Andrew Mulligan: Doing time in sports jail

American football star Tom Brady's been put away for deflating balls, and he's also got a few phones to put together again. Photo / AP

Opinion

Room for more at the place where fallen stars go.

This week has been dominated by the outrageous, the inspiring and the mundane. Let's look inside the world's foremost sports jail, run by "Sercus".

It's a damp start to our Thursday morning when the guard finally lets me in. I give him the four cellphones he asked for because this visit is outside visiting hours. "These are for Tom Brady," he tells me.

This is the little-known sports jail that holds some of the biggest names in the world. I haven't come to see anyone specifically because the names in here are hard to play favourites with and they're so varied.

I see Brendon Nel, the South African journalist, extradited after merely suggesting that perhaps the magnificent lineout move crafted by Kieran Read and executed by Codie Taylor and Richie McCaw was illegal.

"Good luck in the court of New Zealand public opinion," I mutter as I walk past the dazed scribe.

The cell doors crunch open; to my left is a sleeping beauty, Dan Carter. He hasn't been incarcerated but hidden away from himself while the All Blacks went to South Africa.

Hansen and co couldn't risk an injury to him this close to the World Cup, no matter how poised the debut of Lima Sopoaga was.

Since it's early, Quade Cooper is awake in the cell beside Carter, writing tweets, apparently, but on pieces of paper, screwing them up and throwing them away. A photo of Herald columnist Chris Rattue is on the wall.

As we walk on, our shoes squelch on the wet concrete. The guard tells me they have a lot of impromptu Hurricanes Fight Club meetings and one had just adjourned a few hours earlier. The tears were fresh underfoot.

The Aussie fan who baited Stuart Broad in the Long Room at Lord's is in a cell. He had the gumption to tell Broad that he'd see him in five minutes as the Englishman went out to bat. Like a Kookaburra he's up at the bars, squawking at me "see ya in five minutes, maaate ... we're the best in the woooorld! Hahahaha!"

As we walk along the corridor, I notice through the small windows another wing of the prison. I ask what's that for and the guard tells me it's the detention centre for migrants looking to trade their football skills for residency. New Zealand Football is here most days with passports.

To our right, in a cramped cell called the "Vick-Rice" room, is the all-American football star, quarterback Tom Brady. He's busy stitching American footballs for the underprivileged as punishment for ordering his team's minions to deflate the pressure of his balls.

Shattered phones are strewn across the floor of his cell and his other job is to piece them together.

In the cell next to Brady is a long body sleeping on the bed, his feet hanging over the end by some way. "That's Steven Adams, the NBA star," says the guard. "He's in here because public expectation outweighs the understanding of his commitment to his franchise right now." He'll be out in time for NBA pre-season. I see the words "Winston Reid was here" scratched into the cell wall.

Across from him sit the Fifita brothers. They are arguing loudly with each other and are starting to wake the rest of the block up. They are shouting at each other, but no punches are being thrown. They're seemingly blaming each other for their time spent inside for abusing a ref in a junior league game.

It's the NRL cell they're in, and I notice a small hobbit-like figure curled up in the corner. I can't make out who it is but the guard informs me it's former Manly coach Des Hasler, telling me, "All he says is 'but I had a winning record, I had a winning record ...'."

The cell beside them is empty. "Who's due to go in there?" I ask.

"No one yet, but with two world cups to go this year, there's time."