Jonny: My Autobiography (29 page)

AS preparation for the World Cup, we meet at Pennyhill for three weeks’ pure, hard physical training. The hotel have effectively built us our own gym in a marquee by the training field, and a heavy routine gets under way – 6.30am starts, training, two-hour afternoon sleeps, then more training. I roomshare with Noonie and we create our own DIY recovery facilities in the room, pouring endless bags of ice into our bath – anything to help us for the next session.

We do plenty of speed/endurance training, which is perfect for me – sprint as far as you can around the field for a minute, sit down and rest for two-and-a-half minutes, and then go again. We have to do five of these. Some people pace themselves, but I’m used to the Blackie way and I see no alternative to going full out. So I charge ahead of everyone at a ridiculous speed and then die as the final seconds of the minute elapse.

I like leading the way. It’s kind of my obligation. Josh Lewsey isn’t far
behind and Noonie is good, too. Noonie is definitely quicker than I am, although I may have the upper hand in endurance.

The forwards take little pleasure from all this, and they get their revenge on the rowing machine. You have to row 500 metres and then run round the field. I couldn’t be less suited to rowing and, despite my greatest efforts, I am almost always the last off the machine. When I begin to run, I feel like someone has stolen my legs. I detest the rowing. I hate not being able to compete.

I have a problem with a nerve that runs through my quad, creating a hot-needle feeling down my leg. It’s a slight injury risk so, on the last day of one week, when they are doing another tough speed/endurance drill, I sit out and watch training from the physio bed by the posts, feeling really bad because I’m not going through what everyone else is going through.

The next day is gorgeous and sunny. I have a meeting to go to with Tim and he arrives to pick me up.

Sorry, I say, there’s something I need to do first, and I’m going to need your help.

We go down to the pitch and I put out the cones. I want to do the exact same training session I missed the day before. I have to do it. So Tim has to play the coach, running up and down the pitch, sweating in his suit, holding the stopwatch. I make him do this.

We are in the middle of this when the sprinklers come on and Tim gets soaked. He is not too impressed. I guess this kind of thing doesn’t appear in the agents-players handbook. He says what are we doing?

On days off back at Newcastle, I’m getting further help from Blackie. The results of the Team Fitness Test are the ones that really matter and we know the score: completing the lung-busting course in under 197 seconds is considered world-class, under 205 seconds is excellent, under 210 seconds is good and over 215 is average. One hot morning, I set my personal best. I do a
194 seconds. That’s the best I will ever do and a squad record for years to come.

Three times during the camp, Clive gives out a bottle of wine as a kind of prize to a player whom he judges to have made a difference or performed seriously well. On the last day of the camp, he says he is giving the last one to someone who has been constantly pushing themselves harder and harder, and one or two heads turn in my direction.

The wine has a face value of about £900 and, to be honest, it is wasted on me. The accolade, though, is not. I have a few Man of the Match bottles back home, but this is one I really treasure. To me, working hard every second of every day is what is important in team sport. So this award has real value. I owe it to Blackie and I owe it to my obsessive drive.

But not everyone is a winner round here. As the squad gets cut, I say goodbye to Jamie Noon and Dave Walder. I was so hoping to have these two great players and great friends from Newcastle in Australia with me. They deserve it, but I know that they would have been good for me too.

The real trophy, though, remains a long way away. It feels as though we have been building up towards this World Cup for months, but on 1 October, we finally leave Pennyhill for Australia, and I have a fax fresh from Blackie safely tucked away.

The fax contains the famous speech from General Patton, which reads like this:

I have personally benefited from the passion of this oratory at numerous times throughout my life. I hope it has the same effect for you:

That is certainly something to occupy my mind as we head to Perth. I actually love long-distance flights. I look forward to them. There is no video analysis to be done. I can’t practise my kicking or my passing. There is nothing I can do towards helping win a rugby game. Just put on the TV and, for what will be the last opportunity for a long time, properly relax.

