Jonny: My Autobiography

by Wilkinson, Jonny

  I really like it here.

  Pre-season starts early. My first game for my new club is in 35 degree July heat, and I have come all this way to find my great friend Jamie Noon on the same pitch. He has joined Brive and they are our visitors. When a big fight breaks out near our line, Noonie runs up and grabs me from behind, holding me in a kind of head-lock, muttering in my ear all kinds of threats about how he is going to beat me up.

  This is all quite amusing until the Toulon flanker, Thomas Sourice, decides he needs to jump to my rescue. He charges over and is on the brink of battering Noonie before I eventually produce my best French and explain that he is my mate and this is a joke. Thomas then finds this funny, too.

  My competitive debut in the League is not such fun. When Toulon had their relegation issues last season, it was felt they needed more reliability with their goalkicking. That, clearly, is one of the reasons why I am here.

  But here we are, going into this big, big game for me, a night match against Stade Français, with everyone, and me in particular, desperate to get off to a good start, yet on the pitch in the warm-up, something is definitely not quite right with my kicking. The ball is flying a bit funny, swinging from right to left, yet there’s no real wind to speak of.

  All the crisis management and panic lights are suddenly flashing in my head. I have to sort this out quickly because I can’t tell if the ball is moving on its own or if it’s my fault, and right now I don’t know where the hell to aim. I’m trying everything, but nothing’s working. I hate it that this has come about right now, right at this moment. It’s exactly like the Samoa game in the 2003 World Cup. During the team talk, I’m only half there; the other half is still trying to work out what’s going on.

  My first penalty attempt is from wide left, a reasonable distance away. I need this; just get this right. And I do. It goes right where I want it to go.

  In fact, I get all the kicks that are within a reasonable distance. Anything longer, though, and I’m miles away. I’ve not even had a chance to look up and the crowd are telling me all about it. So I’m playing a game with regrets already rifling through my head. It’s really frustrating. I miss three kicks and I want them all back again. I want to prove myself here. I so don’t want to be kicking like this in front of my new team.

  The game is close. The scores go up in threes. I could just do with a few more of them. So finally, I take a 45 metre snap-shot at a drop goal, which I get. We are three points up with five minutes to go. I want it to end here, but they work a drop goal move of their own to level the scores, and suddenly the game is over. A camera is thrust in my face on the field and I’m being interviewed in French. I do my best to explain. It’s great to be out here with the team, but I’m very disappointed about the three chances I should have got.

  Deep down, I’m finding this difficult. There is no explaining just how challenging it is to perform normally when the confidence and surety have been stripped away.

  When this happens, I would rather be anywhere other than on a rugby pitch in front of thousands of people. So in one sense, I am kind of proud of myself. I guess I could have feigned an injury to get off the field or turned down the goal kicks and gone for touch instead. On the other hand, I’m severely disappointed about the game, because I know I could and should have done so much better and a great chance went begging. Either way, I know for sure that I’ll be out on the Stade Mayol pitch early in the morning, kicking my life back into shape again.

  It’s not just a case of getting out here and playing my best. There are other issues. I have to manage the move here with Shelley, I have to manage recovering my car, having had it towed away on my second night here because I didn’t understand the parking regulations, and I have to manage my knee.

  At times, the pain behind the back of the kneecap returns. It doesn’t get quite as bad as it used to be. Some days we have two rugby sessions and in the afternoon I’m running with a very pronounced limp. And sometimes I can’t kick at all off my right foot because I can’t support myself on my left leg. So I’m having to adapt to the way my body has changed and compromise my old habits, especially in the way I train.

  I warm to my new environment, though. Martin Johnson, now the manager of the England team, and Brian Smith, his backs coach, visit me, and I take them down to the Toulon waterfront. They’re interested in me being a part of the autumn internationals.

