by Peter Burns
And that was that. It was much the same routine and speech that both men had made dozens of times before a Test match. The fact that it was a World Cup final didn’t mean that they should change their routines. The routines had helped make them the best side in the world – this was not the time to change anything. And so it was that the team left the team room and went off for dinner. Often there would be options for the starter and the main course, but the dessert was a tradition and never changed: bread and butter pudding. Familiarity is a comfort, a reassurance – like the same bedrooms at Pennyhill Park, or playing in a thirtieth Test match with your mates.
Woodward’s words had been simple, but his assurance that they were the best in the world had filtered down into the deep subconscious of his players over the preceding years. They believed it; the next game’s day would simply prove it. Will Greenwood summed it up perfectly. ‘We found ourselves honestly believing that we would not have swapped one of our players for anyone else in the world. That takes some saying, but I know all my old teammates would agree. A team like that is an amazing place to be. There is no feeling like it in the world; not arrogance, just total belief in one another.’
*
After dinner, Matt Dawson was sitting in the team room with Paul Grayson watching TV, killing time before going to bed and trying to sleep.
‘How are you feeling?’ asked Grayson.
Dawson smiled. ‘I’m all right. Just hope I get some kip tonight.’
Grayson laughed. ‘Unlikely, even for you.’ Dawson was notorious for sleeping any time, anywhere he could – the team room, buses to training and games, the floor of the physio room, even quiet corners of the changing room.
‘A World Cup final, mate. Can you believe it?’ said Dawson.
‘We deserve it. All of us.’
‘What do you reckon, a late entry from P. Grayson to snatch the victory? A 79th-minute drop-goal?’
Grayson smiled ruefully. ‘Jonny or Catty will have to have both their legs broken overnight for that to happen.’ He paused. ‘Where’s that baseball bat?’
‘Ha!’
Grayson smiled, but then his face grew serious again. ‘I’ll tell you one thing, Daws. If it’s on for a late drop-goal to win it, you’ve got to take it on yourself. No one will be looking at you. All eyes will be on Jonny.’
‘Or you, Grays.’
‘No, I’m serious. All eyes will be on Jonny. And the gap will be there. You take it and you make history. I can see it already.’
A short time later, Grayson retired to bed. Dawson was too jacked up. He knew he should get some sleep but adrenaline was coursing through his body. Fortunately, because the game wasn’t until the following evening, they would have a late start to the day. The players would all try to sleep for as long as possible before heading down to breakfast. There would be a final light team run and then there would be lunch and an opportunity for a nap. Finally there would be a meeting with the coaches and a chat between Wilkinson, Greenwood and himself to reaffirm tactics and then it would be time to get ready to head to the stadium. A carefully scheduled day, but a long one waiting for the kick-off.
There was no rush to go to bed, but eventually Dawson realised that it really was time. He hauled himself from the team room and made his way back to his room.
As he pushed open his bedroom door he heard a rustle against the base of the door. He looked down and saw a letter with the handwritten scrawl of Daws on the envelope. He recognised it at once as Grayson’s handwriting.
The opening lines were jovial but the tone quickly changed. Grayson wanted him to know what a good friend he was and how important Dawson was to his family – his son, James, was Dawson’s godson. And then he moved on to the match.
Today is your day. All your growing has been done, don’t do it on the field. You’re in control of the World Cup final. This is where you belong. Enjoy it. The rest of the world can rejoice in Matthew Dawson the finished article... Win the World Cup. It will happen... They’ll be looking at you and you’ll go... You’ll make the difference.
Dawson blinked back tears. Grayson would later tell him that the only way he could have expressed those sentiments was through a letter – it would have been too emotional in person. For Dawson, it struck just the right chord. So overcome was he that he couldn’t bring himself to read it a second time.
‘Once was perfect,’ he said.
*
5.15 p.m., Saturday, 22 November 2003.