We are heading to Australia as favourites and that’s not a false tag. It’s a title we have earned and, for now, it doesn’t feel bad.

At the other end, the intensity and the pressure are immediate. Just like 1999. I try briefly to get away from it by going for walks with Hilly, but seven
weeks out from the World Cup final, supporters are already gathering. It is such a big affair.

Every day, I write an entry in a kicking diary. This is on Dave’s advice. Write down what you’ve done, he says, then you can look back at it and remind yourself how much good work you have stored away. So every day I write down the length of the session, the conditions, the number of punts off each foot, the number of goalkicks, drop goals and drop-kick restarts I do, and how well they all go.

On Day One, I take it easy as advised: one hour. Day Two: one hour 20–30 minutes. After that, I’m generally between one and a half and two hours a day. On Day Eight, two days before our opening game against Georgia, I can practise in the Subiaco Stadium, where the match will be played, and I’m up to two hours 40.

The Georgia game is a good start, but the minute it’s over, I am aware again of an uncomfortable edge, a feeling that I cannot escape. South Africa are next, a completely different story. The pressure is on. We need this game. It’s billed as the group decider. We have all seen this day coming ever since the draw was made, and the tension simply builds all week.

Rudi Straeuli, the Springbok coach, tells the media that he thinks I am putting myself under too much pressure, but he doesn’t know me, he doesn’t know the deal or how I operate. Anxiety has always been there in me, but no matter how painful it can be, I know it’s what gives me the edge. It’s the anxieties that keep me buzzing.

Nevertheless, by the time we get to the stadium, the anxieties are already so great that I’m back in an old frame of mind – if I get through this, I need two weeks’ rest. It’s been hinted that I might be rested against Samoa next week. That’d be perfect.

The game itself is tentative, edgy, and we struggle to get the scoreboard moving. I don’t help by kicking two balls down the left, straight into touch. And
Will Greenwood doesn’t help when the Springboks miss a penalty. Our strategy when facing penalty kicks at goal is for me to stand by the 22 so that if they miss, we can take the 22 drop-out before they have the chance to reset themselves. But Will catches the penalty and flings the ball straight out to me.

I feel like shouting at him Guscott-style, what the fuck are you doing?

The look on his face shows he realises his mistake. He forgot to touch it down. In other words, he has thrown a forward pass and thus conceded a five-yard scrum.

He shows good mental strength to put the slip-up behind him. He even makes amends with a try later. England win 25–6. Not a fantastic performance but it’s the win that counts. My prize is to be selected afterwards for a drugs test.

Providing a urine sample on demand has never come easily to me, especially after a game when you are already badly dehydrated. I use all the techniques I can muster – a long shower, a flushing toilet, running taps. Eventually, I am facing this big metal urinal with a 50-year-old doping officer standing as close as he can to directly in front of me without being in the line of fire. He is only doing his job to the letter by insisting he sees exactly what is happening as I produce my urine sample. But protocol, right now, seems particularly strict. Lift your shirt up, he says, lift it right up. Pull your trousers down, all the way to your knees.

I am really hoping that there is no one outside listening to this. I am now sweating almost as much as I did during the match. At least I have got a week off to relax.

The next week, I get two telephone calls of note.

For the first one, my phone indicates unknown number. These are often
media related so I tend to ignore them, but I give this one a go. It’s Dave. Dave who? David Beckham. He has rung to chat and wish me luck. I like that.

The second is from Mum and Dad. My grandmother, a truly amazing woman, has died.

If there is anything that can make you feel you are all those miles away from home, this is it. I feel guilty that I’m not able to do anything or help the rest of the family. Here I am on this selfish pursuit. The World Cup, suddenly and quite rightly, doesn’t seem such a big thing after all.

My state of mind is not improved when Clive comes to speak to me. I expect this to be the chat when he explains why he is resting me. But he says I want you to play number ten this week.

That means my whole mindset has got to change. I feel the pressure back on immediately. I go from being relaxed to feeling trapped, claustrophobic almost. My whole week changes shape.