Jonny: My Autobiography

by Wilkinson, Jonny

  That is my point. I’m still only 21. Everything I have done has been about this. But I also feel so strongly what I have been taught about rugby, the values I’ve acquired ever since childhood – the team has to stick together for what we believe in.

  I look around the room, at Johnno and the others for whom I have so much respect – Catty, Lawrence, Neil Back. Johnno would not be wasting his time or meddling in issues that didn’t concern the team getting better. The guys are not about money, ego, power or anything like that. This is literally about bettering the situation – for us and, more importantly, for future generations. Whatever these guys are doing, I’m doing, too. I believe in them enough.

  The discussion lasts for two intense hours and then it comes to the vote. Pieces of paper are gathered in an ashtray. Do we strike? Yes or no. Mine says yes. Matt Dawson does the counting. He announces the result. We are on strike.

  We inform Clive and he is livid. He questions some of the senior players individually in front of the rest of us; he really puts them under the spotlight. But they respond with honesty. This is not about Clive. There is no shortage of respect for Clive and his coaches.

  Next morning, Clive tells us all to clear out of the hotel. Conveniently, Farnham is not far away, so I go home and Ben Cohen comes with me. We may be on strike, but we don’t stop work. We are soon back at my old haunt, Farnham RFC, training hard and wondering what the hell is going to happen next.

  What does happen is that Ben receives a call from Clive telling him that if he sticks with this, he may never play for England again. Ben is probably not the first to hear this because my phone rings soon afterwards and I see it is Clive. I don’t feel I can deal with the conversation and I let him go through on to answerphone.

  That night we are all at a charity dinner in London. It becomes part-dinner, part-negotiating room, and the negotiating continues the next morning. Ben and I are in the car en route to meet the others when we get the call from Matt – go back to Pennyhill, we have reached an agreement.

  So we do go back. We all do. And we go on to beat Argentina, and then South Africa. And, for our troubles, we get the grand sum of £250 more per game.

  In our grey suits and blue shirts we celebrate with a squad night out and somehow I end up with Lawrence.

  We are in a nightclub in the centre of London – not exactly home territory for me. Lawrence orders at the bar and I go for a wander round the club, feeling very much that I don’t belong. My face is hardly known, thank goodness, but for Lawrence it is exactly the opposite. The place is really crowded. I get in people’s way, and get bumped around. One lap takes me about twenty minutes. I knock into one guy and he immediately gets angry and aggressive. I really don’t like this scene. I tell Lawrence maybe we should head off, and he agrees. So we leave the club and set off to where we think the others might be.

  Lawrence walks with big, fast, determined strides. I’m almost jogging to keep up, lagging slightly behind. London seems to rise to him, so I hold back to watch. As we walk down the street, taxi drivers beep their horns, shouting hey Lawrence, nice win today. And he waves back to them all. Other people on the street stop and stare, or stop for a quick chat, and Lawrence indulges them all.

  It’s amazing to see this commanding figure so at ease with his celebrity, so able to front up to it. This is a guy who just rolls with it and I don’t understand how he does it. Hardly anyone recognises me, yet I am barely able to roll at all.

  JUST when you think you might be learning the game, when you think you know what the best looks like, how to get there and how the game works, along comes someone who breaks all the rules. Rugby league superstar, and a total hero of mine, code-crosser Jason Robinson is the new face in the England camp. Here is a guy who forces me to reassess what I thought was possible in the game.

  Phil Larder, the defence coach, has a defensive drill where one player in a padded tackle suit has the ball two metres from the line, and another player, on the line, has to stop him scoring by tackling and knocking him back, or holding him up over the line. Particularly enjoyable is seeing Jason in defence against Austin in the tackle suit. Austin is very strong, and holding him up is extremely tough, even for the big forwards.

  Austin starts with a side step and then lunges, but he almost holds back a bit, as if he is aware of the difficulty of the drill for the defender. Jason tackles him, tussling, grappling and actually holds him up. Austin shifts his bodyweight frantically, realising that he is now in a serious battle. He tries to reach over Jason, tries to spin, tries everything. It’s a great wrestle. Jason is so intense, managing to shift his weight around each time to match Austin’s moves, and still holding Austin up.

