I go up at second defender. Guscott is going to be running against me. As he passes the ball, I realise I’ve run up a bit too quickly, so in order to avoid colliding with him, I move to his side, which is also the side where he’s passed. This may look as though I’m trying half-heartedly for an intercept, but I’m not. It may also make Guscott look as though he’s not doing his job, although that’s not the case, either.
I’m going back to the queue when Guscott silences the whole group. What the fucking hell do you think you’re doing? He says it to me, loud and clear. You should fucking listen, maybe you’ll learn something.
Ever since I joined up with England, Jerry Guscott has had an aura of the untouchable about him, and as the young lad coming in, I’m certainly not the one to challenge it. Nor, on this occasion, is anyone else. Everyone hears what he has said, players and coaches alike. In the awkward quietness, I feel myself shrinking. I feel a foot tall. And then everyone just gets on with the drill again as if nothing has happened. No one stands by me, no one says: Whoa there, that’s a bit much. Or: Don’t worry about it, Jonny, just forget it, that sort of thing. No one says anything.
I don’t blame the other guys. It would’ve been pretty damn hard to react differently. But I feel totally alone and hugely taken aback. Was what I did so bad that I had to be put in my place like that?
But because no one says anything, this just confirms it for me. I don’t fit in here, it’s impossible to blend in. All my goals and aims in life demand that I am here in Couran Cove, but I just don’t want to be. I hate it.
To poor old Barrie-Jon I therefore become some kind of a stalker, forever knocking on his door and asking what he’s up to. I have a good day out to the mainland with Stimmo, but as soon as we are back on the island, I feel the enjoyment draining from me and the dread rising.
To top it all, I pick up a terrible bug, gastroenteritis. I become a prisoner, locked in my own room with my vomit for company. Harsh to say, but that is how the England dream feels right now.
Once we go into game-playing mode, life regains some simplicity. We play a warm-up game against Queensland and it goes well. Almost exactly a year since the 76–0 trauma, I call long-distance to Bilks again but this time, at last, the message is more positive.
We finish with a single Test against Australia, the best team in the world, and I’m back starting at number ten but with a vastly more recognisable team around me. And down in Sydney – or, more to the point, away from Couran Cove – I can direct my thoughts and concerns into the challenge ahead. Eighty more minutes of rugby and then I’m on holiday.
Since this is the Centenary Test, we are given a one-off strip, which is my favourite England shirt to date – dark blue with thin stripes and, as always, embroidered on to the bottom right-hand corner is the date of the game, the name of the opposition and, for me today, the number eight, signifying that this is my eighth cap. In the changing room before the game, Clive talks to me, studying my shirt, looking at the number on it.
Eighth cap already? He says it in a kind of complimentary tone, as if to suggest that’s not bad for a 20 year old. But he is pushing me all the way. In handing me the number-ten shirt, he is giving me extra responsibility, an extra onus to do something, to coordinate, organise and run the side. It feels like massive pressure.
The game goes well, but not well enough. Matt Perry scores two tries for us, the second with his head bandaged up. He is an absolute stalwart, a word-class player, one of the most courageous I’ve ever played with or against.
I think I do OK. With Mike Catt outside me at twelve, I find I can almost enjoy it. Catty is just so good at taking pressure off those around him.
Although 22–15 to Australia is not the result we want, we head back home with our rugby in reasonable shape. Almost exactly a year ago, we lost 76–0. When it comes to the game itself, maybe that England dream doesn’t feel too bad.
AS the 1999 World Cup approaches, one of the big messages from Clive is about performing and thinking under pressure. With that in mind, he takes us to the training headquarters of the Royal Marines in Lympstone. What these guys have to deal with in their daily line of work is incredible. And there was me thinking my job had a lot of pressure.
What the marines have in store for us is also seriously good fun. The star prize of the entire trip goes to Victor Ubogu for his magnificent commando-style Arnold Schwarzenegger impression, machine-gun in hand and trying to take down an enemy fort all by himself.
We are subjected to a simulated helicopter crash – the helicopter goes down into water with everyone strapped in. It spins and twists 180 degrees, and you are in total darkness. What happens is unbelievable. Guys try to get out without even undoing their seat belts. Instead of players managing to escape, the only thing that goes out the window is the training we’ve been given. The highlight is Dan Luger who, totally disorientated, swims back under his own seat and repeatedly bangs his head on the inside of the fuselage as if that is going to get him out.
We are divided into groups and sent into a smoke-filled building, which is on fire. With gas masks on and almost zero visibility, we have to find our way to the bottom floor to put out the fire. My group fumble around in the pitch black, walk into a dead-end corner and eventually get split up. Everything we touch is boiling hot. Some of us find our way to the basement, where the fire is, and while we wait for the lost members of our group, we get very hot. We don’t know what’s going on, or even if anyone knows we’re there. We try to ignore the heat on our faces and suppress the instinct to panic.
Suddenly, Phil de Glanville cracks and starts screaming out loud for one of the marines. Sir! Help me! Sir, my face is burning, my face is burning!