The England players lurched gently in their seats as their coach pulled away from the Manly Pacific. They were on their way. In an hour’s time they would arrive at the Telstra Stadium, with two hours to prepare themselves for kick-off. They would get into the dressing room, change, get any strapping required from the physios, and then begin their individual warm-ups. Some players would get massages, others grab a few extra winks of sleep, and the rest might flick through the match programme while music blared from a stereo. The kickers would go out first, then the rest of the team. The forwards would go through some line-outs and then they would come together for some handling drills and defensive work to get their bodies ready for the collisions. The whole warm-up was designed to get their bodies and minds prepared. It was simple stuff. The team had already had a light run-through that morning – in a downpour, the air cool, just like a Six Nations morning back home.
Then it would be back to the changing room to put their match kit on plus tracksuits to keep them warm throughout the anthems. Fluids would be taken on board, energy bars would be consumed. Some would fall silent, focused; some would prowl and scream and beat their chests, eyes popping, sweat pouring down their faces.
‘You get ready and you’ve just got to think about your own performance and the whole team thing,’ said Woodward on the atmosphere in the pre-match changing room. ‘If you do that, you’re fine. The moment you start thinking about the enormity of what we’re trying to do, that’s when you won’t think correctly. That’s when it could all go pear-shaped... We have to keep our thoughts clearly on the first kick-off, our first moves, the first tackle, the first offence. You just want to visualise the start of the game.’
*
Changed and ready for the warm-up, Lawrence Dallaglio liked to take a few minutes to read through the match programme before heading out to the pitch. He held the glossy brochure in his hands and admired the cover title: IRB World Cup Final. He had never held a programme like this before. He began to flick through the pages and as he neared the centerfold he saw the individual profiles of the players on each team. At last he stopped at his own: Lawrence Bruno Nero Dallaglio.
Dallaglio. And he thought of Francesca. This was the greatest day of his life. This was a chance, at last, to ensure that the world would always remember the name Dallaglio. A lump caught in his throat and he quietly shut his eyes and remembered the graceful ballerina that had been lost to the world fourteen years ago. This one, as it always was when he played, would be for her.
Pat, pat, pat, pat. Jonny Wilkinson sat, hunched forward, lightly flicking a ball back and forward from hand to hand in front of him. Ever since he was a teenager, he and Dave Alred had worked on visualisation techniques. See what you want to do, how you want to play, how you want to pass a ball, how you want to fly a kick – focus on those images and make them happen. Make them real.
Pat, pat, pat, pat, pat. He knew that the Australians would fly out the blocks, looking to play with width and tempo. They didn’t have the same muscle that England had up front, so they would look to shift England around the pitch as much as possible. But if the defensive line held firm, Gregan and Larkham and Flatley would be forced to kick. They would hand possession back to England. It would then be his job to orchestrate what England did with the ball. The Aussie back-three were all dangerous runners, but they were relatively new to rugby union. If Wilkinson kicked poorly to them he knew that they could cause all sorts of difficulties for England. But if he could kick well, if he could turn them, pin them dee
p in the corners and give them no room to run... then that back-three would become a weakness, an achilles heel. If Wilkinson could bury the ball in the Wallaby 22 he knew that his forwards could squeeze the life out of any side in the world. There would be opportunities to score – tries, penalties, drop-goals. They would all be on the cards. But first it was up to him to control where the game was played.
Wilkinson’s feet were fidgety, the studs in his boots drumming on the hard floor of the changing room with a clackety-clack. He needed to get outside and start his kicking routine. He knew that Alred would be out there already, waiting for him with a pile of balls. He reached into his bag and retrieved a kicking tee, then stood and flicked the ball to Will Greenwood before heading for the door.
