Jonny: My Autobiography

by Wilkinson, Jonny

  The media, meanwhile, have written us off, completely and utterly. I’m not reading the papers, but the tone of every comment, every question, is the same. To be honest, I’m not surprised. I don’t think anyone is, because we all know only too well that we could soon be going home.

  In the hotel, some of the players get their shirts signed, and this tells a story. One of the traditions of a big rugby tour is that, during the final days, the players hand round their shirts for the whole squad to sign, either as a memento, or for a charity auction. But this is happening here even before our quarter-final. We play Australia on Saturday, so we could be home on Sunday. No one wants that, but neither is anyone kidding himself.

  My build-up is not helped by the World Cup balls. It isn’t that there is anything wrong with them, more the fact that there are inconsistencies within the batch of balls. In any group of balls, for instance, one might fade left, one might draw right slightly, one might go really heavily left and another three might be nice and straight.

  Toby Flood and I have worked this out, and it’s just common sense that you cannot practise if you don’t trust the ball. So during the goalkicking part of every kicking session, we work out which are the straight ones and discard the others. You want to train with the straight ones only. Occasionally, we end up doing our training with just two balls, which is just about manageable. The real problem is the match balls.

  For every match, we get six match balls, numbered one to six, and three reserves. The kickers are allowed to practise with them the day before a game. Our day-before practice has thus become an analysis of the nine match balls. Floody, JC and I work out which ball goes where. We smash the balls at goal and quickly agree if they are lefties or righties, how left or how right, or whether they are straight, and on a small piece of paper, we write all this down to commit to memory.

  So during games, every time we get a penalty or a conversion, the first thing I do is check the ball to see which number I’ve got. It’s not as if you haven’t got enough on your plate already without having to memorise the balls and then worry about which ball you might have to kick with and what the hell it’s going to do once it’s left your foot. Some of these balls are scary. Over the tournament, the movement on some has been so bad that you are practically aiming to miss. The draw ball – the one that moves right for a left-footer – is controllable. You know where you are with that one. The worst balls are the ones that fade left. This is called an ‘escape’. An escape is not a good kick, and controlling an escape is not easy. I hate the balls that escape.

  So I take my kicking sheet to bed with me on the night before a match and learn it. I also go over all the game notes I have made to myself in my notepad. The notes are under the titles Defence and Attack, and they consist of everything that we have worked on this week. And beneath them, I write something else.

  What I write is so important because the night before the game I feel vulnerable, and the next morning, I feel even worse. I will take any scrap of help I can get to make me feel man enough and good enough to walk out on that field. Thus my messages to myself read like this:

  how far I have come for this

  how much work I have done

  how much pain I have felt

  how hard I am willing to work

  how constantly I go out there, face the pressure and perform.

  They counsel me to:

  be the aggressive/competitive kid who scythes people down

  be the obsessive one who aims for perfection every time

  be the guy injured for three and a half years who has learnt how to make time and opportunities count

  take them on and have no regrets

  know that this is definitely my time.

  If I read these messages any other day, they would feel strange. The night before a game, they mean the world to me.

  Despite everything, something amazing happens out there on that Marseille pitch.

  We know what the odds are, but we don’t care. Just give it everything, everything you have got. Last-chance saloon, the coaches said, so we come out fighting, and what we come up with is astonishing. We try to do all the right things. We play as much of the game as we can in their half. We fill the whole width of the pitch with players so we have options everywhere. We keep attacking down the blind side where they continue to leave space, and it pays off for us. We get ourselves on the front foot.

  Our forwards are awesome. They hit rucks like I have never seen rucks hit before. Ben Kay, Lewis, Andy Sheridan – they are frightening. We dominate the contact area, clearing a way past the ball at every breakdown. We get a clean fast ball and we get it going forward, which is basically what wins games.

  We land blow after blow. I can feel our confidence growing. We are hurting them. We build a lead, but Australia do what Australia always do – they compete, they fight back and then Lote Tuqiri scores in the corner, putting them 10–6 ahead.

