Jonny: My Autobiography

by Wilkinson, Jonny

  I like the sound of this. It’s positive, concentrating on improvement, a great project for the post-Lions summer. Middlesbrough’s indoor facility is perfect – no wind, dependable secure footing, a sterile environment, ideal for learning.

  We have the whole place to ourselves. Two, sometimes three evenings a week, we drive the hour down to Middlesbrough, we kick between eight and half nine and then we drive the hour back for a late dinner, bed and then up for Newcastle training the next morning.

  Dave introduces a new concept: centring. He says to me picture your inner energy like a fire burning in your core area. Channel that fire as you’re breathing in and out, and channel the power so you actually feel it going down your leg, like a build-up of explosive energy into your foot as you strike the ball.

  It’s part visualisation, part a kind of control of energy and part focus of concentration. I follow his words and take a kick. I get an extra six metres. I am astonished. This is the power of the mind and here, for the first time, is the clear evidence. Immediately I realise that this is where I will get my next big gains.

  We also work on stripping down and rebuilding my technique. We want to bring in my main quadricep muscle instead of the inside quad muscle, which is not as strong. In other words we want to use less of my instep and a little more of the top of my foot.

  When you connect this way, Dave says, you get more power, more precision and it will ping off your foot, fizzing like a golf ball off a low iron.

  This is not easy. Numerous times I kick the hell out of the floor before the ball. But then, suddenly, I get it right and the penny drops.

  He’s not finished there. I have always approached the ball in a slow walk. This gives me a reliable routine but means all my power has to come from my last long step into the kick, which can be difficult to control, especially when I’m tired. We work on flowing into each goalkick, accelerating into the strike, which allows me to use the momentum of my body to achieve the necessary power. In classic Dave Alred style, I get results – greater distance, more accuracy and more comfort, all with less effort.

  Who else is doing this? How good will this be if we can perfect it? This is suddenly all I can think about.

  When I’m centring, Dave says to adopt a strong position. He doesn’t tell me what to do, but I find that the more I focus, the more my hands naturally move to each other. With my hands together like this, I find I can shut out the pressure and crowd noise. This position assures me, very slightly it relaxes me.

  To get comfortable with new distances, we spend hours kicking 45 metres, 50 metres, and aiming to land the ball on the crossbar of the goal. We kick footballs to encourage the rolling of the foot – anything to help relearn and perfect my new technique. It’s a massive step forward and it’s purely thanks to Dave’s genius.

  The big thing at Newcastle for the new season is the Heineken Cup. We are in a group with Leinster, Newport and Toulouse, so we’re not exactly easing our way into it.

  I find it hard enough preparing for a game without a TV camera watching your every move. It’s worse when you’re kicking before the game and going through your warm-up routine, and two guys are moving around you with a camera two or three metres away. For these Heineken Cup games, the TV production side seems to go up a level.

  It’s the same with all televised games. You get off the bus, get your bag and walk to the changing room accompanied by a camera two feet from your face. The face they choose is invariably mine.

  Sparks knows how uncomfortable this makes me feel. Before the game I like my space to concentrate, but the cameras make that so hard. So this is the routine. He gets off the coach first and does a quick scan for cameras. When he sees one making a beeline for me, he walks close in front of me all the way to the changing room, effectively blocking the camera.

  I like that minor victory. It works because it gives me the space, but also because I just don’t like the way the cameras operate. This is a team, we live in a team environment, so the whole team should have screen time, but they want to focus on one person.

  But I would rather the victory was on the pitch. I feel like I kick well against Newport and again against Leinster at their place, but in a well-contested game, they also beat us. Europe, it seems, is for now a bit far ahead of us.

  When I started with England, my first fitness tests were straightforward three-kilometre runs round a track. How fast can you do it? Mike Catt was phenomenal. On my debut, aged 18, I got an early stitch and then chugged around, just about managing to stay ahead of the front-row boys. Catty and Neil Back were probably the fittest in the squad. I clearly wasn’t.

  These tests were tough for the forwards. All that weight pounding down on the hard surface was hell for their knees and backs. At some stage, someone twigged and asked what on earth has running 3km, at the same steady pace, got to do with playing rugby?

  So now we have a Team Fitness Test, and it has got into my head.

  Starting from a lying position, you get to your feet, run five metres to a cone, backpedal to the start, get down to your chest, up, run five metres out, backpedal again, down to your chest again, then a series of 10 metre zigzag runs before rounding it off with a 30 metre sprint back to the start. That is one repetition. Then you have a 25 second rest and do another rep, then a 30 second rest followed by three sets of two reps with about 45 seconds to sort yourself out in-between, depending on how fast you complete your reps. One final single rep and you have completed the nightmare experience. One rep takes about 20 seconds. One of the coaches monitors you with clipboard and stopwatch. Your combined time for all the shuttles is your score.

  It kind of simulates game play, the stop-start, making a tackle, and features recovery – running hard out until a break in play, quick rest, recovery and then ready to go again.

  This ability to measure us, to compare us with each other, makes me competitive. When I get back up to Newcastle, I say to Blackie I have to be the best at this test. I want to train for this test. You tell me where I need to be, when to turn up, and what to bring with me. We both know that I’d do better to train for the actual game, but I don’t care.