  A few weeks later, I’m down at the port again with my mum and dad. Toulon have just beaten Bourgoin and I have scored my first try for them. I managed to pick up my own grubber-kick and step the full-back to score. I don’t make a habit of scoring, and so I’m happy with that. Now I can relax in the open air in a restaurant by the sea. It feels good to be here.

  For the first time in over a year and a half, I am an England player again. I’m back at Pennyhill, and it doesn’t take long to get used to the game plan that Johnno and Brian Smith have put in place. I like it. It gives width and options, and it allows me the chance to roam a bit.

  And it feels great to be back at Twickenham. The atmosphere is terrific. We kick off the autumn season against Australia, who have pretty good team. The speed of their ball makes them difficult to defend, but I enjoy the game. I feel very comfortable at the level of international rugby, even with my new knee, and I enjoy being able to play what I see in front of me. I feel the instinctive side coming back into my game. I like that.

  Our game plan is to attack certain areas of the field and, in order to ensure the ball gets there, I can’t afford to be caught with it. So at times I have to play a little bit deeper than usual, flatter when I want to do the attacking. At other times, the framework requires something else.

  None of this is remotely understood by the media, and after we have been beaten, 19–8, a great deal is suddenly made of playing flat or deep. That is the tone of the questions that are put to me afterwards. That’s all I’m asked about – are you playing too deep?

  ‘Playing deep’ seem to be buzz words. I’m told the TV makes a thing of it, too. Even Bilks, on the phone later, says I see they are talking loads about you playing deep.

  I can’t explain to the media what I’m doing because I’m not going to give away anything tactical. All I can do in my defence is tell people they are misunderstanding and oversimplifying the situation.

  Yet after twenty months away from the England scene, I feel I’ve got back into it. Lewis and I have done our jobs as leaders, and defensively, I really feel I’ve made an impact. Yet once again, the storyline seems to centre around me. Generally, people feel that I did well, but no one can just leave it at that. There has to be something and this time, randomly, it’s depth.

  We play Argentina next and our victory is hard-fought against good defending, but for the subsequent game against New Zealand, a decision is taken to change what we are doing. We want to hit them with something they aren’t expecting, play more direct with more use of forwards around the breakdown and ten channel, a game plan favoured by Wasps and the Lions of the previous summer.

  I’m not familiar with this. It’s very structured. I feel I’m filling a role instead of roaming and making decisions. At the beginning, it has to be prescribed in order for us to understand it fully, but, afraid of getting it wrong or getting in the way, I find myself constantly asking Simon Shaw am I doing this right? What else should I be doing? And when you have played seventy-odd games for England, that seems a little bizarre.

  We lose to New Zealand, but respectably. When I return to France, I feel I have developed as a player. I remain uncertain about this new game plan, but overall, I’m actually pleased. I’m also particularly excited to be back in an environment created by Johnno. Like 2003, the ethos is one of respect and supporting the players.

  After the autumn internationals, it’s great to be back in France again, where friendships and a sense of familiarity are forming. At the bottom of the hill from where we live, Shelley and I are warmly received in the boulangerie and the boucherie, w
here the chat invariably heads in certain directions – how the season is going, how much better the weather is on the Med compared to England, how the England team is doing and how long I’m going to be playing in Toulon.

  Down in the village of Bandol, we have our regular spots. The Bistrot always looks after us. In La Seyne Sur Mer nearby, my favourite spot is a beautiful restaurant on the beach, Bard’ô, where the owner, Andrew, sets us up regularly the day after games, sometimes with tables for family and friends. We have already set a recrod with a table for twenty-two. It’s a great escape.

  I have done some sponsorship work for SFR, the French telecom company, who have made some radio ads playing off my accent. They ask for my English pronunciation of words such as ‘Euro’. Of course, this leads to relentless piss-taking at training. Whenever a chance presents itself, one of my teammates will throw in one of these words with my English pronunciation. Very funny indeed. But I love the atmosphere here.

