Jonny: My Autobiography (15 page)

I don’t blame the other guys. It would’ve been pretty damn hard to react differently. But I feel totally alone and hugely taken aback. Was what I did so bad that I had to be put in my place like that?

But because no one says anything, this just confirms it for me. I don’t fit in here, it’s impossible to blend in. All my goals and aims in life demand that I am here in Couran Cove, but I just don’t want to be. I hate it.

To poor old Barrie-Jon I therefore become some kind of a stalker, forever knocking on his door and asking what he’s up to. I have a good day out to the mainland with Stimmo, but as soon as we are back on the island, I feel the enjoyment draining from me and the dread rising.

To top it all, I pick up a terrible bug, gastroenteritis. I become a prisoner, locked in my own room with my vomit for company. Harsh to say, but that is how the England dream feels right now.

Once we go into game-playing mode, life regains some simplicity. We play a warm-up game against Queensland and it goes well. Almost exactly a year since the 76–0 trauma, I call long-distance to Bilks again but this time, at last, the message is more positive.

We finish with a single Test against Australia, the best team in the world, and I’m back starting at number ten but with a vastly more recognisable team around me. And down in Sydney – or, more to the point, away from Couran Cove – I can direct my thoughts and concerns into the challenge ahead. Eighty more minutes of rugby and then I’m on holiday.

Since this is the Centenary Test, we are given a one-off strip, which is my favourite England shirt to date – dark blue with thin stripes and, as always, embroidered on to the bottom right-hand corner is the date of the game, the name of the opposition and, for me today, the number eight, signifying that this is my eighth cap. In the changing room before the game, Clive talks to me, studying my shirt, looking at the number on it.

Eighth cap already? He says it in a kind of complimentary tone, as if to suggest that’s not bad for a 20 year old. But he is pushing me all the way. In handing me the number-ten shirt, he is giving me extra responsibility, an extra onus to do something, to coordinate, organise and run the side. It feels like massive pressure.

The game goes well, but not well enough. Matt Perry scores two tries for us, the second with his head bandaged up. He is an absolute stalwart, a word-class player, one of the most courageous I’ve ever played with or against.

I think I do OK. With Mike Catt outside me at twelve, I find I can almost enjoy it. Catty is just so good at taking pressure off those around him.

Although 22–15 to Australia is not the result we want, we head back home with our rugby in reasonable shape. Almost exactly a year ago, we lost 76–0. When it comes to the game itself, maybe that England dream doesn’t feel too bad.

AS the 1999 World Cup approaches, one of the big messages from Clive is about performing and thinking under pressure. With that in mind, he takes us to the training headquarters of the Royal Marines in Lympstone. What these guys have to deal with in their daily line of work is incredible. And there was me thinking my job had a lot of pressure.

What the marines have in store for us is also seriously good fun. The star prize of the entire trip goes to Victor Ubogu for his magnificent commando-style Arnold Schwarzenegger impression, machine-gun in hand and trying to take down an enemy fort all by himself.

We are subjected to a simulated helicopter crash – the helicopter goes down into water with everyone strapped in. It spins and twists 180 degrees, and you are in total darkness. What happens is unbelievable. Guys try to get out without even undoing their seat belts. Instead of players managing to escape, the only thing that goes out the window is the training we’ve been
given. The highlight is Dan Luger who, totally disorientated, swims back under his own seat and repeatedly bangs his head on the inside of the fuselage as if that is going to get him out.

We are divided into groups and sent into a smoke-filled building, which is on fire. With gas masks on and almost zero visibility, we have to find our way to the bottom floor to put out the fire. My group fumble around in the pitch black, walk into a dead-end corner and eventually get split up. Everything we touch is boiling hot. Some of us find our way to the basement, where the fire is, and while we wait for the lost members of our group, we get very hot. We don’t know what’s going on, or even if anyone knows we’re there. We try to ignore the heat on our faces and suppress the instinct to panic.

Suddenly, Phil de Glanville cracks and starts screaming out loud for one of the marines. Sir! Help me! Sir, my face is burning, my face is burning!

The evacuation takes about twenty seconds. It takes even less time to ensure that neither Phil’s face nor anyone else’s is on fire. Phil then has the piss ripped out of him mercilessly. But he was only giving voice to what we were all thinking.

