Jonny Wilkinson wanted the minimum of fuss when he announced his retirement this week and his timing, not for the first time, was perfect. He chose a day when Manchester United named their new manager and another left-footer, Ryan Giggs, revealed that his playing career had come to an end.
Even British rugby’s best-known player will not be on the winning side in a shoot-out between football and rugby union in the media. The first thing Wilkinson said in a conference call that had been arranged with journalists before his retirement was known, was that he would rather the questions be about the Heineken Cup final against Saracens than him.
He made his request in hope rather than expectation and, as has been the case throughout his career, was patient and polite in fielding the questions. Anyone dialling in by mistake and not having an idea who Wilkinson was would have struggled to reconcile the softly-spoken, measured and laid-back individual with the fierce and single-minded competitor who has had not only a highly successful career but who has consistently performed at his maximum.
Wilkinson is someone for whom only his very best has been good enough, doggedly and fanatically determined in his quest for excellence, practising long after others had gone home, even now. When asked what he would miss most about being a player, his reply was the bond forged between team-mates. The collective, as ever, is far more important to Wilkinson than the individual and he, more than anyone, has ensured that the tens of millions of pounds lavished by Toulon on the world’s top talent has not resulted in big egos clashing and the sum of the parts being far greater than the whole.
As Matt Giteau and Carl Hayman have pointed out this month, Wilkinson is someone who, by his actions rather than words, inspires those around him to work harder and make sacrifices. When Toulon defeated Leinster in this season’s Heineken Cup quarter-final, the media gathered afterwards to speak to Wilkinson who had left the field in the first-half with a hamstring injury. He made them wait because he wanted to spend time in the dressing room with his colleagues, savouring a moment they had worked all week for.
It is that subjugation of self to the cause that has not just marked Wilkinson’s career but has earned the admiration and respect of those he has played with and worked under. It is not unknown for top performers in sport to be arrogant and aloof, but humility has always been in Wilkinson’s kit bag. He has always taken responsibility in defeat and credited others in victory. Even this week, he was talking about how players who had appeared at inside-centre alongside him, such as Mike Catt and Giteau, had done so much for his career.
Wilkinson has inspired others. His opposite number at the Millennium Stadium on Saturday, Owen Farrell, may not be quite cut from the same cloth – feisty and occasionally distracted – but he uses the same tailor. His goal-kicking routine is as meticulous, his defence is as aggressive, his desire to win burns as hot and he is someone who looks forward, not back, concerned not with what he has achieved but what lies ahead.
Wilkinson will be succeeded as the goal-kicker at Stade Mayol by Leigh Halfpenny. The only discernible difference between the two, aside from the foot they kick goals with, is the positions they play in. The Wales full-back has long expressed his admiration for Wilkinson and modelled his goal-kicking routine on the Englishman’s. He also gives up much of his spare time to practising and he is also someone who plays down his contribution in a match and talks up his team-mates.
When Wilkinson was asked during the conference call why he had decided to end his playing career at a time when he was still winning matches and an automatic choice for his club, his reply was that when he looked at those he was running alongside and those who were running at him, someone who was approaching 35 had pretty much reached the end. It was, he felt, a younger man’s game.
Wilkinson’s reasoning would have been based on what he thought he would have brought to the Toulon team next season, whether it would have been stronger with him or without him. It was never going to be about saying ‘yes’ if the club’s owner, Mourad Boudjellal, offered him another year’s salary. Wilkinson would not expect to be selected because of who he was and what he had achieved; merit, not reputation, and he was always going to make up his own mind.
Toulon without Wilkinson would (will) be not quite as redoubtable. “Having him on our side gives us a psychological advantage over our opponents,” said Boudjellal. “Without doubt, Jonny is one of those players who makes a team win.” When he was with England, even towards the end of his international career when the glitter of 2003 had corroded and the team had long lost its place at the head of the world rankings, opponents would speak of Wilkinson with an awe they did not hold for anyone wearing white.
Wilkinson’s resolution to be the best he could meant eliminating weaknesses. When Gareth Edwards was first capped by Wales, he was criticised for not being able to pass particularly well from left to right. So he worked on it, just as he made sure he could kick effectively with his weaker left foot. Wilkinson is left-footed but not one-footed, regularly dropping goals and making clearances with his right. When he moved to France, he determined not just to speak the language but become fluent in it. He was made for professional rugby, starting his career two years after the sport became open.
The question of whether leading players in the amateur era would have succeeded today is often asked. It can be posed in reverse: would Wilkinson have had enough time to devote to the sport? Would he have embraced so closely the team ethic then of drinking sessions and initiation ceremonies?
He would have found a way, just as Barry John, a player who never worried about remembering his lines because of his ability to ad lib, would have succeeded today. Different characters, they were bound by the same competitive zeal; one was laid back while the other lay his back into everything. John and Jonny; so unlike, but so similar.
• This is an extract taken from the Breakdown, the Guardian’s weekly rugby union email. To subscribe click here.