  Away games are an interesting challenge. As always, I like to get in some practice before a game, and so someone at Toulon arranges with a local rugby club for me to use their ground. It’s amazing how quickly word can get round. Usually, the minimum that is required is to pose for a photo with the local team, who will almost certainly have pitched up. Sometimes, I find I have an audience of around a hundred people. You don’t want to tell them to back off, but with pre-match anxieties in full flow, you don’t want to be signing hundreds of autographs before a game, either. It’s a tough one.

  I do not remotely mind signing afterwards, because I love the opportunity to connect with the supporters. After away games, I hardly ever make it to the post-match meal because I get caught in-between the changing rooms and the reception, and when I’m asked to sign then, I’ll sign every one if I can. The other players often bring me food while I’m signing. They really look after me. But later, they’ll be waiting on the bus and we have to leave. Most likely, we have a plane to catch, and anyway, it’s not fair for me to hold up the rest of the team. So I make my apologies and get on the bus, often to find that someone has brought more food for me. There is a great, respectful spirit among these players.

  Since I’m a rugby league nut, I was a bit of a fan of Sonny Bill Williams before I got to Toulon. His talent is enormous. He is phenomenal. He has gifts that could make him unique in the world of rugby. But he is struggling to come back from injury and to show all his abilities in the game, so he is not as effective as he could be. He is also quite complex, sometimes solitary. He reminds me a little of myself.

  We have been chatting on and off for a while and the similarities are becoming clearer. Back at Newcastle, I’d always seen it as my role to try to assist the younger guys, such as Toby Flood, to develop their game. I kicked with Toby a lot, trained with him. When he was still at school, I actually coached his team. I feel a similar responsibility with Sonny, but I’m also just inspired by what this player is capable of.

  I ask him if he wants to do some one-to-one training with me, and if there’s anything he particularly wants to work on. Little does he know that I’m keen to learn from him in return.

  So now we sometimes train together, perfecting each other’s passing skills and movement, and he asks me loads of questions, on positioning – where should I be if this happens? – and on decision-making – what’s the best thing to do if this happens?

  I tell him rather than working out where you fit in, you’ve got to find a way of actually making the team and the game fit in with you. Basically, you need to spend the entire game doing what you’re great at. If you manage that, the team will win – end of story. And so will you. You’re going to be the guy who’s taking it to the next level.

  And he is. The guy has got talent that I could only dream about.

  We play away against Clermont, just into the new year, and afterwards I’m due to stay overnight at a Lyon airport hotel and then fly to London to join England for an analysis day.

  But at 11.30pm, I start vomiting and at five o’clock I still haven’t stopped. It’s like the South Africa 2000 tour all over again. So I leave a message with Gavin Dovey, the England team manager, that I can’t make it.

  At the meeting I miss, they discuss the New Zealand game and the new game plan, and it gets well supported. The decision is let’s carry on. So by the time we meet up again for the Six Nations, it’s firmly set.

  We go into the Wales game with the same game plan, same tactics, and it’s a solid start, a good win. I fall ill in the following week and play Italy in hot weather feeling pretty rancid, stuffy, no energy, nothing.

  Everyone always ignores the fact that playing Italy away is damned hard. I miss a couple of easy kicks that I shouldn’t have missed, and the game is pretty close, but we win and we get in place some of the rugby we wanted. In the shape I’m in, I feel pleased just to have come through it. The media, however, don’t agree. Their questions afterwards make that clear. I feel hounded. I’m being killed for not being on top form.

  We are to play Ireland next, but by now it seems commonly accepted that England aren’t playing well and that’s down to me. We’ve just beaten a good team away from home. There were a couple of kicks I could have executed better, but the reaction is grossly sensational, egged on by, of all people, Matt Dawson.

  Have you read what Matt Dawson wrote in the Daily Mail? That’s the question put to me by the press a few days later.

  No, I haven’t. I don’t read the papers.

