I stayed up till half past one this morning finishing Jonny
Wilkinson’s autobiography, a tremendously engaging book that was ‘unputdownable’.
It was genuinely gripping.
We, the general public, rugby watching or otherwise, always knew Jonny wasn’t quite right. All those hours
kicking, we knew they couldn’t be healthy. But he was always so fiercely
reserved that, until now, we’ve never really seen beneath the surface, beneath
the pose – bum out, hands clasped, breath just escaping out the side of the
mouth as the left foot hardens itself for impact.
When I was 12 I used to kick like Jonny, clasping my hands
in wide eyed admiration. This was a technique I perfected in the garden. We were
lucky enough to have a piece of grass which was made for a set of rugby posts
at one end. And, one Christmas, Santa brought some nice, shiny poles that were
soon erected. I soon had a ball bag and a motley set of Gilbert balls, some
size 4, some size 5. I knew which balls had the biggest sweet spot, which ones carried further, the duff ones.
I tried to be Jonny. I would always end a session with six
kicks, the same six that Jonny would take hours and hours over. I wanted to do
that to. I wanted it to matter that much. But, like most normal human beings, I
could never do it. Sometimes 5 out of 6 was good enough and I happily skipped
back inside to plump myself in front of the television. For several
Christmasses after, I would make a point of kicking on Christmas day because I had
heard that’s what Jonny did. The difference between me and him is, of course,
that he kicked every day and Christmas day was simply another day to get better
at kicking. I failed to grasp this, and despite not kicking anywhere near every
day, thought it was impressive enough to be out on Christmas day even though I hadn’t
kicked on Christmas Eve or would kick on Boxing Day. To be honest, it was simply an affectation.
For Jonny, the very idea of an 'affectation' is anathema. He is an obsessive. He talks
of the rages he would fly into – at his long-suffering mother, his brotherly brother and
guru Dave Alred. Always a picture of serenity, we had no idea that he would
swear and argue. This is single-mindedness was taken to the next level, a more
dangerous level. He writes of how he became so upset (as a grown man) that he
bit his own hand, causing some painful bruising.
The book, however, doesn’t always show Jonny as a reclusive
obsessive. In his early days he would go out drinking after internationals with
the rest of the squad. In fact, the vomit-and-all manner in which he describes his relationship with
alcohol forms some of the funniest sections of the book.
What we see is someone who found fame cripplingly difficult. Life was
easy when he went out and Lawrence Dallaglio was the one getting recognised. When
Jonny started becoming that famous, he stepped away, removing himself from the
public eye completely. There is a definite sense of paranoia surrounding the
whole thing. One can’t help but feel sorry for him.
The injuries are some of the most freakish collection of
months and years that rugby has ever seen. Unsurprisingly, he was totally
unprepared for a life of rehab. Most players get fed up but, like most things,
Jonny takes this to a new level. He becomes depressed and more should be made
of this. It should be made more explicit that he suffered from clinical
depression as it would massively help reduce stigma surrounding the illness. Instead,
it is never fully stated, glossed over.
Undoubtedly, there is some sickly schadenfreude that one feels when Wilkinson admits that he began
turning up late for rehab sessions and sometimes missing them altogether. Turns
out there is a limit to his determination. It is poor form from this particular
reader, but like the references to hangovers, it is pleasing to see that this side
of him does exist.
‘Blackie’ is an absolute shining light in amongst all the
darkness. He is friend, trainer, mentor, motivator and spiritual guru. A huge
amount of Wilkinson’s success must be down to coming across a man like this.
Similarly with Dave Alred, a world leader in his field, who Wilkinson was able
to feed off for over a decade.
Some people do not come out so well. Jeremy Guscott,
unsurprisingly, is confirmed as being the absolute berk he appears to be. Similarly
with Austin Healey. To mention them is a quite contemptible if I am not going to balance their names up with those of Mike Catt, Richard Hill, Pat Lam, Inga Tuigamala, Sparks (brother) and the various other gentlemen that Wilkinson admires.
Some things, however, don’t tally up. Wilkinson, and perhaps
Owen Slot can be blamed for this, far too often drifts into continuous reference
to his obsessive side. ‘That’s my obsessive streak kicking in’ is heard so much
it loses its effect. It is simply a stylistic issue even if, at several points, it becomes downright frustrating. When
Clive Woodward was insisting on Wilkinson hitting fewer rucks and staying on
his feet more, the player shows huge reluctance, claiming that to do so would
be contrary to his instincts. Scant regard is given to the needs of the team in
relation to what Jonny does naturally. It grates. I, for example, have recently
found tackling to be against my nature, but if a coach says I need to shore up
my channel I am not going to justify my refusal to tackle by some self-reflexive
bullshit about my ‘nature’.
Again, when Wilkinson is a part of the 2005 Lions tour to
New Zealand, he describes the first few days. He notes how well prepared they
are, especially a booklet which has been produced containing background details
on all the players. This seems like a sensible idea, helping everyone get to
know each other better in a short period of time. Wilkinson, however,
disregards it, though he admits that he knew he should have read it. For
someone who so openly prides himself on his all-consuming desire to not let his
teammates down, this shows an uncharacteristic lack of attention to the
details.
Thankfully, he has found peace at Toulon. In fact, that may
be wrong, he will probably only find peace when his body properly gives up on
him – and it is truly miraculous that he has lasted this long. His powers of
comeback are unimaginable. The book gives no hint toward his career post rugby –
the playing of rugby, that is. I predict he will remain at Toulon as a coach or
mentor of some sort. A return to England is unlikely for many many years. He is
clearly very happy in the sun at a club where he feels valued. His new ‘spiritual
outlook’, which is occasionally laid on too thick, appears to have widened his
outlook so that rugby and his extraordinary mind no longer control him.
Throughout, Wilkinson is as kind, thoughtful and
self-deprecating as his reputation suggests. He is classy enough to avoid
slagging off coaches and fellow players except in the odd instance where it is
done with dignity. That is such a given that it is probably offensive to mention it. At the risk of treating him like a psychiatrist’s test case,
Wilkinson is so fascinating because he is a solitary individualist who is
obsessed with not letting people down. It is a book that deals with fame and
celebrity in our time and their damaging effects on someone who feared their
effects. It is terrifically funny at times, sad at others and absorbing and anyone with
even a passing interest in rugby union will struggle to put it down. I may no
longer clasp my hands as I did as a 12 year old, but I am just as wide-eyed and
he is still very much my hero.
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