  Yet going behind doesn’t seem to phase us. Our forwards drive us on and on. One more penalty and we are a point behind.

  The intensity gets to everyone. The referee signals for another penalty and while we are playing the advantage, I take a shot at a 40 metre drop goal. If this doesn’t go over, I’ve always got the penalty. And just as I’m striking the ball, one of the Aussies yells at me: That’s all you’ve got, Wilko! That’s all you’ve got!

  But I’m thinking yeah, but it’s all we need! It’s all we need!

  We have the lead again. As the clock ticks, it comes down to trust. If we do our jobs, we will win. And now we believe in each other. Completely. I know I believe in these guys, because I stop looking at the scoreboard clock; 72 minutes are gone, then 79.

  Stirling Mortlock, the Australian captain, has a last-minute penalty. We win this match or lose it on this kick. It’s a hell of a kick, 45 metres out from the left, and with these balls, I’d hate to be in his shoes.

  We win it. We are still alive.

  The atmosphere afterwards is incredible. I confess that there were moments when I thought we’d be going home, and in the changing room, everyone is saying the same, laughing, amazed. We’re not going home. We’re staying. We are here at least until Saturday. I feel immensely proud to be part of a team of men who have done something no one expected. Cozza has so much tape holding him together, he looks like Mumm-Ra the Ever-Living from the cartoons. Lewis is bruised and battered and looks like he’s been to war. And Simon Shaw is a bit older than us but consistently world-class. I love playing with that guy.

  We are still here at the World Cup. It’s so unlikely, it’s hilarious. Cozza and Catty – no two guys deserve it more – shrug their shoulders and exchange broad smiles and a look that says what on earth’s going on?

  The three of us experienced it so differently four years ago, and we are among the last out of the changing room. For me, that is because the changing room in moments like this is one of my favourite places in the world. I don’t want to leave. So I take my time. I am so happy for everyone. I am so happy for Catty, again demonstrating what a truly great rugby player he is.

  How many times have I come off a rugby field and had people say to me God, you had a great game today? And on how many of those occasions have I thought to myself I didn’t really do anything, all I did was make a few decisions and listen to Catty helping me out? Sometimes as a number ten, you feel you are the driver on a long coach journey; with Catty, you occasionally feel someone else coming up and taking over the wheel. We drove well out there today.

  I came out to this World Cup desperate to enjoy it and to embrace it differently from the last one, but I can feel myself slipping back and I cannot stop myself. I feel the anxiety more than ever, and the fear, too. I thought I was out of this mould, but the worrying is back. As the magnitude of this World Cup has risen, and my expectations with it, I am again worrying about things that are out of my control.

  After the game, Shelley and I walk down to the beach for a crêpe. That’s about as relaxed a
s I can ever get. While we are there, France complete an unexpected win over the All Blacks in the other quarter-final, an evening game, and now it’s England v France in the semi. Marseille is suddenly buzzing with excitement. The roads are full of cars hooting their horns, people on scooters shoot by waving flags, and I become aware that, from their point of view, I am one of the people standing between them and the World Cup.

  I think we’d better head back, I tell Shelley. I don’t want to be seen out now. I want to get back to the hotel quickly.

  So we start walking back, but we don’t go back the way we came. We avoid the main roads and the crowds, and find a route back that takes us up some side roads. It takes longer but, more importantly, it’s quieter.

  At one stage, though, when the crowds and commotion are unavoidable, I find myself ducking behind trees and road signs and clinging to the shadows. This is, of course, quite funny, but I’m nervous about being out in public when we’re playing France in the next round. Just get me back to the safety of my hotel room and my collapsed ceiling.

  We move to Paris and I can feel the tournament intensifying.

  Thursday evenings are a time to look forward to. Floody, Taity and I go out to eat. It has become our weekly fixture. We don’t go anywhere smart, just round the corner. This is time out, rare, precious time to switch off from the World Cup, just once a week.

