Jonny: My Autobiography

  Copyright © 2011 Jonny Wilkinson

  The right of Jonny Wilkinson to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2011

  Every effort has been made to fulfil requirements with regard to reproducing copyright material. The author and publisher will be glad to rectify any omissions at the earliest opportunity.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  eISBN : 9780755362905

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Testimonials

  Jonny Wilkinson in Statistics (to October 10th 2011)

  Picture Section

  Jonny Wilkinson became England’s youngest international player for 71 years when he made his debut at the age of 18 in April 1998. He has since won 91 caps for his country and is the second most prolific points scorer in Test rugby. In the 2003 World Cup he scored the drop goal that won the tournament. He endured a succession of injuries that kept him out of international action for over three years but he returned to help England make it to the final of the 2007 World Cup. He has also won six caps for the British and Irish lions. He was awarded the MBE in 2003, and the OBE a year later. Jonny played club rugby for Newcastle from 1997 until 2009. He currently plays for Toulon in France.

  Owen Slot, who assisted Jonny with the writing of this book, is the Chief Sports Reporter of The Times.

  It is going to be very difficult to get this part right and do justice to so many who have done so much for me.

  In terms of this book, thank you to all the guys at Headline Publishing, especially Jonathan Taylor. Thank you to Owen Slot for your tireless effort in writing it with me, and an even bigger thank you for pretending that you enjoyed doing so.

  For the stories I have been able to tell in the book I must first of all thank my parents, Mame and Bilks, and my brother Sparks. You will never truly know, I don’t think, what a life you have given me. I couldn’t have asked for any more support or for a more special family, and to think of all the things I’ve put you through over the years!

  To my beautiful girlfriend Shelley, thank you for being such a great person, helping me stay balanced and for always being there for me.

  To Blackie, your knowledge and ability still astounds me every day. I have always struggled to comprehend just how inspirational and selfless one person can be. It has been an honour to tread this path with you. As you, my brother and I well know, our best days are still to come.

  To Dave Alred, thank you for letting me in on your genius. There simply is no one around to match you in your field. Thank you for always helping me to get better despite all the stick you’ve had to take from me throughout the last 16 seasons.

  I would like to mention my sponsors Adidas, Gillette and Jaguar as well as all those who have sponsored me in the past. You have made me feel valued and have supported me through some very difficult times. Thank you.

  To Tim Buttimore, my long-time friend and off the field manager, thank you for being a really good guy, being straight up, honest and right there when I needed you.

  I would like to thank my grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and my lovely little niece Matilda.

  I would like to thank all my friends, all the players and coaches I have played with, and all those I have played against too. You have all had a big hand in making my career what it has been. You have also all played a massive part in allowing me to remain myself and in allowing rugby to remain what it is has always been to me, the greatest team game there is.

  Finally, and this is very important to me, I would like all the supporters who have written to me, sent their best wishes or shouted for me to know just how much you have mattered and what a difference you have made in my life. Those messages and cheers have helped to create unforgettable memories and have brought the best out of me. In darkest moments they have pushed me to get back up and they have helped motivate me to fight on and keep going. You have been amazing. Thank you.

  I never thought it would come to this. I never thought I could possibly ask the question do I want to play for England any more?

  Eighty times I have played for England – more than twelve long years of chasing my dreams. I can’t believe I can even consider quitting the chase. Three World Cups I have played and if I can hang on for another year, I could be playing my fourth. Yet right now I don’t know if I want to go that far. I don’t know how to end my England story. What I do know is that I don’t want it to carry on like this.

  Today, 9 October 2010, at the Stade Mayol, Toulon, the club I love dearly, play Ospreys, from Wales, in the Heineken Cup. Martin Johnson, the England manager, will be there to watch and tomorrow, down on the seafront, where bars and restaurants overlook the Mediterranean, we are due to meet.

  The last time I saw Johnno was a few months ago in Sydney, and I told him that England and I had maybe gone as far as we can go. Maybe it’s time for me to stop. But I get the feeling that, tomorrow, he will be wanting to talk about the forthcoming autumn internationals, about England’s opposition, about game plans and calls, about my role in the side and how England are going to play. It’s my duty to be honest, though. The conversation topic in my head is not what role I should play; it’s whether I’m going to play at all.

  With England, my confidence has just disappeared. I feel lower than I have ever felt before. I don’t want my journey to end here, not like this. The thought of not playing for England again makes me sick, but I simply do not know if I can carry on.

