Jonny: My Autobiography (27 page)

Unbelievably, despite all this, he was able to make his point in the only way that really matters, on the rugby field, and he earned himself a professional playing contract.

So now we start together for the first time since we were schoolboys. Sparks’s greatest strength is probably his ability to take the ball to the line and sling incredibly hard, long and accurate passes with either hand. This is a joy to play with. He puts the ball wherever I want it. He is happy to step in and take the pressure at ten when required, so I can work out wide with more time to organise and threaten. Not surprisingly, we have an immediate understanding of what each other is doing, an understanding built up over years of hanging around together.

We win 27–20. And, for me, playing with Sparks ranks above playing with the Lions or playing with England. It is undoubtedly the best feeling I have ever experienced on the rugby pitch.

Few people realise exactly how good a kicker Sparks is. He’s got long legs, kicks incredibly high and reminds me of a punter in American football. Rob Andrew certainly doesn’t get it until we play Grenoble away and he picks Sparks at full-back. He has never played full-back before, but that sort of thing never seems to bother him. Not on the surface, anyway.

The day before the game, we go down to the ground to do some kicking practice – Sparks, Liam Botham, Rob and me – and within seconds of getting there, Liam and I get our boots on and start kicking together. We know the unwritten rule, which Sparks does not, that you kick in pairs, and the last one not in a pair has to kick with Rob. It’s like being stuck with the teacher at school. Sparks gives us a look as if to say yeah, nice one, guys.

Liam and I hear Rob talking to Sparks about these long clearance kicks he wants him to do from the back. So Sparks, adrenalin-fuelled, launches a couple of big kicks. Then he really gets hold of a massive tight spiral. He connects so well that it has already cleared Rob before it has reached the top of its flight. Rob turns and hares off after it, sprinting, head down, but it hangs in the air so long that when it comes down, it hits Rob on the back of the head and knocks him straight to the deck.

Liam cracks up. Sparks can’t contain his hysterical laughter, although he knows it’s probably not too smart to be laughing at the coach. But at least he’s made his point – he can kick.

If any doubt remains, it is buried at the opening of the new Hilton Hotel
on the quayside in Newcastle. I’m there with Tom May and Sparks, and the idea is for us to kick rugby balls over the top of the new building.

We are all wearing trainers, so we can’t quite get the power. I get a couple of spiral bombs to land on top of the roof, which I’m quite pleased about. We are just about to finish when Sparks launches a huge spiral. It doesn’t just clear the hotel, it bounces all the way down the long bank on the other side and into the river Tyne. It’s a massive kick. I wish I could kick as far as my brother can.

Playing with England, meanwhile, means returning to a steady building process. We have a massive autumn series pending. New Zealand, whom we haven’t played since the World Cup, followed by Australia and South Africa. The big three.

Each match marks a significant breakthrough. First, we edge New Zealand by three points, a real statement. Now there’s no one we haven’t beaten.

We are 12 points behind Australia with 56 minutes gone, and our ability to adapt, our knowledge of how to construct scores and win games is tested to the full. Clive has been telling us it takes just 20 seconds to score. So we don’t panic, we start chipping away at the gap with penalties, and then, when we are within striking distance of the win, we launch Ben Cohen for his second try. It may have helped me if he’d touched down under the posts, rather than leaving me the kick from a little left, but it wins us the game, 32–31. The point is these lessons are making sense to us. The win is our reward for our learning. Belief is building.

And finally, South Africa. I don’t survive long because Butch James dislocates my shoulder. James is a hard, physical player. Like me, if he
sees a chance to catch you, he’ll do it, and he likes to catch you high around the ball. He hits me on the side of the arm, just as I’ve released a pass, driving my shoulder upwards. It’s a good shot. I don’t realise how good because he also catches me on the chin. I’m so dazed, it’s only in the next phase of play, when I try throwing a pass, that I realise something’s not right.

Pasky comes on, moves the shoulder round a bit and delivers the sound of a joint popping back into place.

Sorry, he says, you need to come off.

That’s not all I’ve endured from the Springboks. I’ve already taken a late tackle from Jannes Labuschagne, which got him red-carded. Rewind a year and I nearly didn’t make it out into the second half because my hip was so sore. And rewind another year and you get the really horrible match where I got double knee-dropped just above the pelvis by Mark Andrews after five minutes, a dangerous foul that was followed up by various Springbok forwards saying: How do you like that, because you’ve got 75 more minutes of that to come?