  So they tell me. Dawson says that I am not, and never have been, a comfortable play-maker or decision-maker. Apparently, I can only play to a team plan and I have always relied on others – and he puts his own name forward here – to make the decisions for me.

  That’s nice. That seems to set the agenda for the entire week.

  Before the Ireland game, after a meeting with the team leaders, Johnno asks me to stay behind with a few of the coaches. Look, he says, you’ve been taking loads of stick, but we just want you to know we think you’re doing a perfect job for us, and we’re actually really happy. Don’t let it get to you.

  That’s great to hear, because I really need a boost right now. I have been strict over my relationship with Johnno. Ever since he shifted from ex-teammate and fellow World Cup-winner to team manager, I have made a point of ensuring a safe distance between us. He is the guy picking the team and so I have felt I should treat him like management, not like an old friend. We do have our moments when the guard drops and we find ourselves reminiscing about what we once went through together as fellow players, but Johnno is more relaxed about that than I am. I only want what I genuinely deserve; I don’t want history and past friendships to complicate anything.

  So, from manager to player, it’s great to have that reassurance from him. Nevertheless, I’m certainly feeling the pressure, but I want to be positive. I’m desperate to go out against Ireland and be myself.

  I need things to go well. But our game plan, still relatively new to us, requires a few phases before we really exploit them and the moment of exploitation never seems to arrive. As a number ten, I feel predictable and a bit restricted in what I can do and where I can go on the field.

  I start going after the game a bit and taking on the defence at every opportunity, but it doesn’t help having the other guys standing off. I look to offload the ball, but I don’t have people to pass it to. I sense moments of hesitation around me, as if some guys don’t want to interfere, as if they don’t know how to react to me as a person or as a player. But I’m crying out for support. I’m not seeing too many other options, so I try to create situations myself.

  How I could do with a Mike Catt to help out and share the responsibility; or someone to play with the ball while I step back to take a look. I feel I’m constantly in the game but unable to affect it.

  Yet the scores are tied and, with ten minutes to go, I hit a right-foot drop goal on the turn to give us the lead. If only this can be enough. But then I make a criminal defensive error. I don�
�t make many and this serves as an indication that too much is going on in my mind. I over-read the play and am caught taking the man outside the one I should be taking. So Tommy Bowe runs through inside me and that is more or less that.

  It shouldn’t be, because we have a chance to win at it the close. We have numbers and could attack them out wide, but we aren’t ready to exploit those areas of the field. No one says anything, no one talks to me, no one lets me know where the space is and, with my head still spinning from their try, I take us somewhere else. The chance of a reprieve is gone.

  I’ve now had two fairly good games and was up and down against Ireland – and I’m being hammered by the media. I’m being hit harder now than ever before. You’d think I’d attacked their families. It’s madness.

  It doesn’t help that every Wednesday without fail at Pennyhill, I’m sent out to talk to them. The same guys who are killing me in the newspapers after the games sit three or four yards away asking me how do you feel? What is your reaction to the media criticism? You must feel pretty down. It must really hurt.

  It’s like a guy punching you in the stomach and then saying oh look, you’ve got a bad stomach, that’s terrible. Tell us about your bad stomach.

  Now I am really struggling, desperately re-evaluating the rugby. I don’t know how to make this work. My response always is to tackle the challenge and overcome it with hard work. That’s how I always understood rugby. Now something’s just not working and it upsets me.

  I feel increasingly isolated from the squad. It’s as if there is some obligatory respect for me because of where I might have been and what I might have achieved. It’s like they don’t want to interfere or get in my way. And now the whole media are pinning me down as the reason why it isn’t going well, so I feel like an old expert hand who’s letting all these young inexperienced guys down. The whole complexity of the situation created by the media and the past has made it really tough for me to connect with some of the guys. I’m sure that I’m largely to blame for this. I’m starting to feel ashamed and embarrassed around everyone, which is probably making them feel a little embarrassed for me. It’s getting awkward.