  Toulon is a different matter. When I arrive at the Stade Mayol for the game, I could not feel more different. Here, among this group of players from all around the world, I feel high. There is a different handshake for almost every nationality – the Australian George Smith, possibly the greatest openside flanker I’ve ever seen; Juan Martin Fernandez Lobbe, the ridiculously skilled and driven Argentinian back-rower; Joe Van Niekerk, the Springbok game-winning captain you’d happily die for; Carl Hayman, the rock-like Kiwi prop capable of playing anywhere on the field. These four alone have nearly 250 caps between them.

  They seem to gain strength purely from me being here, as I do from them. But our mutual respect is not built on how many caps anybody has won. It’s a respect for ability and desire, for what we’ve be
en through together, knowing that each player is always prepared to give everything and that each one of us will support the others unconditionally. I belong here. In this changing room, I treasure that sense of belonging. It’s not the same right now with England.

  We have found our form, too. We’ve won our last four games and I have been performing well all season. My confidence, which was so shot last summer in Australia with England, is seeping back. I feel like I am worth something here – the responsibility I am given on the pitch, the respect my teammates give me. Maybe I’m worth what I’m paid.

  We are on a roll and we carry on that way. The Stade Mayol is humming today, but the atmosphere is always awesome. Last thing, just before kick-off, the crowd do the traditional PilouPilou. This is a chant with a story, and the story is about the players being primitive warriors who have come down from the mountains to fight by the sea. The crowd love the tradition. They belt out the PilouPilou. But it doesn’t seem to intimidate the Ospreys players much – not at all. The Ospreys are here to play.

  The game is tight and we exchange penalties until the Ospreys’ Shane Williams gets away for a try on the hour. That puts us 14–9 down and we stay that way until, with six minutes to go, we are awarded a penalty. I kick it and we are now two points behind. And then, with four minutes to go, I manage to push a long, floated pass over the top of their rush defence to Paul Sackey, who runs it in to score in the corner. To ensure we’re five points ahead and not three, I have the conversion from the touchline. I get that, too. It’s been a good day against a very good team.

  So that’s five wins in a row. We do our ritual lap of the field to thank the supporters. In glorious sunshine, we wave to them and they sing their hearts out back. I like it here.

  The Toulon seafront is usually quiet on a Sunday morning, but today it’s filled with gaggles of Ospreys supporters who are over here for the long weekend and are out nursing their hangovers in the sun.

  We meet at a café on the front, Johnno, Brian Smith, the England backs coach, and me. I try to start the conversation, but some of the Ospreys supporters come up and ask for a photo with us and we are kind of obliged to say OK.

  With regard to my international career, this is the hardest conversation I’ve ever had, but Ospreys fans are everywhere. We get another request – can you do a photo for us? OK. So we do another photo and then we move on. We find a new bar, but that gets crowded. Again and again we get asked for pictures and so we move on one more time. We finish up in the furthest café at the water’s edge, our final option, and at last find some peace and quiet.

  I tell them that, from my point of view, I don’t feel I’m fitting in to the England set-up any more. I’m not surprised that the team respond a lot better when Toby Flood is in there at number ten rather than me. They seem more relaxed with him. And me? I don’t feel like I’m myself around England, I’m not playing as myself, you’re not getting the best out of me and I’m just not happy.

  I carry on. I tell them how the Six Nations and the summer Australian tour had been such a low for me and that I don’t know where I fit in to their plans any more. In the media, I became the scapegoat for our performances in the Six Nations, and it seemed to me that people were happy enough for it to be that way. I was being hammered in the press during that Six Nations and yet, every Wednesday, I was wheeled out regardless to smile politely and answer the questions of the writers who were pulling me apart in their columns.

  The point is, I tell them, it’s too overwhelming. It’s killing me and I don’t know if I can stomach it any longer.

  Some four hours later, we are finally done. There are no conclusions. Johnno and Brian say to me you should take your time over this. No, we don’t want you to stop. So spend a couple of weeks thinking about this hard.

  The next fortnight is about as tough professionally as any I’ve ever been through. How do you end a story like this? I’d like a different final chapter. I’d like at least to end on a high note.

  I live here in France with Shelley, my girlfriend, in the peace and tranquillity of the hills, a couple of miles back from the coast. I love the climate here, I love the lifestyle and I feel relaxed in our home, overlooking a valley of vineyards, but this Sunday I return filled with a sense of doom.

  My mum and dad are over to stay with us and we debate the topic at length. What is the answer here? The thought of not playing for England again is simply unacceptable to me, and yet when I think of going back into the England environment, I know there’s just no way I can face it. I’m doomed if I do and I’m doomed if I don’t.

