He filled the doorway like an action hero; six foot five of muscle and menace, the number 11 carved into his eyebrow, a black bandana pulled tightly around his head. I’d been hunting Jonah Lomu for days before he agreed to see me, write former Rugby World editor Alison Kervin.

I’d stood at the edge of training pitches and loitered in hotel lobbies. On every occasion I was sent away: Jonah doesn’t do interviews.

But, remarkably, my persistence paid off and here he was – striding across the lobby, enormous and unsmiling. When he reached me, the frown softened, the storm cloud broke – and in a voice so small I almost missed it, he said: “Please may I have a milkshake?”

Remembering Jonah Lomu, Issue 318 of Rugby World

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I’d flown across the world to try to get the interview with him. He could have asked for a Ferrari and I’d have tried to find one for him.

We strolled to the beach in the bright Australian sunshine, the traffic slowing and people craning their necks for a glimpse of rugby’s new rock star. Lomu smiled boyishly, as if he couldn’t quite believe the fuss was about him.

As we sat at a beachside café, drinking milkshakes, he talked about his childhood in South Auckland, about the violence he had escaped, about how he remembered every face, every slight, every act of kindness.

Later, he told me that this photographic memory had saved him. “It kept me alive,” he said. He also spoke about the comic books and superheroes he loved. “I want to be one of them.” He didn’t realise he already was.

Jonah Lomu pictured at his home in Ponsonby, Auckland, (Getty Images)

I recall the interview so well, even though it was 30 years ago. I recall how he leaned forward to lick the edge of his glass, chasing the last drop of strawberry milkshake. He emerged with a pearl of milk on his nose and tried to reach it with his tongue. It was so far removed from the colossal force he was on the pitch.

The interview ran in Rugby World. The photos of him on the beach, headphones on, smiling into the sun, captured exactly what he was: an unstoppable force with the heart of a kid. A year later, I called him again. “Jonah, it’s Alison,” I said. “Do you remember, we met…” “I know who you are,” he interrupted. “You’re the girl from the beach. We had a milkshake. You stalked me till I said yes.” “How on earth do you remember that?” I replied. He laughed. “Your photographer was called Dave.”

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Jonah’s memory wasn’t just good – it was superhuman. He could recall the angle of a camera lens, the colour of your shirt, the music that was playing.

I persuaded him to do a fun shoot at Legoland in which we would photograph him looming over Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. It was wonderful. Once we’d finished, Jonah straightened up, stepped back…and planted his giant foot squarely on Westminster. There was a horrible crunch. We froze.

Then Jonah’s shoulders began to shake. He doubled over, roaring with laughter, tears in his eyes. “Man, I broke the Government!” he howled. We ended up on our hands and knees, trying to glue the Houses of Parliament back together while Jonah, still giggling, tried to help with those huge hands the size of laptops.

Former All Black international rugby player Jonah Lomu has his head covered in bronzer backstage prior to his competitive debut in the over-90kg novice category at the Wellington Bodybuilding Championships (Getty Images)

I saw him many times over the rest of his career. I even interviewed him about his new passion for bodybuilding. When I rang, he sounded like he was speaking from a cave. “I’m in the shower,” he said. “Trying to get the hair to go down the plughole.” He’d shaved his body ahead of a competition and nearly blocked the Auckland plumbing system.

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There were harder interviews too; times when he was frail and pale, when kidney disease had taken its toll. But he was never bitter. Never self-pitying. He took everything in his huge stride. The last time I saw him was during the 2015 World Cup. We were chatting about life, rugby and his boys when a small child ran across the lobby and almost crashed into him.

Jonah stepped back, stumbled slightly. I grinned. “You be careful,” I said. “Last time you did that, you broke the Government.” He threw his head back and laughed, covering his mouth with his huge hand, rocking as he remembered. Then he kissed me on the cheek and walked away, smiling.

He was still the same: a man who could flatten a defence and melt a heart, who made giants look small and milkshake taste better. He died a week later.

Interviewing Jonah Lomu was like interviewing every superhero in every comic – a gentle giant, a phenomenon with the soul of a child.

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