Greenwood gathered the ball in one hand and tucked it under his arm as he watched Wilkinson disappear out of the changing room. Good old Jonny, he thought. If there was one player on the planet that you wanted in your team, it was Jonny. Then he saw the towering figure of Johnson striding across to the physio bench to retrieve some tape. Or Johnno. Yeah, every team would want Johnno in their side. Or Hilly. Or Lol. Or Backy. Who wouldn’t want a front-row with the size, strength and speed of Vicks, Thommo and Woody? Who wouldn’t want a line-out professor like Benny Kay, or a gobby wee controller like Daws at scrum-half, or a bulldozer in the centre like Tins, or a back-three like Jason, Josh and Benny Cohen?
Clive was right, Greenwood mused, I wouldn’t swap a single one of them.
They were here, in the final, and despite the heartache that so many of them had been through, they were ready. Greenwood felt that he was as ready as he had ever been in his life – even with flights across the world and back and all the worry at home, he was ready. And he thought of what Caro had said to him before he had flown back out to Australia: ‘Don’t come home without that trophy.’ In all his sporting career, he had never had as emotive a line to inspire him before a match. He was going to go out there to play for his family and all his mates; for all the teachers and coaches that had helped him get to this point; for the doctors, the physios and the surgeons that had repaired and healed his damaged body, and had even saved his life. But most of all he was going to play for Caro and their unborn child. And he was going to play for Freddie.
All around Greenwood, his teammates were experiencing similar thoughts of personal motivation, remembering loved ones no longer with them, of those that had helped and inspired them to reach this moment, of all the hardships and the joys that had driven them here. The cool calculation required to deliver the win would come in due course, but first the fires within had to be roaring. And in England’s changing room they were burning like an inferno.
*
A capacity crowd of 82,957 were packed into the Telstra Stadium. Twenty giant cylindrical figures representing each competing nation billowed around the periphery of the pitch. Each was a Cyclops, representing the one-eyed nature of each nation’s fans. One by one, the figures collapsed and were gathered away until just two remained behind each set of posts: the English and Australian Cyclops glaring menacingly at one another across the length of the pitch.
The atmosphere in England’s changing room was electric. The players were awaiting the knock on the door from the referee, signalling that it was time to walk down the tunnel. They were gathered in a big circle, arms locked around shoulders, squeezing together, relaxing, squeezing together, studs rapping on the floor, chests heaving as they breathed in the smell of sweat and liniment in the air.
‘This is it, lads,’ said Neil Back. ‘Get yourselves ready for the pain. It’s going to hurt. But no pain, no gain – let’s go through the pain together.’
‘Look around you,’ roared Dallaglio. ‘Look in the face of the guys next to you. We’ve been through hell to get here – now’s the time to unleash hell on them. They’ve got no respect for us. No fucking respect. Today we shove that down their fucking throats. We show them just how good we are, how hard, how skilful. Let them know who you are, where you’re from, what you’re about. Get right in their fucking faces all game and let’s take the win. That’s all there is – the win, the win, the win!’
Johnson drew the huddle tighter. ‘It’s all been about this moment, boys. All the work, all the pain. All about now. Your whole life has been focused on a single moment and place: here and now. It’s time to deliver. There are no second chances.’
‘Let’s remember to build the phases,’ said Wilkinson, his voice steady. ‘We play the game where we want to play it. We move them around, give them no space to move, no space to breathe. Every tackle is huge.’
‘Every tackle says, “Fuck you!”’ spat Dallaglio. ‘You fucking bury them out there!’
‘Build the phases,’ repeated Wilkinson. ‘We control the pace and the space. We build the phases and we build the points. Everything is ours to control.’
Then came the knock from referee Andre Watson and a jolt visibly shot around the entire circle. A hush fell over them.
‘This is it, lads,’ said Johnson. ‘No second chances.’ He stared around them all, bore his dark eyes into each of the faces around him and nodded. ‘Let’s get on with it.’
The teams gathered in two long lines side by side in the tunnel, waiting for the signal to run out. Steam was rising from each and every man as they shifted from foot to foot, ready to explode out on to the field.