  I start to canvas opinion. I ring Tim Buttimore, my agent, and he explains if you retire, the media response could be a big disaster. It could be construed that, because you’re not first-choice number ten any more, you just don’t want to bother.

  That couldn’t be further from the truth. I am desperate to be back in there and enjoying it. I am a competitive animal to the core. I have never settled for second best, but at this point, my confidence around England rugby is so low I can’t even think about it.

  I phone Mike Catt, one of my greatest friends and allies. He understands my pain. And he is positive. He tells me that in the right situation with England, they’d play to your strengths. You’d be straight back in the team and playing as yourself again.

  I meet with Richard Hill, with whom I shared so much in the England days and whose career was finished early by a terrible knee injury. He says consider the long-term side of this. You’re a long time retired.

  I speak to Felipe Contepomi, my great Toulon teammate, friend and captain of Argentina, and he sees both sides. He says he’s gone through a generation change in the Argentina squad and now he sees his role as paving a way for the young guys to take over. But my goal has always been to contribute to the team and I can’t stop wanting to be the best. I’m just not sure that I know how to do that right now, and the thought of going back depresses me.

  Already, since last summer, I feel I have come so far in rebuilding the confidence that was so completely shattered.

  I got back from Sydney and spent four solid weeks in Majorca. Every summer, I holiday in Majorca and every time I’m there I train pretty much every day. This summer I did one boys’ week with Matthew Tait, Toby Flood, Pete Murphy, an old mate from Newcastle, and another old mate from way back in mini rugby at Farnham, Andy Holloway. Taity and Floody were a bit more professional about their rest than I was. I pushed myself to the usual limits, working out stupidly hard every day. I worked on skills and fitness. Inside, I worked on weights; outside the villa, on the road, I worked on kicking. I did everything I could to ensure I was well prepared and physically flying for the start of the season.

  Our second game was a good away win against Biarritz, but it stood out for me because of Iain Balshaw. It’s been thirteen years since Balsh and I started playing together. The first time was at England Under-18 level, and he is still as incredibly talented as he ever was. Now he’s playing at Biarritz, uncapped by England for two and a half years.

  We met in our team hotel after the game and ended up chatting into the early hours. I asked him what is it like? How does it feel to be playing just club rugby, not to be playing for England? I wanted to know. This is the debate in my mind. He told me he’s still massively keen to get involved. It’s something he hasn’t got and really, really wants.

  A month later, I got a different message. Toulon played the current champions, Clermont, at the big Stade Vélodrome in Marseille. It was a huge game with a ludicrous atmosphere and 55–60,000 supporters going nuts. After we’d won, 28–16, we did our lap around the ground to acknowledge the fans. I was walking round the stadium with all my Toulon teammates, whom I adore. Thousands of people were standing and cheering us in the sun and the voice in my head was telling me maybe this is enough. I’ve done it for England eighty times; maybe this is OK for me now.

  The longer I continue in this state of indecision, the more I feel as though my life is on
hold.

  Two weeks after the Ospreys game, we are due to play Stade Français at the Stade de France. I go down to the club for a kicking session and I cannot concentrate on my kicking for this big game because all I can think of is my England career. Is it over or is it not?

  The minute I make up my mind one way, I immediately switch and go the other. I hit one kick and say to myself just forget about it all, be happy in life, leave England alone.

  Then I kick another, straight through the middle of the posts, and I think I can’t afford not to push myself to that level and waste all my hard work over the years. This whole career has been about pushing myself to the extreme, trying to achieve everything. I can’t stop.

  I hit another couple of kicks and my mind starts to slide again. I think about how it felt with England recently. I think about the media fall-out and watching helplessly as my reputation took a hammering.

  But here, at this kicking session, I decide I can’t walk away without making up my mind. I can’t let this go on any longer.

  I think about the 1998 Tour from Hell, when England got beaten 76–0 by Australia. I remember the tour to South Africa in 2007 when an already depleted team suffered from food poisoning, and yet still we had to front up against the Springboks. God did we suffer. Those were mighty hard times, but the point is this: I’ve never walked away from a challenge.

  I can’t back down. I can’t live with myself unless I feel that at least I stood up and was counted. It’s been my way, my greatest value, and I am proud of that. I can’t let it change. That is the ultimate non-negotiable. Never give in.

  I leave my kicking practice feeling slightly happier. I phone Johnno and tell him I’m in.

  I don’t know how this story will end, but at least I know that there will be one last chapter. It’s not ideal, it’s not how I want to feel, but I’ve got to stand up and be counted one more time.