We are attracted to sport by such things as glory and beauty, usually refracted through the fantastic lens of partisanship. But the thing that keeps us coming back - the thing that keeps us marvelling - is courage, the more vivid when seen through the same lens.

Jonny Wilkinson’s performance was one of those vignettes of courage that enrich our lives and give added meaning to the way we cope with our own difficulties. I am not talking about a performance that can be measured over the course of 80 minutes of action; rather, about an exhibition of courage that we have all been witnessing over the past four years.

It was the dropped goal that prompted these grandiose, and totally justifiable, reflections. “Jonny!” I shouted from the press box, along with, I have no doubt, millions of others watching from home. “Give it to Jonny! Now!”

When sport is especially vivid, especially meaningful, it seems to take place in slow motion: even as you are watching the living action, it seems already to be in replay, the outcome already certain. Well, in a sense, it was a replay: England’s most pressing need, Wilkinson’s most murderous boot, we’ve all been there before. Different boot this time - the left, not the right - but the same result. Above the hurly-burly of action, the lazy parabola of the ball, the same moments of questioning from those of us with a side-on view, the confirmation from those behind the goal. Another England victory, another grateful rescue from the pit of despair.

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Jonny Wilkinson

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Multimedia

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There was courage in that kick: Wilkinson’s eternal unsnubbable, give-it-to-me attitude, his newly acquired refusal to allow his own self-doubt to affect his view of his responsibilities for the rest. A few minutes earlier, he had given England the lead, kicking a penalty despite his previous misses, despite the almost preposterous extent to which this kick mattered.

There was also courage in Wilkinson’s tackling, as there always is, so much so that it is tempting to take it for granted, but Wilkinson’s strength, timing and nerve are so good that he never sees any one-on-one as a mismatch.

But never mind all that sort of courage. The still greater courage has been displayed when he has not been playing at all - that is to say, for most of the past four years. I never thought he would play for England again. His injuries and illnesses have been so regular, so terrible and so prolonged that I could not believe it would happen. It sounded like a Faustian pact, as if, as that fateful pass sped towards him when England played in the World Cup final four years ago: “Let this one go over and I don’t mind if I never play again.”

It has become a staple of the sports pages - a picture of Wilkinson with so many arrows in him that he looked like St Sebastian, each one neatly labelled with details of the injury suffered by this or that chunk of anatomy. He became Rehab Man, forever bullying reluctant muscles to stay firm and serviceable in defiance of whatever bit of him was damaged that day.

That is where Wilkinson’s true courage is to be found, that is where his greatness lies, in the realm of the unseen, in the places where we are not supposed to go. Not in treatment, either, but in the rehab, in all the solitary hours in which he has laboured for a goal we all thought was impossible, in a manner we all thought was futile.

Wilkinson is sport’s Job. He is the man who took whatever misfortunes sport threw at him and who never, even for a minute, lost the faith. The more he stood up to his misfortunes, the more misfortunes came his way. It seemed that sport would not be satisfied until he had been tested to the very limit. It seemed that sport would not be satisfied until he broke.

But astonishingly - impossibly - Wilkinson did not break. His faith was strong enough for every test that came his way. Each new misfortune seemed to bring from him another, previously unsuspected, layer of courage: courage beyond sense, courage beyond logic, courage far beyond mere wisdom. And it seemed miracle enough that Wilkinson should return this year, play for England again after a three-year gap, and play well, too.

Even that seemed impossible. Even that seemed to be some kind of Tiger comic fantasy. It was unreal even to be there in the stadium and taking illegible, overexcited notes as Wilkinson came out against Scotland, scored a try, kicked penalties, kicked conversions, and, of course, added a dropped goal just so we knew it was him.

This is not the sort of thing that really happens, not even in sport. I had settled Wilkinson’s fate for all time: he was the man who flew too high - but at least he had touched the sun before he fell.

And so it was time to redefine Jonny. It was hard to do so in a stuttering England team desperately short on self-confidence. In 2003, Wilkinson had been one among many, a giant surrounded by giants.

Now it seemed as if the pygmies were dragging him, screaming and protesting, down to their own level.

On, then, to the World Cup, and with almost comic inevitability, one more injury, one that came in practice, with no other player nearby. England began woefully. Wilkinson didn’t play in the opening disasters against the United States and South Africa.

He returned against Samoa and Tonga and, perhaps not entirely by coincidence, England began to recover. Wilkinson’s kicking was wobbly in that tumultuous match against Australia. But he no longer allows his own form to get in the way. It’s an aspect of his astonishing strength of mind, which is another form of courage.

England had turned disaster into a demented semi-triumph. It seems to me, perhaps to most of us, that this would have been enough. Disgrace had been avoided: let’s give thanks for large mercies. But neither England nor Wilkinson were prepared to leave it at that.

On, then, to Saturday night. Wilkinson’s kicking was still not at the same deadly level that it had reached in Australia four years ago, but he is still the one man in the world to land a kick for your life.

And so, quite impossibly, England are in the World Cup final again, and it was Wilkinson that put them there. It is hard to work out which is the greater miracle. Jonny’s second coming is a thing of beauty and splendour and now, with a match still to play, is it even fair to ask if one more miracle is possible?