vigorously scratch off the blue paint from my Peugeot’s front end.
The season hasn’t been going long before Rob wants a word. It’s my defence, he says. You need to back off a bit, leave it more to your teammates, mainly the back-rowers.
OK I reply. I’m not sure I’ll find that easy, but I realise it’s a good idea.
It’s not just Rob who delivers this message. I’ve heard it before, anyway. It comes from the other coaches, too, and to be honest, I can see it kind of makes sense. If I’m able to back off a bit, I’ll be slightly fresher for other parts of my game. Almost everyone is of the same opinion. I speak to Blackie. He understands me. He knows that I am all or nothing and that tackling fuels the rest of my game.
It’s not as if I wake up in the morning and think I’m going to go out and really try to smash people today. Not at all. I want to change the course of the game for my team. If I am able to damage the other team’s game plan, dent their confidence by getting in a good hit and make them think twice about coming back next time, I won’t hold back.
But it’s not just that. It’s also something I feel on the field of play. That ultra competitive switch in me gets flicked when a ball-carrier looks at me as if to say I’m going to run straight over you. I feel kind of belittled by that. I find myself thinking there’s simply no way I can cope with just tackling you to the ground now, that would almost be your victory, that almost means you win. No, I’m going to have to show you you’ve made a mistake.
It’s just pure competitive instinct and desire to show what I’m capable of. It’s why I train the way I do; it’s what I live for.
But trying to explain that to coaches when they’re talking from a purely tactical mindset doesn’t work. I can’t explain my natural desire. I can’t explain why I have only one way and no alternative.
So what I say to Rob becomes a stock answer given each time we have this same conversation in all the years to come. OK, yeah, it’s a good idea I know. I’ll do my best.
At home in Lemington, in the West of Newcastle, just before Christmas, I’m preparing dinner when there is a knock on the door, a pleasant gentleman in his sixties.
How can I help?
You’ve been notified for a drugs test, he tells me.
This is like being subpoenaed; once you have been notified, that’s it. Refuse and it counts as a negative sample. This is my first home visit.
The problem is I have only just been to the toilet. So I invite him in. I have almost finished making dinner and apologise that I didn’t make enough for him.
We sit on the sofa together in my small lounge and watch The Simpsons in silence while I eat. Poor guy. It’s a little awkward, but I can’t deliver what he wants yet. The drug-tester seems easygoing, and patient. He is not allowed to let me out of his sight, which means that when I go to the kitchen to make us a drink, he comes too.
After two and a bit hours, I can finally deliver what he has come for. I go to the toilet and he joins me in my tiny bathroom. That’s part of his job. He has to watch; I am not allowed to shut the door. It feels more awkward than it did before.
But he is just the first. This is the life.
In the new year, I am recalled to the England squad for the Five Nations.
It’s great to be called back, and this time I really feel I’ve earned it. But it means going back to the Petersham Hotel and that intimidating atmosphere, where I am so uninvolved in the day-to-day chat that Ireally don’t know what the squad think about me. Am I taking the place of someone else they feel should be there? A friend of theirs? Someone else who fits in more?
Playing for England is, of course, a dream come true. It’s meeting up with the squad that I start to dread, like the back-to-school-blues. You spend Sunday at home relaxed and then Monday morning rolls around and you feel uncomfortable and are constantly in a state of
The season hasn’t been going long before Rob wants a word. It’s my defence, he says. You need to back off a bit, leave it more to your teammates, mainly the back-rowers.
OK I reply. I’m not sure I’ll find that easy, but I realise it’s a good idea.
It’s not just Rob who delivers this message. I’ve heard it before, anyway. It comes from the other coaches, too, and to be honest, I can see it kind of makes sense. If I’m able to back off a bit, I’ll be slightly fresher for other parts of my game. Almost everyone is of the same opinion. I speak to Blackie. He understands me. He knows that I am all or nothing and that tackling fuels the rest of my game.
It’s not as if I wake up in the morning and think I’m going to go out and really try to smash people today. Not at all. I want to change the course of the game for my team. If I am able to damage the other team’s game plan, dent their confidence by getting in a good hit and make them think twice about coming back next time, I won’t hold back.
But it’s not just that. It’s also something I feel on the field of play. That ultra competitive switch in me gets flicked when a ball-carrier looks at me as if to say I’m going to run straight over you. I feel kind of belittled by that. I find myself thinking there’s simply no way I can cope with just tackling you to the ground now, that would almost be your victory, that almost means you win. No, I’m going to have to show you you’ve made a mistake.
It’s just pure competitive instinct and desire to show what I’m capable of. It’s why I train the way I do; it’s what I live for.
But trying to explain that to coaches when they’re talking from a purely tactical mindset doesn’t work. I can’t explain my natural desire. I can’t explain why I have only one way and no alternative.
So what I say to Rob becomes a stock answer given each time we have this same conversation in all the years to come. OK, yeah, it’s a good idea I know. I’ll do my best.
At home in Lemington, in the West of Newcastle, just before Christmas, I’m preparing dinner when there is a knock on the door, a pleasant gentleman in his sixties.
How can I help?
You’ve been notified for a drugs test, he tells me.
This is like being subpoenaed; once you have been notified, that’s it. Refuse and it counts as a negative sample. This is my first home visit.
The problem is I have only just been to the toilet. So I invite him in. I have almost finished making dinner and apologise that I didn’t make enough for him.
We sit on the sofa together in my small lounge and watch The Simpsons in silence while I eat. Poor guy. It’s a little awkward, but I can’t deliver what he wants yet. The drug-tester seems easygoing, and patient. He is not allowed to let me out of his sight, which means that when I go to the kitchen to make us a drink, he comes too.
After two and a bit hours, I can finally deliver what he has come for. I go to the toilet and he joins me in my tiny bathroom. That’s part of his job. He has to watch; I am not allowed to shut the door. It feels more awkward than it did before.
But he is just the first. This is the life.
In the new year, I am recalled to the England squad for the Five Nations.
It’s great to be called back, and this time I really feel I’ve earned it. But it means going back to the Petersham Hotel and that intimidating atmosphere, where I am so uninvolved in the day-to-day chat that Ireally don’t know what the squad think about me. Am I taking the place of someone else they feel should be there? A friend of theirs? Someone else who fits in more?
Playing for England is, of course, a dream come true. It’s meeting up with the squad that I start to dread, like the back-to-school-blues. You spend Sunday at home relaxed and then Monday morning rolls around and you feel uncomfortable and are constantly in a state of
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