  Suddenly, Austin spins himself out and has room enough to lunge over Jason to put the ball down one-handed. It’s a bit disappointing but nevertheless astounding that Jason held out for so long. However, just as Austin goes to slam the ball down on the turf, Jason in one movement whips his own legs around 180 degrees and Austin can do nothing as his final lunge grounds the ball on top of both of Jason’s legs. It’s not a try. Jason holds him there, his face disguising any concern, a picture of pure composure. Amazing.

  He is by no means finished. We are doing an offload drill in the five-metre channel. One player has to run, step and then, while taking the tackle, pop up the pass to his support runner. On this occasion, I am the next tackler in line and Jason is in front of me. As I move forward, he has no room to move, so I feel I should go easy on him, which is a bad idea. I also don’t want to hit him too hard so he can make sure he gets the pass right. But in making the tackle, I wrap my arms around nothing but myself. I clutch the air. In the space of a five-metre corridor, he has stepped me completely. Cue considerable chuckling all round. If I wasn’t just the latest of very many to have missed him, I might have been more embarrassed.

  Jason’s footwork is no secret, but to see it close up like this is a big learning moment for me. It’s like losing 76–0 and learning what professional international rugby is all about, or playing with Pat and Inga and learning about the possibilities in this game. His ability to beat players both ways and make 90 degree direction changes without losing speed totally obliterates what I believed were the limits for footwork and speed.

  I watch him, I let him inspire me, I imitate him. And then I go back to Blackie and tell him this is where I need to go next. If I am going to be the best, this is what I am going to have to be doing.

  No problem, Blackie says.

  In the gym, Blackie invents new drills and exercises for me, which we attack day after day. He has me in front of a heavy swinging punchbag, dodging around it, using my footwork to bounce, step and react. We work on it so much that it becomes instinctive movement, completely second nature. We want to change my game because we’ve seen what the greatest looks like and we want a bit of that, too.

  My new roommate at Pennyhill is Dan Luger. He is not a golfer but he gets quite passionate about our new game of hotel-room golf. The room comes with a practice-putting hole, which we move around, designing ever more complex courses. The tee-off from behind the TV is a good one, and Dan’s jumper makes for an obscure hazard. But it is when we get a suite on two floors that the game really comes into its own.

  At last, I feel a definite sense of comfort in the England camp, which I lacked for so long. It doesn’t make the games any easier, nor does it magic away the pressure and anxiety, but I do at least feel that I belong. The programme Clive has in place now feels so familiar – light day on Monday; training on Tuesday with the emphasis on attack; defence the priority on Wednesday with some full contact, live training thrown in; day off on Thursday; Friday team run; match on Saturday. You always know where you are.

  My Thursdays have a comforting familiarity, too. I kick in the morning at Twickenham – there’s never a complete day off – get back to Pennyhill, shower and then ring Richard Hill. In Hilly, I find a brotherly soul. On the tense coach journey to games on Saturdays, I always mak
e sure I’m sitting opposite Hilly.

  But on Thursday afternoons, the routine is a town visit. It might be Guildford for its shopping mall, or Windsor for its castle, Camberley, Farnham, anywhere to have a wander, a coffee and a chat about anything that isn’t rugby. Hilly is definitely up for not talking rugby. So is Catty, who sometimes comes along.

  We play a game. Whoever gets recognised the most buys the coffees. This is a game no one wants to win – but mostly it’s me. Strangely, in Farnham, my home town, it’s Hilly’s round.

  The 2001 Six Nations starts for us in Cardiff, and that morning I am out with Dave in a children’s playground.

  Before every game, we disappear off to kick. This is the pattern – just 25 minutes kicking for reassurance, to get some feeling in my legs and feet, and to get my head straight. For home games, this is simple – we kick at Pennyhill. For away games, it involves finding the nearest stretch of grass, or just a decent space, some parkland, a car park, anything. Often this ends up with groups of kids standing round asking for autographs. Occasionally, it involves unusual locations – a golf fairway comes to mind, as does a farmer’s field surrounded by cow pats.