  Blackie’s response, as ever, is spot on. He sets up similar exercises and he has me doing them wearing a vest weighed down by 10 or 20 kilos’ worth of lead. He even manages to make it fun. But I have a new goal here and so I train ridiculously hard for it.

  Back down at Pennyhill, the test starts to make me nervous. I find I can’t sleep the night before test day. After all this effort, what if I don’t win?

  But I do win. Just behind me, as always, is Neil Back, but I am consistently at the front. That way I don’t feel I have let myself down.

  For England, the autumn starts badly. We go to Dublin for our postponed Grand Slam game and we lose fair and square, 20–14. We are short on preparation time and we are slower than Ireland to get the Lions experience out of our systems. In simple terms, we are beaten by a better team on the day. Another Grand Slam is gone.

  For me, though, the greater challenge is what comes next in the autumn season – Australia. The media muse over the question: who is the best in the world? In press conferences and interviews, this is how they put it: A lot of people are saying now that you’re the best number ten in the world, you and Stephen Larkham. What do you think?

  I answer honestly. In many facets of the game, I wish I was as good as he is.

  Deep down, though, that question strikes a chord. It’s a reminder of the goal I wrote down – I want to be the best ten in the world. But I have another goal. Never to be anything less than humble and modest. I make sure I pay due respect to all other players and I’d never dream of talking about myself as the best. But actually, this subject comes like music to my ears. It’s like a drug and I can’t quite resist it. I want to be the best. It really does matter to me that people think I might be.

  By the time the Australia game comes round, this is just one of the thoughts that has worked its way deep into my head. Sit
ting in the changing room, preparing for the match, the pressure I feel is almost unbearable. If you offered me an opt-out now, the chance to run away, I’d seriously consider it.

  I make myself a promise. If I get through this game all right, I’m going to ask for two weeks off after it.

  We beat Australia 21–15, I kick all 21 points, five penalties and two drop goals, and I feel good. Not good as in elated, but good as in pleased to have come through the challenge and survived the pressure. And I don’t ask for two weeks’ holiday.

  A fortnight later, we have the Springboks and I am exactly the same, feeling the anxiety and strain rising as the game approaches.

  On Friday night, I try to relax by watching TV, but I don’t really watch. I spend the entire programme asking myself how much time is left? And am I enjoying this? Am I relaxing? I count the minutes down until it’s time to go to bed.

  When I go to bed, I read through the notes I’ve made during the week and then I listen to the CD that Dave has made for me. It’s a mental rehearsal CD with Dave narrating over the noise of a real game. He talks me through tackles and passes, kicks and decisions, using the language I need to hear to visualise my performance. They’ve moved the ball, your man has the ball, you focus on his thighs and you go forward and hit, driving your shoulder into his legs, wrapping your arms tightly, you make the tackle, it’s a strong tackle … And so on. I listen but I’m still not relaxing.

  In the morning, I have my usual breakfast of muesli and an egg-white omelette filled with ham and peppers, and afterwards it’s kicking practice with Dave. Then, after a brief team meeting, I have an hour or so in my room to get changed, sit there and mull over it all.

  If someone offered me the chance to fast forward five hours now, I’d snap it up. If you could tell me I get through the game OK, I’d take it. I’d miss the whole playing experience just to be sitting back here, knowing it had gone well enough to appease my fears and I’d survived the ordeal.

  By the time we get to the game, I’ve expended so much mental energy, I tell myself again I really need a break. This time after the game, I’ll definitely ask for a fortnight off.

  But the moment I’m on the pitch, my anxiety lifts and the instinctive, competitive spirit kicks in, and all the training and hard work starts to pay off. We beat South Africa 29–9. I kick seven penalties.

  This is how international rugby is for me now. And I never ask for that fortnight off.

  If there is an answer to Newcastle’s Heineken Cup campaign, it probably comes in the form of Epi Taone – Tongan, massive, brought over by Inga. He is lethal. He is our Lomu. We play him on the wing or in the back row. He is as fast as any of our wingers and bigger than any of our forwards, yet he can step, he can pass, anything. All we need to do is keep him under control and he is an absolute dream.

  We play Toulouse at home and Epi just blows them away. On receiving one kick-off, we work the ball back from the ruck, I throw a miss-pass to Epi as he appears late into the line, running from out to in, and Toulouse don’t see him coming. He shrugs one tackler, steps another and is clear. He then hands off Xavier Garbajosa, and Garbajosa’s quick so he gets back for another go and Epi hands him off again. He goes 85 metres and we score straight from the move. We beat Toulouse 42–9.

  But that is a rare glimmer of joy. We play Leinster back at home, or rather at Headingley, because Kingston Park is frozen, and it’s a tight, physical game. Clive Woodward is watching from the stands.

  At 10–10 their scrum half breaks blind, close to the try line. I’m one of two defenders against three attackers. I try to read the move, take a gamble and commit myself, but the scrum half darts through the gap inside me.

  I have to leave the pitch because of a four-inch gash to the back of my head. In the physio’s room, Sparks has to hold the sides of the cut together so that the doctor can put in ten stitches to hold it.