As always seems to be the case, Clive throws in something extra for me. We have another task. We are in a simulated submarine, which springs a few leaks. Water starts pouring in and as the level rises worryingly high, we have to hammer in plugs to cork the holes. We are instructed how to do it beforehand, and it looks a lot of fun.

The trouble is we need someone to coordinate the group and that’s where Clive steps in. He has a word with the supervising marine.

Right, that’s decided. Jonny, he says, you’re in charge.

It’s all part of his issue with me – be a number ten, communicate better, be more assertive. Take the decisions and tell everyone else what to do.

So I end up ordering people around, telling them where to go and what to do, and I feel I am being evaluated as a leader. What looked fun becomes
an exam. And as I’m issuing my commands, I’m wondering how did Paul Grayson, the other number ten, do on this? If he did better, does that mean I’m not going to get picked?

At the end of the trip, the marines give their feedback to a meeting of the team leaders, which, as a number ten, I somehow qualify for. They tell us the squad works well in terms of roles and relationships. But they stress if you really want to be a team, if you really want to win this World Cup, you need a firmer one-in-all-in ethic.

That is a crucial lesson. It tells us we need to be strong as a group, we need a set of rules and we need to stick by them together. We start to set down a Code of Conduct. Personally, even more than before, I analyse how I contribute to the squad.

Just as I’m leaving Newcastle to head south for the England camp and my first World Cup, Dean Ryan stops me for a quick word. I think it’s going to go really well for you guys, he says. And I’ve got you down as my player of the tournament.

That’s a nice message to hear, and it reinforces in my own mind how important this part of my career is about to become. My first World Cup. A bit of a step into the unknown.

It kind of swallows my bigger ambition. I still want to be the best player in the world, but it is also clear how far away I am. I’ve yet to show that I’m truly capable of surviving at the top level. But I am becoming more and more aware that individual performances have very little to do with it at times. It’s those around you who count. My team.

Down at the Petersham, the new thing is nutrition. Two specialists,
Adam Carey and Roz Cadir, have been brought in and it seems we are taking their subject very seriously. They want hair samples from us so they can study what’s in our bodies and what our bodies need. They want stool samples from some of the boys – not me. I make any excuse I can to get out of that one. And they want to weigh us and our food before and after every meal.

Huge emphasis is placed on knowing what substances might be banned. On the other hand, we are put on so many supplements. Some people are on up to thirty different pills and tablets every day. It gets to the stage when some of the boys are waking up in the middle of the night so they can take their protein drinks at regularly spaced times.

This is a massive change for us; it’s very full on. I’ve not really heard of soya milk and tofu until now. And suddenly I am supposed to be eating steak and broccoli for breakfast.

In a room in the Petersham we call the War Room, Clive discusses strategy with us. You need to take the initiative more, is one of his messages. Play what you see in front of you. Don’t play by numbers.

One example: when we get penalties that are out of range of goal, don’t kick for the corners all the time. Keep your head up and look down the middle of the field where there might be no cover. Put in the kick, chase and see if you can isolate a full-back and turn him over under his own posts.

This is not exactly what our forwards want to hear, and it’s the kind of thing a young number ten feels a bit hesitant about. But I try it in our first game, against Italy, and it turns out OK.

The Italy game is a good start, and I score my first England try – three of us chasing a bobbling ball and me getting the lucky bounce – and then indulging in an appalling impromptu celebration.

I have hardly touched down when I’m up on my feet, running towards the
crowd in the south stand with my arms wide apart. It doesn’t take me long to realise what I’m doing and how much I wish I wasn’t doing it. It couldn’t be further from my usual style. I never go in for try celebrations. I think it’s just shock that I’ve actually scored a try for my country.

The Italy game is generally viewed as merely the opener. Everyone knows that the next one, against New Zealand, is very probably the one that will define our route through the knockout stages, and so influence our chance of winning. If my career has been a series of ‘biggest games so far’, this is now it, especially playing at ten. I am asking a hell of a lot of myself. Some big names are playing against us, Jonah Lomu for starters.

At dinner later, the nutrition police relax a bit. Bread and butter pudding gives us a chance to go a bit heavier on the carbs. I know all too well that after this last treat, the minute I put down my spoon, it’s all business.

As I walk into the dining room for the Last Supper, I catch Austin’s eye. He purses his lips and makes a familiar bathroom noise, which tells me that he can see I’m already clearly suffering from pre-match nerves, and that he is shitting himself too. It’s good to know that I’m not the only one feeling it.