In that 2000 game, Neil Back received a head cut so bad that a flap of skin was flopping down over his eye. That was thirty-odd stitches. And I saw Hilly recoiling from a ruck as if he’d been shot, with blood spurting out over his teammates from a head wound. I’m not proud of it, but later in the game, when Mark Andrews ducks into my tackle, I break his nose. Accidentally, of course.

But in 2002, England pass all the tests. South Africa come at us with their most intimidating game and we don’t budge, neither do we react. We carry on doing our jobs, building a score, which, on this occasion, finishes 53–3.

The sense of momentum with England carries on into the next Six Nations. We start against France, but Clive plays Charlie Hodgson, a second playmaker who gives them something else to consider in their defensive game plan, outside me at twelve. We then play a good Wales side in Cardiff, and even without being at our best, we win by 17 points.

Against Italy, in Martin Johnson’s absence, Clive makes me captain for the first time, which is a massive honour, and we win 40–5. We then play Scotland, another day when Jason is special. We create a decent lead and for the last 20 minutes, let the shackles off, take risks and just embrace what we’ve been training to do and what we’ve been practising in the week. It feels great because we know we have earned ourselves another Grand Slam match, another shot at a title we’ve let slip so many times before.

The first time we lost a Grand Slam, the frustration was intense, and it has just grown every time since then. We know that all the other sides seem to raise their game against England, almost as if the motivation is to spoil our fun. We also know that every time we have failed at the final hurdle, it has been close, less than a score. We haven’t been beaten out of sight. I cannot express the intensity of the desire to get across the line this time.

During the week, Clive works on me. Be ruthless, he says. Another message has been pushed my way recently – stop hitting those rucks, stop playing like a flanker – but my mindset is his priority for Ireland. He reminds me of the Wales game in Cardiff. They gave me a rock solid ball to kick off with and that was the reason I couldn’t get any height off the restart. Why didn’t you
just toss the ball off the field and demand another one? Fair point. I didn’t even think to challenge it. Don’t be nice.

In training, he tells me if you’re not happy with the communication or the organisation in the team, just smash the ball directly off the field and tell people to get it right and start again. He wants a bratish edge from me.

He pushes the whole team. Accept nothing less than you deserve. When we arrive in Dublin, we have a clear attitude – we’ve had enough of losing and not coming through these situations. It can’t go on. This one’s going to be different.

On the field before the game, I’m fiddling with my tracksuit when Clive is in my ear again. The message is the same. Be ruthless, he says.

In those last few minutes, I’m always nervous. As we’re standing in line, waiting for the national anthems, everything is being dragged out and this is making it worse. Johnno has some issue with the officials. I don’t really know what’s going on and I want us just to get on with it, but Neil Back has a mischievous look on his face and Johnno shouts down the line no one effing move. Under no circumstances are we now going to move a muscle.

It is only later that I discover we were apparently standing in Ireland’s preferred spot. That shows the mentality that Clive has driven into us. The drive for skills and performance has now been adopted into the personality we carry around the game. Don’t accept anything less than we deserve.

We make a good start, turn the ball over from their scrum and Lawrence scores under their posts. That’s a big psychological moment for us. The performance reflects our collective personality, because we don’t stop. After the try, we score three points more and then three more again. We’re making a statement – we’re not here to take any nonsense, we’re notching up a few points and we’re not stopping.

Soon the pressure is turned round. They attack us and keep on coming, and we let nothing through. We have a commitment to our defence coach, Phil Larder, not to allow the opposition to score any tries, and we hold strong.

Phil has come up with this great new call, ‘Hit the Beach’, a respectful reference to the Normandy landings, a massive call to arms. It means that for the next 30 seconds, two minutes, minute, 10 seconds, however long it takes, everyone has to armour up and die for the cause, because we know the next short period will be crucial. On this occasion, we just hold out and don’t have to hit the beach.

I make a number of tackles, one after another, in quick succession around the pitch. This is rugby at its simplest for me. People make the mistake of thinking passing and tackling are the basics of the game. The truth is that it all begins with the desire to give absolutely everything you have for however long it takes. I’ve long known that my greatest quality is nothing to do with tackling or kicking, passing or running. It’s my refusal ever to give up. Never stop working for the cause.