  But from the St David’s Hotel in Cardiff Bay, where we are staying, there is no obvious location. Nothing – until we come across the local school. We have to jump the fence and there we do my preparation for our Six Nations opener – me kicking over a set of swings, Dave on the other side of the swings, standing over those funny animal seats on the big metal springs.

  The game goes really well. We score six tries, including a hat-trick from Will Greenwood, and take the chance to illustrate all the elements to our game. Iain Balshaw makes more of his devastating arcing runs from full-back, invariably fed by Catty, the supreme link man.

  It is some start. It comes part from us and, in large part, from Brian Ashton, our backs coach. Actually, he’s more than a backs coach; he’s an Attack Guru, an inspiration in his understanding of running lines, space and width. It is Brian who gives us the freedom to express ourselves and the confidence to do so. And boy are we enjoying it.

  When I return to Newcastle from England, I feel a particular pressure to deliver, entirely brought on by myself. It’s exacerbated by a guilty conscience because I have been away while my teammates have been here, working hard for the club.

  We are not a team that has ever found it easy, we have never cruised, we have never had the dominance of, say, Leicester. We have to work for everything, but I like that feeling of building. I’d rather be in a team that is fighting daily to make its mark than one that is just continuing a long line of success.

  We have a notable new recruit this year in Liam Botham. Liam is massively switched on to health and diet, and is one of the hardest athletes I have ever trained with. He doesn’t take a step backwards in dressing-room banter, either. Every day, Liam leaves recovery protein drinks in the changing room for after training, and on the one occasion he leaves them in Ross Beattie’s space, Ross throws them in the bin. When Liam asks who did it, we immediately tell him. He then takes Ross’s underpants and rubs Deep Heat into them.

  Not bad, we tell him, but not quite revenge. So Liam cuts the toes off Ross’s socks and scoops a handful of Vaseline into each of Ross’s shoes. That just about does it.

  The good news, meanwhile, is that we have Blackie back with the club. Increasingly, I spend more time with him. We train during the club sessions and outside of them too, and when we are not training together, we go out for the occasional bite to eat. He has become my best friend at the club and the guy I can offload on, depend on, rely on, my mentor, my surrogate rugby parent.

  If there is something I want to achieve, Blackie is the one who can make it happen. If it’s a new skill, fitness, concentration, Jason Robinson footwork, whatever it is, I say what I want and he just tells me what time to turn up and where. His genius is such that he can improvise with new training techniques and guide me there. I’ve never lacked for motivation or inspiration, but what I did require was someone to supply me with the techniques and advice I needed to achieve all these dreams and ambitions, to channel my energy and obsessions. I’ve got that now.

  He also makes the club a great place to be. We embark on a Cup run, past Dean Ryan’s Bristol, then London Irish, a semi against Sale and into a midwinter Twickenham final against Harlequins, where one of our secret weapons will be Inga’s haircut. Normally, Inga is closely shaven, but for some reason, which I cannot fathom, he has a bet with Rob over the accuracy of his place-kicking. Inga loses the bet and the forfeit is to grow his hair. By the time we reach Twickenham, he has a tasteful microphone dome on display.

  I so want the final to go well but we struggle as a team, and I struggle a bit from the kicking tee. With five minutes of normal time to go, we are two scores behind, but we know what to do – keep our heads, keep playing our rugby, and just maybe this is still within reach.

  We score in the corner with four minutes to go. If I hit the conversion, we can win with a penalty, but I miss. Four points down, we need a try.

  Gary Armstrong wins us a scrum and Ian Peel charges for the line. He is bundled into touch. We win the lineout and I see their defence is being sucked in. I miss Tom May and throw a 25 yard left-hander to Jamie Noon, who can make any pass look good. Noonie has been running hard all day, no surprise there, but this time he sees the gap outside and puts Dave Walder through it for the try. Sparks brings on my kicking tee and I put over the conversion. And that’s it. An incredible final is made all the sweeter because I get to celebrate it right there on the field with my brother.

