"Use Catty, Daws!” World Cup final, three seconds to go. Me getting
excited.
“Catty, get rid of it!” World Cup final, zero seconds to go. Me screaming.
Hit the pause button right there. This is the moment I want to reside in for
ever.
Trevor Woodman had secured the ball after the Australian team's clever effort
at a short restart. Matt Dawson readied himself to pass to Mike Catt on the
right with me on the left if needed. Catty caught it knowing the game was
won as soon as the ball went dead. He put his cultured right foot on it and
sent it spiralling into the crowd. As he did I watched referee Andre Watson
put the whistle in his mouth. How I loved that split second before he went
ahead and blew it! Before the sharp shrill sound there was a beautiful mix
of anticipation and security. It was the perfect recipe for bliss. I didn't
want it to end.
“World Cup! World Cup! World Cup!” I'm going to attribute Will Greenwood with
these wise words but in reality they were probably coming out of my mouth.
It was all I could shout as myself and Shaggy (Greenwood) performed an
excruciatingly embarrassing dance of celebration.
The adulation, the noise and energy were too incredible to explain. To live in
it, experiencing every day like that night as if it was new each time would
be paradise on earth. But it just isn't possible. Is it?
The problem with reaching the peak of the tallest mountain in your dreams is
that the path can only wind down the other side further and further away
from this idyllic moment. I had pictured this image - worshipped it, even -
for years, maybe as long as I could remember. As we walked around the field
in our celebratory lap of honour I could feel my dream beginning to slip
away. The brightness was already fading and with each second that passed so
was my happiness. I knew that it would never be the same again. Had I had my
moment at 24 years old? What a life I had had so far. I was so fortunate. I
prided myself on making the most of it. I wanted to pay it back by showing
my gratitude.
It was definitely a worthy mission. And my life deserved some payback because,
up to then, I think I had kind of abused it. I had surrounded myself with
the fear of never achieving my ambitious goals and then with retrospective
regret at the mistakes which I believed stained my best efforts.
Boy, was I missing the point. I was missing the bit between what I had done
and what I might do. What I was doing right then and there was what was
important. The present moment is the only place in which I believe the world
can exist. The past is gone. It only provides memories and stepping stones.
The future is just the mind's best guess as to what might happen, based on
what you have learnt from experiences. But what does it feel like in the
here and now? For me it has always been fine when I'm out there competing.
Then I don't feel anything because I'm too busy “being” - in the thick of
the game action, reacting and using my instincts.
At these times it really doesn't matter who I am, where I've come from or
where I'm heading. All the things which comprise my worries just seem to
disappear. I have always lived in the now in those moments on the pitch. But
back then, after the final whistle, I would sometimes sit in the
changing-room and try to find the same zone. I never did.
Two hours after we lifted the trophy above our heads we walked into the
post-match party. We didn't need to queue, which was nice, but the “private”
affair had degenerated into something far from exclusive. I could feel
myself being pulled from pillar to post when all I wanted to do was find the
space I needed to get a handle on it all, just like after the semi-final. My
fairytale ending was turning out to be an altogether different story. I was
not carefully treading a path down the mountainside and enjoying the view.
No, I felt like I was tumbling out of control. So how did I end up in that
state of mind, on what should have been the happiest day of my life? What a
waste. There were a number of reasons I let my life down even as I achieved
my life goal. My ethos. My attitudes. My foolishness.
The rugby World Cup final in 2003 was an amazing experience. But I didn't
enjoy it the way I know I could have done. I wasn't ready and I didn't allow
myself to.
Professionally speaking, I spent a large part of the next four years in a
state of flux and it made me feel insecure about a lot of things. I was on a
journey, not that I always knew it at various stages along the way, to
finding out a lot about who, or what, I actually was and what my potential
could be. It was pretty hard going at times. But experiencing all those ups
and downs was essential if I was to achieve a “bigger picture” view of my
life.
Before I reached that realisation I had been defining myself, my purpose and
my direction in terms of rugby only. I was a “big player”. My sport, and the
values I associated with it, was almost my entire identity. So when injury
took that away from me, there wasn't a lot left. The foundations of who I
was disappeared and virtually everything came crumbling down. It seems
ridiculous when I talk about it now, but it certainly happened. I couldn't
get out of bed in the mornings. I had lost my motivation and a great deal of
my reason for being. When I did get up, I just wanted to head straight back.
This made me angry. I'd become the embodiment of the sort of thing I once
stood firmly against. I didn't want to be at training, in rehab sessions,
out kicking or among my team-mates. I felt weak and useless. I didn't feel
like I fitted in anywhere.
It all sounds a bit sensational I know - maybe hard to believe, even - but as
an obsessive person who had aligned their total worth and “self” to what
they do, it was bound to happen sooner or later, especially with the
enormous pride I took in it all.
When I was playing well and winning, I didn't worry about the lack of balance
achieved. After all, it seemed to be the very thing that delivered the
results I wanted. But injuries and speculation of retirement brought
enormous instability. That opened the door to some dark thoughts which, when
repeated thousands of times a day, created a pretty serious void in my life.
The only thing I could find to fill it was rugby and professional sport.
And if that wasn't there, what then? If all the hard work, the dreams and “the
success” amounted only to this numb feeling, I asked myself, quite
seriously, what was the point in trying any more? But I got past that. It
was hard and painful at times, but slowly I began to fit the pieces
together. Tough times, disappointments, setbacks were all steering me
towards embracing that missing sense of balance. I began to see the benefit
of a more peaceful day-to-day existence, in which I could revel in a trip to
the beach or an afternoon sitting at the piano the same way I already did
between two loud whistle blasts on a weekend.
And it all came together beautifully - the injuries, the lessons, the mental
torment, the self-exploration and the hard work - to put me back on one of
the most privileged sporting stages, a second World Cup final in 2007.
Against all the odds.
'The churning in my stomach feels relentless'
The mind games Coping with pre-match anxiety
For me, the hardest part of playing rugby has undoubtedly been dealing with
the pre-match anxiety. It is something I have never, in the past, been able
to escape. The churning in my stomach feels relentless, it is like I am
being surrounded by a dozen people who are screaming at me and prodding me
in the gut. My mind makes me see panic everywhere I look. The panic tries to
force me to feed it with the most negative thoughts. That seems to be its
preferred diet. It could be dropped balls, missed tackles, poor decisions
and sometimes getting badly injured.
The source of this “out of control” behaviour was a very vulnerable type of
insecurity. Every competitive sport is played in the realm of the unknown;
it is what creates all the excitement. If only I had been just excited. I
wasn’t, I was too busy being frightened. On the field I absolutely adore the
undetermined nature of every second. It is such a challenge and such an
opportunity. In waiting to play, though, I couldn’t work out whether I
wanted time to speed up so it would all be over with sooner, or stop dead so
I could turn my back and hide.
I couldn’t handle the thoughts of regret. If it didn’t go absolutely right, I
feared that something was very, very wrong. I strongly believed you only got
one chance because second time around would never be as perfect. I wanted to
be able to look into the future, to know that I had done OK, that I hadn’t
let anyone down. I hated this part of my job, it was almost becoming enough
to force me to give it all up.
- Copyright Jonny W Limited 2008.
Extracted from Tackling Life by Jonny Wilkinson with Steve Black, to be
published by Headline on October 2 at £18.99.
It is available from Times BooksFirst for £17.09, free p&p, on 0870
1608080 or
timesonline.co.uk/booksfirst
