Rugby union keeps searching for its Michael Jordan. It’s an obsession that borders on the unhealthy. For decades, the sport’s power brokers have desperately looked for one face that can sell the game to someone in a Tokyo skyscraper, a New York bar, or a Rio favela. They want a crossover star. They want a name that rings out beyond the muddy fields of Southwest London or the South Island of New Zealand.
The truth is, they’ve already had them. Jonah Lomu was the closest thing to a human cheat code the world ever saw. Jonny Wilkinson became a household name because of one specific kick. Handré Pollard or Antoine Dupont represent the modern pinnacle of the craft. But even with these giants, rugby remains a niche giant. It’s a massive sport that feels strangely small when you step outside its traditional heartlands. For a deeper dive into this area, we suggest: this related article.
If you’re wondering why your non-rugby friends can name LeBron James or Lionel Messi but couldn't pick the World Rugby Player of the Year out of a lineup, it isn’t because of a lack of talent. It’s because rugby is built to suppress the individual.
The Lomu Anomaly and the Myth of the Crossover
Jonah Lomu didn't just play rugby. He changed the physics of it. When he ran over Mike Catt in 1995, he wasn't just scoring a try; he was creating a global moment that transcended the sport. People who didn't know the difference between a ruck and a maul knew who Jonah was. He was the freak athlete who made the sport look like a video game. For additional background on this development, extensive coverage can be read on NBC Sports.
But Lomu was an anomaly. He appeared at the exact moment rugby turned professional, providing the perfect marketing image for a new era. Since then, the search for "the next Lomu" has been a series of disappointments. We’ve seen wingers like Julian Savea or powerhouse runners like Bundee Aki, but none have captured the world's imagination in the same way.
Why? Because the game changed. Defenses got smarter. The space Lomu exploited has vanished. Modern rugby is a game of inches and systems. It’s hard for a single player to look like a god when they're being hit by three 120kg defenders the second they touch the ball. The system wins. The individual is just a cog.
Why the 10 and 9 Struggle for Global Fame
Jonny Wilkinson is the most famous fly-half in history. His 2003 World Cup-winning drop goal is the defining image of English rugby. Yet, ask a sports fan in America who he is, and you’ll likely get a blank stare. Wilkinson’s fame was massive, but it was regional. It was huge in the Commonwealth, but it didn't "cross over" in the way a Tiger Woods or a David Beckham did.
The problem lies in the nature of the positions. The fly-half and the scrum-half—the 10 and the 9—are the most influential players on the pitch. Think of Antoine Dupont. He’s arguably the most talented player to ever lace up boots. His vision is scary. His strength for his size makes no sense. But his brilliance is technical.
To appreciate Dupont, you have to understand the nuances of the game. You have to see the lines he runs, the way he manipulates the blindside, and his timing at the base of the scrum. That’s a high barrier to entry for a casual viewer. Basketball is easy to understand: ball goes in hoop. Football is easy: ball goes in net. Rugby is a complex web of laws that even the referees struggle with. If the viewers can’t understand what makes a player great, that player will never be a global icon.
The NFL Comparison and the Louis Rees Zammit Experiment
We can't talk about crossover stars without mentioning Louis Rees-Zammit. His move to the NFL wasn't just a career shift; it was a PR disaster for rugby’s ego. Here was one of the fastest, most marketable young stars in the game, and he decided his ceiling in rugby was too low.
Rugby fans often compare their stars to NFL players. We talk about the hits, the speed, and the athleticism. But the NFL is a league of individuals. They market the quarterback. They market the star wide receiver. Rugby markets the "team ethos" and the "values of the game." While that’s great for the soul of the sport, it’s terrible for creating icons.
The NFL understands that people follow people, not just teams. Rugby Union, particularly in the Northern Hemisphere, is still stuck in a mindset where the jersey is more important than the man wearing it. If a player starts to get "too big," there’s often a subconscious effort to pull them back down to earth. You can’t have a crossover star if you’re afraid of the cult of personality.
The Complexity Problem Is Killing the Star
Let's be blunt. Rugby is too hard to watch if you don't already love it. The constant whistles, the scrum resets, and the impenetrable laws surrounding the breakdown act as a filter. They keep the casuals out.
When a player like Cheslin Kolbe does something magic, it’s often preceded by five minutes of standing around while 16 men push each other in the mud. The "highlight reel" culture of modern social media should favor rugby, but the context is often lost.
Take a look at the data from the last few World Cups. Viewership is up, but the engagement with individual players' social media accounts lags far behind athletes in the NBA or Formula 1. Even the top rugby players have follower counts that are dwarfed by mid-tier bench players in the Premier League. This isn't because they aren't impressive; it's because the sport doesn't know how to tell their stories.
Can Netflix and Docuseries Save the Icon?
The "Drive to Survive" effect is the holy grail for sports executives. Rugby tried this with "Full Contact" on Netflix. It was a good show. It gave us a look at players like Finn Russell, who actually has a personality that could appeal to a wider audience. Russell is the "maverick," the guy who defies the system.
But one season of a documentary won't fix a structural problem. To create a crossover star, rugby needs to:
- Stop apologizing for its stars. Let them have personalities. Let them be arrogant. Let them be individuals.
- Simplify the product. The game needs to flow. You can't market a star who is stuck in a scrum reset for 10% of the match.
- Focus on the "Why." Explain to the audience why Antoine Dupont is doing something impossible. Don't just assume they know.
The talent is there. The athleticism is higher than it’s ever been. Players like Eben Etzebeth are physical specimens that should be world-famous. But as long as the sport prioritizes the collective over the individual, the search for the next Jonah Lomu will remain a fruitless one.
Stop looking for the next Lomu. He isn't coming back because the game that created him doesn't exist anymore. Instead, start looking at the players who are here now and give them the platform to be more than just a number on a team sheet.
If you want to see where the next star might actually come from, stop watching the highlights and start watching the players who break the tactical mold. Look at the ones who take risks. Follow the mavericks like Finn Russell or the pure athletes like Damian Willemse. The future isn't in finding a new Lomu; it's in finally letting the current stars out of the shadow of the "team first" mantra. Keep an eye on the 2027 World Cup cycle. If the marketing doesn't shift toward individual rivalry by then, rugby will stay exactly where it is: a giant sport with a tiny footprint.