  Afterwards, though, the press don’t want to ask me about the game; they want to know about missed kicks. I should be learning by now, yet I am still taken aback. I think I went pretty well out there, and we have won an amazing game. But I am the kicker and the kicks are the most noticeable part of my performance. When you kick well, they say you’ve played well, and when you kick poorly, they tear you to pieces for it. When I set out my goals to be the best number ten in the world, this was a part of the deal I hadn’t considered.

  I need Dave big time, although there are occasions when I am not very good at showing it.

  England sometimes train at Sandhurst, and my kicking training is often the last item on the day’s schedule. In midwinter, when the days are short, this can be slightly rushed as the light fades, which is hardly ideal. I cannot rest easy without knowing that my preparation has gone well. It’s my fix. I can’t go home and chill without it. My worst scenario is kicking badly and then having the rest of the night to mull over it.

  Before the Scotland game, all these circumstances just get too much for me. We have been doing some contact sessions and I find I hurt my neck in pretty much every contact session I do now. I can’t really help that. I’m all-or-nothing in training. I try to defend the way I do in a game, and I always seem to catch my neck. More so even than in games.

  So I’m a bit frustrated by this, and the light is going. I know I haven’t got long and tell myself this kicking session has to go awesomely well. But I’m worried about the Scotland game anyway, and I’m clearly in the wrong mindset because the session starts badly and everything Dave tells me seems to wind me up. I start shouting at him. I get so massively frustrated that I feel myself tearing up.

  As the light goes, I tell myself I’m just going to stay out here and get it right, which isn’t too smart because I can hardly see the ball. And the more I can’t see it, the worse it gets and the more upset I become.

  Dave has seen this before. Plenty of times, unfortunately. He knows that what I’m doing to myself now is counter-productive.

  Let’s give it a rest, he says. We’ll do a couple from dead in front of the posts and then pick it up tomorrow.

  That winds me up more. The idea of having to resign myself to the most simple kick on the field is just patronising. I start swearing at him. I tell him the game’s going to be a complete write-off, this is bullshit, it’s not right, it’
s not working, it doesn’t work, it doesn’t make any sense.

  Take it easy, he says. That angers me even more.

  Dave keeps his calm enormously well. He has a proper explanation. He tells me that I’m not getting a good grounding with my non-kicking foot because the ground is very soft and wet. Jonny, he says, let’s return to basics. In these conditions, we need to go to something simple and more productive that we can control.

  But that’s like giving in to the challenge. It’s a big failure, I’m a big failure, it’s almost like saying I can’t handle it and I’m not good enough.

  When it’s all finally over, the poor guy has to give me a lift back to the hotel and he tries to convince me that it was actually OK. I don’t think so, Dave, I say, desperate to make this as painful as possible for both of us.

  When I get out of the car at the other end, I have finally got sufficient grip of myself to apologise. I’m sorry I put you through that, I say.

  But now I know I have a long night ahead.

  The week before the France game, Newcastle play London Irish at Kingston Park. We start well and are 25 points up at half-time, but the Irish chase us hard and we finish the match hanging on, frantically defending our lead.

  With five minutes to go, I line up one of their centres with my right shoulder, but he cuts back slightly at the last second, which means the impact forces my head to smash against my left shoulder and immediately it’s back, that searing heat burning into my neck, across my back and down my left arm. The pain of a stinger usually eases after thirty seconds, but as I lie on the ground, no matter how I shift myself around, this time it doesn’t.

  By the end of the day, I have caught a flight to London and Pennyhill, where I am supposed to be preparing to play France. I’m put to bed wearing a neck collar. In the morning, I can hardly move my head. I have stiffened up completely. When I do try to turn it, it’s agony. Every little twitch is as sore as hell. I can’t kick, I certainly can’t train, and as I watch training with Hilly and Kyran, who are also nursing injuries, our teammates point at us and drag on imaginary cigars. As if we want to be putting our feet up.