  After 20 minutes, I get back on to the pitch for the close of the game. We are still seven points behind, but we are dominant and pressing, and finally, with a minute or two to go, Tom May works an opening on the right, which puts Inga over for the try. The conversion ties the game but I miss it. We get one more shot but Brian O’Driscoll smashes me into touch as I go for the corner.

  Afterwards the disappointment is intense. I feel responsible. I’ve let down my teammates, who have worked so hard and deserved more. I feel totally responsible for the try we conceded. I stay on the field with Sparks. I feel so angry I cannot leave.

  Clive comes over, I think to say hard luck, but I am totally absorbed in myself and somewhat rude. I don’t even look up and Sparks has to cover for me. He explains that I’ve got a bad head. But Clive won’t be surprised. He’s seen me like this before.

  To work it out of my system, I’m out kicking the next morning. I take 10 balls and hit 50 kicks from the spot where I missed. It’s not great training but it does a holding job on my demons for a few hours.

  That night I struggle to sleep. It’s always that way after a disappointing game. On the second night, when I’m not so tired, I’m not buzzing from the game and my mind is clearer, I lie awake, picturing the action and thinking about what I could have done better. It can take hours to process everything. Images endlessly float round my mind. At 5am, I finally drop off and escape the torture.

  I sit down to reassess and, on A3 paper, under the title ‘From Here On In’, I write out in long hand where I stand:

  Goals

  To be the best rugby player ever to have played the game.

  Never to tolerate or deal with underperformance but to persist in following my goals and working harder and more professionally than anyone else.

  To score more tries and never stop working on the pitch.

  To be England captain and win.

  To captain the British Lions and win.

  About Newcastle Falcons, I write:

  We are in the particularly fragile position of possessing the strength, spirit and ability to win things and become legends in the game – but not realising it. The time we have left as a team to recognise this fact and succeed this year is short and running out fast … We must recognise the advantaged position we are in and make a commitment … There must be a general consensus that to underperform due to lack of drive and preparation is not acceptable … Every time I think of kicking the ball out on the full from a kick-off, or missing touch from a penalty, I feel sick in my stomach from knowing my hard work throughout last week, last year and my life has not been repaid or worth it … To walk into the club after a game and to be approached by fans wanting autographs is a real character test, for if my mistakes and ill performances were to be from lack of hard work or preparation, I would not be able to accept the pen to sign … To feel like I am not progressing in my dream to learn and develop and be the best hurts me as much as it hurts to wonder if the confidence that the players like Inga and Gary have in me ever wavers when I underperform … To know that, come May, we will be saying goodbye to Inga and Pat scares me because I know we have a choice on how we say goodbye to them and I want so badly to be able to say it with medals in their hands.

  Sometimes, though, all the hard hours do pay off. The start of the 2002 Six Nations is one of those times.

  We play Scotland and win 29–3. A fortnight later against Ireland it feels even better. For 60 minutes, we are flying. We are able to run with the ball, play what is in front of us and everything seems to make sense. I get the chance to run and take people on and vary my game.

  And I say thank you, Blackie. Days like this show that everything we do is worth it.

  We score six tries against Ireland, and Austin displays his skills. He works best as an opportunist, a floating decision-maker, and I feel his presence. He tells me put it over the top. So, without needing to look, I chip the ball in behind them. He collects it and comes up just short of scoring. He is an outstanding reader of the game.

  But then we play France, and they have a plan that works. They send a flye
r out on me, just to try to stop the ball from ever going outside. They try to shut me down and take me out of the game. Even if I pass the ball, they hit me to the deck and hold me down while the game moves on.

  Serge Betsen, their number seven, sticks to me the whole game. Usually, if a guy flies out of the line like this, it’s brilliant because it means that they are defending individually and you’ve got opportunities elsewhere. But when Betsen goes, the reaction of everyone else in their team is so urgent. They come out so fast it’s like their lives depend on it.

  For me, that is a challenge, one that fires every competitive instinct. But I can’t lose my head. I can’t go and smash someone or just sort this out myself. Instead, I have Clive in my head – build the score, direct the game.

  But we can’t build anything because, at home in front of their passionate fans, they are too good at preventing us from doing so. They play very, very well, and it’s actually in attack where they really win the contest. They exploit a couple of minor lapses of concentration in our defence and score two good tries. Five points behind, we cannot claw our way back.

  It hurts. It always does when you want something that badly, but there is no fast-acting cure for the pain. It goes down as another lesson – you can go in with the greatest game plan but if it’s not effective, you’ve got a very small window to adapt. So we work on our on-field communication, how to stop the rot. We focus on how to evaluate and change tack, and we set about understanding how to do this under the most severe pressure, when the noise and panic around you are at their height.

  If there are any immediate smiles to be found on this day, they come from Henry Paul, another of my heroes from rugby league, who has made his debut and has a first-cap song to sing. We ask him to sing the ‘Paul Brothers Rap’, which he wrote with his equally famous rugby-playing brother, Robbie. He responds by giving it to us there and then outside the function room where we are due to have our post-match meal. Brilliant.