The evacuation takes about twenty seconds. It takes even less time to ensure that neither Phil’s face nor anyone else’s is on fire. Phil then has the piss ripped out of him mercilessly. But he was only giving voice to what we were all thinking.
As always seems to be the case, Clive throws in something extra for me. We have another task. We are in a simulated submarine, which springs a few leaks. Water starts pouring in and as the level rises worryingly high, we have to hammer in plugs to cork the holes. We are instructed how to do it beforehand, and it looks a lot of fun.
The trouble is we need someone to coordinate the group and that’s where Clive steps in. He has a word with the supervising marine.
Right, that’s decided. Jonny, he says, you’re in charge.
It’s all part of his issue with me – be a number ten, communicate better, be more assertive. Take the decisions and tell everyone else what to do.
So I end up ordering people around, telling them where to go and what to do, and I feel I am being evaluated as a leader. What looked fun becomes an exam. And as I’m issuing my commands, I’m wondering how did Paul Grayson, the other number ten, do on this? If he did better, does that mean I’m not going to get picked?
At the end of the trip, the marines give their feedback to a meeting of the team leaders, which, as a number ten, I somehow qualify for. They tell us the squad works well in terms of roles and relationships. But they stress if you really want to be a team, if you really want to win this World Cup, you need a firmer one-in-all-in ethic.
That is a crucial lesson. It tells us we need to be strong as a group, we need a set of rules and we need to stick by them together. We start to set down a Code of Conduct. Personally, even more than before, I analyse how I contribute to the squad.
Just as I’m leaving Newcastle to head south for the England camp and my first World Cup, Dean Ryan stops me for a quick word. I think it’s going to go really well for you guys, he says. And I’ve got you down as my player of the tournament.
That’s a nice message to hear, and it reinforces in my own mind how important this part of my career is about to become. My first World Cup. A bit of a step into the unknown.
It kind of swallows my bigger ambition. I still want to be the best player in the world, but it is als
o clear how far away I am. I’ve yet to show that I’m truly capable of surviving at the top level. But I am becoming more and more aware that individual performances have very little to do with it at times. It’s those around you who count. My team.
Down at the Petersham, the new thing is nutrition. Two specialists, Adam Carey and Roz Cadir, have been brought in and it seems we are taking their subject very seriously. They want hair samples from us so they can study what’s in our bodies and what our bodies need. They want stool samples from some of the boys – not me. I make any excuse I can to get out of that one. And they want to weigh us and our food before and after every meal.
Huge emphasis is placed on knowing what substances might be banned. On the other hand, we are put on so many supplements. Some people are on up to thirty different pills and tablets every day. It gets to the stage when some of the boys are waking up in the middle of the night so they can take their protein drinks at regularly spaced times.
This is a massive change for us; it’s very full on. I’ve not really heard of soya milk and tofu until now. And suddenly I am supposed to be eating steak and broccoli for breakfast.
In a room in the Petersham we call the War Room, Clive discusses strategy with us. You need to take the initiative more, is one of his messages. Play what you see in front of you. Don’t play by numbers.
One example: when we get penalties that are out of range of goal, don’t kick for the corners all the time. Keep your head up and look down the middle of the field where there might be no cover. Put in the kick, chase and see if you can isolate a full-back and turn him over under his own posts.
This is not exactly what our forwards want to hear, and it’s the kind of thing a young number ten feels a bit hesitant about. But I try it in our first game, against Italy, and it turns out OK.
The Italy game is a good start, and I score my first England try – three of us chasing a bobbling ball and me getting the lucky bounce – and then indulging in an appalling impromptu celebration.
I have hardly touched down when I’m up on my feet, running towards the crowd in the south stand with my arms wide apart. It doesn’t take me long to realise what I’m doing and how much I wish I wasn’t doing it. It couldn’t be further from my usual style. I never go in for try celebrations. I think it’s just shock that I’ve actually scored a try for my country.
The Italy game is generally viewed as merely the opener. Everyone knows that the next one, against New Zealand, is very probably the one that will define our route through the knockout stages, and so influence our chance of winning. If my career has been a series of ‘biggest games so far’, this is now it, especially playing at ten. I am asking a hell of a lot of myself. Some big names are playing against us, Jonah Lomu for starters.
At dinner later, the nutrition police relax a bit. Bread and butter pudding gives us a chance to go a bit heavier on the carbs. I know all too well that after this last treat, the minute I put down my spoon, it’s all business.
As I walk into the dining room for the Last Supper, I catch Austin’s eye. He purses his lips and makes a familiar bathroom noise, which tells me that he can see I’m already clearly suffering from pre-match nerves, and that he is shitting himself too. It’s good to know that I’m not the only one feeling it.
To try to relax and take my mind off what’s to come, Leon Loyd and I go to the cinema. It’s not far into the centre of Richmond but we drive, which is our first mistake. We can’t find anywhere to park. We drive round and round until we eventually decide to cut our losses and park round the back of the cinema in the hope that no traffic wardens are doing the rounds, because they wouldn’t be too impressed.