Mike Tindall, one of the youngsters of the team, looked down the line and he could see the edge of the pitch just beyond where Martin Johnson and George Gregan were standing. Then he looked to his left and saw that he was standing beside Stirling Mortlock. The huge Wallaby centre was staring straight ahead, veins bulging on his neck, a thunderous look etched on his face.
‘Hey,’ said Tindall.
Mortlock didn’t react at first but then the salutation seemed to register with him and he turned to see Tindall grinning at him. ‘This is what we play rugby for, isn’t it?’ said Tindall.
Mortlock blinked and then his face creased into a smile. ‘Yeah, mate,’ he said. ‘I suppose it is.’
As the teams exited the tunnel they were greeted by an ocean of white and gold in the stands, and a tumultuous roar.
After a typically emotional set of national anthems, the teams were ready.
‘Enjoy it, guys,’ said Andre Watson. Then he blew his whistle and as Wilkinson sent a high hanging kick into the night air the stadium exploded with camera flashes.
The opening minutes were played at a frenetic pace and Australia seemed determined to run England ragged in the first quarter. Twice they won kickable penalties but spurned the attempts at goal in favour of territorial advantage. Their line-out was functioning smoothly and they looked well in control.
Then came the first scrum – an area of the game in which England expected to have a significant advantage. In the build-up to the game, Andre Watson had spoken about his reluctance to give penalties at the scrum. He wanted there to be a contest but he knew how easily scrum infringements could blight a game. He didn’t want that to happen and he expected the two competing packs to play as hard and fair as they could. This was music to the ears of Woodman, Thompson and Vickery – all the more so because the Wallabies had lost their first-choice tight-head during the semi-final.
The incident had occurred at a scrum. The Wallaby tight-head Ben Darwin thumped into his opposition and instantly knew something was seriously wrong as a searing pain shot down his spine. ‘Neck, neck, neck!’ he screamed out. To his eternal credit, the All Blacks loose-head Kees Meeuws immediately reacted to Darwin’s cry and stopped pushing. The force of a scrummaging pack can measure up to 7,000 newtons and Meeuws’s reaction prevented a tragic – and potentially fatal – accident. Darwin suffered a prolapsed disc in his neck and he was extremely fortunate to be walking around within a matter of days – but his rugby career was finished. It was wretched in so many ways, all the more so because Darwin had to withdraw from playing in a World Cup final in front of his home fans, but it co
uld have been so much worse.
Darwin’s replacement was a young buck by the name of Al Baxter. He was green in the extreme at Test level and his task – to contain the monstrous England pack – was an arduous one. At the first scrum Baxter collapsed under the pressure from Trevor Woodman and the outlook for Australia looked ominous. But the interpretation of the scrum by referee Watson favoured, often inexplicably, the weaker Australian eight rather than the clearly dominant white-shirted pack. With touch-judge Paul Honiss also chipping in with advice on scrum misdemeanours, the officials kept Australia in the game by overlooking the clear superiority of England’s scrummaging ability. Even Baxter himself would admit that he had been taught a huge lesson out there and that he had a lot to learn if he was to survive as a Test match tight-head. For everyone involved in England’s campaign, the fact that Watson and Honiss were overlooking the clear evidence before their eyes was a source of incredulity and enormous frustration.
‘When you consider the difference in size, power, experience and ability between our front-row and the Wallaby one, it was mystifying to me that the referee could imagine that we would be scrummaging illegally,’ said Martin Johnson. ‘Why would we need to? Vicks and Trevor were taking them apart as it was.’
The scrummaging issue would hound England throughout the game – and come back to haunt them at the denouement.
But the ball was in open play again now and both sets of backs looked dangerous whenever they spun it wide. But the World Cup final was pitching the two best defensive sides in the tournament against one another and only a moment of inspiration and a perfect execution of skill would be able to unlock the defensive lines. And the Wallabies produced just that in the fifth minute.
