It is said that Matt Dawson did not grasp the extent of his own contradictions and conflictions, all the manifestations of Dr Jekyll and the other bloke, until he read about himself in his own book. On one page, he resolves firmly to become less of a pain in the backside, to be more likeable, and more sanguine with life. Two pages later, he is aerated and blasting somebody — an opponent, official, coach, referee, even a teammate — with a Millwallian nobody-likes-me-I-don’t-care insouciance.
He was even ejected from his own sporting family, when senior figures inside and outside the dressing room at Northampton, where he had played his whole professional career, effectively opposed the awarding of a new contract three seasons ago. When rumours surfaced that he would sign for Wasps, the senior players there held a meeting and passed an informal resolution to the effect that, toning down their language, they didn’t want that ruddy so-and-so in their happy club.
Only occasionally did I pop up in his gunsight. I ducked. I was not among the ranks of those who had a justified grievance, or those who always claim that he is widely unpopular in the sport. So it may be too easy for me to be admiring. But Matt Dawson was, first of all, a world-class scrum-half, on his day in the top three of the era in the world.
On his day, that is. He was not especially consistent, could fall out of form due to injury or when hot streaks cooled. But he could play. He had a pass, a kicking game, a dexterity, an authority, a sharpness, a game head and he had a sniping break, often carried through with icy composure for the offload. He got under the skins of opponents and referees, and the many opponents who hated that were just jealous.
His most famous passages of play in a career that encompassed Northampton, Wasps, 77 England caps and three Lions tours are well known — his cheeky, glorious try in the corner for the Lions in the first Test in Cape Town in 1997 which won the game; his heroic resistance and leadership on England’s doomed Tour to Hell to Australia and New Zealand in 1998; his masterly part in England’s perfect storm, the slide-rule move that set up the position for Jonny Wilkinson’s drop goal in the World Cup final of 2003.
His best game? Everybody would have a different memory. Mine is from the 1997 tour but not from the Tests. I felt Dawson was lucky to be chosen for the tour. His first match was against Mpumalanga at bumpkin Witbank. It was a day when the ferocious locals were meant to heave the tour off the road. Instead, the Lions smashed them. Dawson was brilliant from start to finish. I was wrong; the selectors were not.
This season, he has been diminished. The edge of pace has gone, the extra swagger with it. Certainly, there was an air of resignation about his play for England — understandably. He may well be retiring at the perfect time.
It is a commentary both on his residue excellence and also the paucity of the England contenders that he was still the best scrum-half available to England. Those who say that he should not have been chosen as understudy to the beavering but struggling Harry Ellis, because it intimidated Ellis, are talking rubbish. England contenders are meant to be grown-ups. Every time Dawson arrived it seemed that England’s attack grew more dangerous. It is valid to claim that he should have been discarded to bring on the next tyro, but the next tyro is coming from very far back.
What of Dawson, the apparently tortured, tortuous character? The idea that a top player is apparently disliked never bothered me, as long as he is respected by his teammates. In any case, at the top level cockiness is next to godliness.
It must be said that colleagues in the England trenches found it easy to establish a powerful bond with him. The bond may have temporarily broken whenever they played against him in a club game, but was quickly re-established. The Wasps squad, and coaches such as Ian McGeechan and Shaun Edwards, men who suffer no fools, were won over and full of admiration.
And Dawson is of his era. He is from a body of men — Martin Johnson, Lawrence Dallaglio, Danny Grewcock, Neil Back — even less likely to win global popularity contests than they were to win beauty contests. Who cares? For decades, England rugby players had been such good chaps — and won nothing. Dawson’s mentality, and that of his senior colleagues, was implacable, unbowed and self-confident. New Zealand? Just another beatable team. Dawson, and his ilk, knew how to win.
The most lurid chapter in his career surrounded a newspaper column he wrote that appeared at home on the morning of the first Test of the 2001 Lions tour and which attacked the methods of Graham Henry, the head coach, and parts of the operation. People were still digesting it when the Lions went out on to the Gabba in Brisbane and crushed Australia. Dawson’s words were badly timed because the Lions dominated that match, and also because, for the Lions, unity is everything. He transgressed that and he was wrong. Dawson, used to the order and application of the England environment, failed to realise that the Lions could not be so orderly, or comfortable. Those Lions were beaten, and beaten up, before they left London, by the ferocity of the home season.
The real Dawson is elusive. He is seen as the man who attacked the ethos of the Lions. But, as so often, he finished well in credit. For the most part, he was a true Lion. In none of the three tours he made, to South Africa (1997), Australia (2001) and New Zealand (2003), was he first choice for the Test series. He played Tests, either because of an injury (notably that to Rob Howley which caused the Welshman to miss all the 1997 Tests) or because he arrived late on as a replacement.
His demeanour and team spirit, however, were first- class. Dawson clearly became close to and admiring of Howley and Dwayne Peel, the Welsh scrum-halves chosen above him. Neither in public utterance nor private briefing, nor even in bar-room gossip, did he offer anything but support for the chosen ones. His maturity in his long battle for the England position with Kyran Bracken and, most recently, his u nstinting help for Eoin Reddan, the young Wasp usually given the starting jersey, is at odds with so many of rugby’s perceptions.
Perfection in rugby is not attainable. Nor is perfect saintliness of character. I could bring myself to admire him greatly. No doubt Dawson had his faults, and enemies. But rugby is not a prissy environment, and surely not so intolerant that it cannot bring itself to mourn the departure of a true character and, when all the fuss in his wake has died down, a world champion.