That is our second mistake. After the film, we return to a clamped car. It’s now around 11 o’clock, there is a massive World Cup game the next day and we are standing around in the dark, making phone calls and trying to get someone to unclamp the car.
This takes God knows how long. And it’s not good for me. Before a game, I like to know where every hour is going, so that every part of my preparation is right. I can’t handle unforeseen events. I start getting edgy. I should be in bed.
And that’s it. Never again do I go to the cinema the night before a game.
The game starts at an incredible pace. It feels more urgent, intense than ever. I feel I am working massively on instinct.
I take a pass from Daws, dummy-switch with Phil de Glanville, hold the ball, step, spin, find more space, offload. It’s going just about OK, practice and hard work are paying off, but it feels like it’s taking all I’ve got merely to stay afloat. We are matching the All Blacks on the scoreboard. The intensity, however, is unreasonable.
I have the ball again. I’m looking around at where to play next and make a miss-pass out to Jerry down one side, shouting to him use Lawrence, use Lawrence, who is outside him. As a strong ball-carrier, it’s an opportunity for Lawrence to truck it hard and find his way forward through some weaker arm tackles.
Jerry kicks the ball instead, a good kick under pressure, which bounces into touch by their 22. He then turns to me and shouts: Don’t ever fucking throw that shit at me again! That’s your responsibility, you deal with it!
Just what I need. Physically and mentally, I have taken on all the responsibility I can anyway, and the message here is that all the decision-making is to come back to me, the whole lot. I have now got my outside centre and star player, who is, like me, clearly a little stressed, telling me that he only wants the ball when it’s bang on for him. I wish I could make the same demands for myself but against New Zealand, the perfect situation doesn’t often come around.
I’m almost thinking that the wide part of our back attack is largely out of use, out of order. It reduces my options and I’m now not only having to play against New Zealand and make my own decisions, I’m having to be careful about my own team.
I’m not sure it was that bad an option, anyway. But while I understand his frustration, why not tell me he didn’t want the ball? When I don’t want to be thrown a pass – which happens often – I make sure I don’t get it by saying so very loudly. That’s what communication is for. He could have told me there’s space, kick long, right. I would have appreciated the help.
And accompanying all this in my head is the nagging thought that if we lose this game, it’s going to be my fault. Our future path in the World Cup, any disappointment, is going to be traced back to me.
It doesn’t help that I miss a couple of early penalties. We are in touch, but having to chase. Into the second half, we have the scores level again when Lomu finally gets away. I sprint across the pitch, too far away to make any impression, watching him on the outside, looking unstoppable, going through one, two, three and then a fourth tackler. It is almost like I am 16 years old again, sitting in front of the TV watching the semi-final of the 1995 World Cup.
After that, we don’t score another point.
I can’t get my head around defeats like that. Final score 30–16 to New Zealand. I want to deal with it. I want to break it down in my mind, understand just why it happened and what it means. I want to know: How did I really do? No one has the answers. Instead, I’m left with a feeling of helplessness and intense disappointment.
I could sit around the hotel wallowing in it, or I could accept an invitation from Phil Greening to go out and escape. So, for once, I make a half-decent decision. I say why not? We go out purely in order to change our surroundings, because it’s too painful sitting there, and we end up in Home, a Leicester Square nightclub, a huge place with a number of floors and a VIP area where we encounter footballers Paul Gascoigne and Neil Ruddock.
This is kind of weird. There are women floating around and every time any of them get close to one of the footballers, a TV camera appears and tries to film them. I don’t quite get it. Is a documentary being made here, or is this just what life is like when you are a celebrity?
Also, it clearly costs a bit to live in this environment. I’m drinking half pints of D
iet Coke. When it’s my turn to buy a round, it costs me £250. Thank God for my England match fee.
The Tonga game is next. I’m rested and watch from the stands as we move past them with thirteen tries, two from Jerry, and not too much trouble. But the problem with losing to New Zealand is we now have an extra round in the knockout stage, which means we have Fiji five days after Tonga, and then, all being well, a quarter-final against South Africa four days after that.
I actually enjoy the Fiji game. I like playing against a team with that sort of attacking mindset because they never stop trying to come at you and you are pushed to the limits of your fitness, really blowing. I like to be challenged like that. It makes all the lung-busting anaerobic sessions really worthwhile.
What I don’t enjoy, though, is the two-on-one at the end of the second half, when I pass to Phil Greening, he scores a simple try and I run straight into a stiff-arm across the face from their hooker. He gets a red, I get carted off and don’t really come round properly until I’m on the physio bed in the changing room. That is one of the worst bangs on the head I have ever taken.
So we go to Paris to play South Africa, a game for which our preparation time is minimal. In my hotel room, where I spend a lot of my time, I get a call from Clive. Can I come and speak to you? The moment he says that, I know what’s coming, and by the time he’s at my door, I am resigned to it.
I have done really well, he says, I am definitely moving along the right lines, doing a great job for England. But for this massive quarter-final game, they want to go with someone who has more experience, is more used to high-pressure games like these and is a bit more familiar with a structured kicking game.
Jonny: My Autobiography Page 9