bit positive.”
Positive, in Simmons’s world, means walking for two, three or four hours most days, stretching that to four or five when preparing for one of his major walks. He sees a specialist, sticks faithfully to the prescribed medication and tries other things that he thinks might help, including treatments in America and at the Brain Care centre in Tweed Heads. The huge injection in America “scared the hell” out of him, while none of the treatments offered a cure.
I find the progression of the disease brutally clear: life holds at one level, then drops, steadies again and drops once more. Simmons has felt two or three of those declines. Still he walks.
The walking has become bigger than him
I believe Simmons has turned fear into useful work, and that matters far more than any comforting speech ever could.
I share his enormous respect for the brilliant young doctors searching for a cure, but I refuse to pretend a breakthrough has arrived when it has not. Around half a million Australians have dementia and about 1.7 million people care for them. Younger Australians are also being diagnosed, despite the lazy belief that this belongs only to people in their 80s and 90s.
My advice is simple and responsible: see a doctor or specialist, get the appropriate treatment and remain active. Simmons tries almost anything he thinks may slow his decline, but the doctor remains his anchor.
“Get to the doctor, get your medication.” I believe hope is important, but early action gives hope somewhere solid to stand.
The country kid behind the toughness
The warmth in Simmons makes sense once you picture the places that raised him. He was born in Canowindra, moved as a boy to Gooloogong and grew up around his father’s butcher shop, where sawdust covered the floor and phone calls arrived through a manually connected exchange across the road.
His school class had six children, although music was clearly never going to be his calling. At the annual concert, the teacher told Simmons his singing put the other five out of tune, asked him to mime, then decided he was no good at that either and put him on the curtain.
Sport offered a kinder stage. His mother drove him back to Canowindra to play rugby union, he represented Central West and New South Wales Country, and he sometimes played union before hitchhiking to Cowra for a rugby league match that afternoon.
Country life also taught him when to quit. After being thrown from a horse, Simmons sold it the next day; years later he somersaulted over a motorbike and sold that the next day too. “Never been on a horse or a motorbike since.” Sensible man.
Penrith saw what others missed
Simmons’s road to Penrith proves to me that rejection is sometimes merely a wrong turn. He trialled with the Dragons but missed the last available place under the import rule, then received an opportunity with Souths while working on a brewery truck and staying in Coogee.
His city education was immediate. Invited to the Coogee Bay pub, Simmons appeared in Four Star jeans, a flannelette shirt and old sandals, only to be left at home while the others went out in Levi jeans and collared shirts. I suspect somebody eventually bought him acceptable clothes.
Penrith became home after he arrived in 1980, and I know Simmons remains immensely proud to have become the club’s first Kangaroo. I believe breaking that barrier helped younger players realise they could follow, with Penrith’s tally quickly growing from one Kangaroo to six or seven.
To me, that loyalty was never about a badge alone. Simmons captured it perfectly: “What I like about Penrith is, is the people in the town.” Those same people now turn up for his walks, help his cause and explain why he never seriously entertained leaving.
The perfect farewell became a life of service
I regard the 1991 Grand Final as the perfect football farewell because Simmons had to fight merely to reach it. An ankle injury cost him five or six weeks, he hurt it again after returning and eventually came back through second grade while the first-grade side kept winning. He accepted that changing a successful team would have been unfair, despite wondering whether his last season might finish outside the side.
Recalled in the final round, Simmons entered the decider knowing it would be his last game. He felt excited rather than nervous, then scored twice after joking he had not crossed for about 18 years. The celebrations lasted through the night and all the next day, while his promise to share drinks with Penrith supporters followed him for years.
Yet I believe his finest final chapter is happening now. His next walk is planned from Gilgandra, in honour of his late mate Johnny Farragher, through Gooloogong and towards Cowra, with Simmons trying to include Canowindra as well.
“I never heard him whinge once, never complain once or anything,” Simmons says of Farragher. I think that admiration tells you plenty: Simmons recognises courage because he is living it himself.
His eye for greatness has never left him
I believe dementia may challenge Simmons’s memory, but it has not dulled his understanding of football or leadership. At Hull, where money was tight and the side had narrowly missed the playoffs, he raised recruitment funds by promising to run five marathons despite never having run one. He then brought Des Hasler across to provide the class and example his young team needed.
I saw Hasler’s leadership in one freezing match when he played on through severe hypothermia, refusing to leave because his younger teammates looked up to him, while Timmy Street revelled in the conditions. Hull won, although Hasler remained below his best for another four or five weeks. I credit him with helping lift the club from around second-last to missing the playoffs by one point.
I trust that same eye when Simmons rates Isaah Yeo, by a good distance, as the finest forward he has seen. Yeo’s versatility, his roughly 200 running metres each week, his ball-playing and his reliability in defence make the case.
“I can't ever seen another forward that can do all them things,” Simmons says. To me, praise from a leader who knows the cost of doing the hard things carries real weight.