  Other than that, I struggle to turn off the switch. I try to distract myself with the ridiculously bad American Pie films, the later ones in the series, numbers four to six. Chill and enjoy them, I tell myself, deal with the game later. But it’s just so difficult to escape. I disappear into a film for five minutes and then reality comes crashing back. I feel more anxious, more nervous, and have to walk round the room, pacing one part of it and then another.

  I try to work it out. Just sit here, stare out of the window, try to meditate, try to find some peace. But when I stare out of the window, everything tells me about this game that’s coming. I wish it was here or cancelled, but it’s neither, and I just have to wait.

  On the eve of the game, I get back to my room after kicking practice to find that a newspaper has been delivered. I haven’t ordered it. I’m trying not to see the papers. But the massive picture of my face on the front cover is unavoidable, as is the huge headline in a big tabloid typeface: ‘Ayez peur! Ayez très peur!’ Be afraid, be very afraid.

  And then it all comes rushing back. People are counting on me. I don’t want to be the one who fails them.

  In the changing room before the semi-final, Catty says to me Wilko, this is your time, buddy.

  I understand what he means. We have been in situations like this ever since 1998. We’ve linked up, helped each other, we know the game in the same way and we both know what to expect in this particular game. It’s going to be tight, edgy, intense with lots of emphasis on defence. It needs us to be ahead at the right time, to keep the scoreboard ticking over if we can. But, above all, we need to hang in there to the very end and take our shot if and when we get it. This is the time when I’m supposed to come alive. This is a game for me to finish. That’s what Catty is saying, and it’s a great compliment to me.

  And the game follows the pattern we thought it would. We get a fantastic early lead when Josh scores in the corner within two minutes. Great start. But then it is dogged and tight, and France start working their way back into us. No one wants to make a mistake. Especially the place-kickers.

  The French start pulling ahead. Three penalties converted by Lionel Beauxis put them 9–5 up, but we get another precious penalty. As is the way, I grab the ball and immediately look at the number on it – two, one of the ones that leaks left. In this batch of six, there are two balls I do not want to kick, two and six. Six is even worse than two, less of a leaker, more of a blatant slice. So as soon as I see I’ve got two, I throw it out to the ballboy on the side of the pitch and ask him to throw back his. He sends me back the number six. Surprise, surprise.

  I contemplate kicking the number six ball over the stand, but I throw it back to him and get number two back again. All I want to do is hit this kick straight, but I’m swapping balls with a ballboy and trying to work out in my mind how far right I should be hitting it.

  I hit the target. We are 9–8 down.

  We struggle to get back at them. We struggle to get close. France nearly score but Joe Worsley intervenes with a last-ditch tap tackle. And then, at last, we are down their end again and we have a penalty – 11–9 up. I take my chance with a drop goal – 14–9. And then it’s over. The no-hopers are in the final.

  After a game, a lot of the guys recover in the ice bath but I prefer to get on the bike. It’s always been my way. So I’m on the bike, in the warm-up room outside the changing room, pedalling away with Calvin Morriss, one of our fitness experts.

  I don’t want to get out of my kit. It just feels so damn good to win sometimes. I’m back in the moment I’d hang on to for the rest of my life if I could – the transition between winning the last game and not having to think about the next one.

  Calvin says that we’ll do 10 to 15 minutes on the bikes, but I go on for 25, and every couple of minutes I take up the effort for a 10 second spurt. I don’t feel knackered, I’m in my own world and I could go on for much longer. I don’t want to stop. I don’t want to go and get changed. The quicker I get changed, the quicker we start talking about the preparations for the next game and the quicker this moment subsides. So the more I can hang around the changing room, the longer this feeling exists. The other boys pass me in their suits on their way out, but I carry on pedalling.

  Eventually, back at the hotel, I struggle to sleep. After a late-night game, I’m never a good sleeper. Winning a World Cup semi-final doesn’t help the process.

  I go for a stroll before bed, just to try to tire myself out, but when I do hit the sack, I have a pain in my stomach and my back. I feel the grazes on my knees burning and I cannot lie with the bedsheets touching me. I sleep for an hour.

  My mind won’t stop racing. What’s this week going to be like? What was last week like? What could I have done better in the game? I’m just wired.

  At 5.30am, I realise it’s a losing battle and go downstairs to the team room with my DVD player and a guitar. I play a bit of Arctic Monkeys – not that anyone would recognise it – and mess around on the guitar, and about an hour later, the door opens and Lewis walks in. Exactly the same deal. That’s funny. I know he suffers from night-after games, too.

  This is an opportunity to share a special moment. We talk about the game and how we feel. I’m so proud of what we’ve done. We have dug in our heels and dragged the belief from out of our hearts. And now we have a final to deal with.

  The week leading up to the final is not going to be easy. Not so much because we are facing South Africa, who have already beaten us 36–0, but because of where I am in my mind. I know I have slipped backwards.

  I’d like to spend the week enjoying the company of my teammates, but being in the team room with them reminds me too much of the game that’s coming. So I lock myself away a bit. At least I can control that environment. I ask Shelley to bring me in a load more DVDs. I try to help time disappear by losing myself in anything I can find on the TV. Literally anything will do, although my cause is not exactly helped when Ainsley Harriott starts asking the guests on Ready Steady Cook so where will you be watching the big game on Saturday? That’ll be the one I’m playing in, then.

  I wish my ankle would improve but it remains a compromise. At this stage, it’s so stiff that Pasky performs what he calls ankle surfing on it. My foot hangs over the edge of a forgiving surface and he stands on it, bouncing up and down. I’m still having treatment on it every day. Before the Australia game, I took a couple of painkillers, which is hardly ideal. If this was regular-season rugby at home, I simply wouldn’t be playing.

  The thing is if South Africa are really smart, they will have worked this out. All my career I have kicked with both feet, but
in four games here, I have hidden my right foot almost completely. I haven’t kicked once on it in training, and in games I have tried it just twice – two drop goal attempts, two misses, one hit the post. If the Springboks have sussed this, they’ll know I’m always going to use my left foot, which also means putting all my weight on my bad right foot. Knowing this would definitely help them and hinder me.

  On the eve of the game, backs coach Mike Ford slips the same printed sheet under my door that goes to everyone. On it are key thoughts to take into the game, South Africa’s strengths and, in big capitals through the middle, COMPETE ON EVERY PLAY. NO SURRENDER! NO SURRENDER! Handwritten on my sheet are the words: Jonny, your game, your tournament, your World Cup! Good luck. MF.

  In my notepad, I write more mental reminders to myself:

  I have done this so many times, it is the same each time.

  Believe in who you are and what you are.

  Know what I have learned and what I have been through, and most of all how hard I have worked to be here. I deserve to win.

  This is my time and opportunity.

  Enjoy it. Live it.

  The next morning rolls around and I receive a handwritten fax from Blackie entitled ‘Onwards and Upwards’. In typical Blackie style, the key word shouts at me in capitals: ‘If we all did the things we are capable of doing, we would literally astound ourselves. Today let yourself do all the things of which you are capable, and astound yourself. It is essential that you see yourself as an achiever and as a WINNER! Believe you can do this, and when you think positive, excellent thoughts, you and the team will be propelled towards greatness.’

  I tuck the fax away and watch the seconds ticking before we can return to the Stade de France. Once there, I’m caught up in the momentum and turning back is no longer an option. I know the exact timing of a countdown to a game and I manage to fill every minute with preparation work. I do my kicking practice to an exact formula, I return to the changing room and then go back out on to the pitch with the boys. We go through our warm-up routines as a team and then we are back in the changing room again and Vicks is gathering us all together for the last big huddle.