Born to play rugby

London: I've always thought of Jonny Wilkinson as a crackpot. I still do and it's the way he goes about things that set him out of the ordinary. The lad was born with talent, and there can be no doubt about the gifts he was given. But that is only part of the story.

His brilliance was achieved through his dedication to his craft. He worked harder than anyone to maximise his talent, even to the point that his own physical and mental wellbeing came into question. When the rest of England's players were already deep in their baths, Dave Alred, the kicking coach, would drive his car on to the pitch so that Jonny could keep practising in the beams of his headlights.

Just getting warmed up

In terms of running, he would do the drills and switch off his brain to pain. When others were limping off after heavy contact sessions, he was just getting warmed up. No matter how long a session was, he would do each drill as if it was the only one, giving his all each and every time. I still don't know how you do that.

His actions off the field, just as much as his points-scoring on it, had a profound effect on the people around him. You were amazed and felt a little frightened by his focus but damned if you didn't want to try to do better at the same time. And just as he lifted you by his actions, he also tried hard to make you see the game his way.

In the England camp he would always give a presentation on the Friday before the final team run. It was fascinating to see the way his brain worked in coloured markers and flip charts. The pitch was drawn perfectly, his handwriting any teacher would die for. His talks were always 15 minutes long and by the time they were over the whole team knew exactly what was happening on any given area of the field at any given time.

Grand Slam decider

People will always talk about the World Cup, but in my view the best example of Jonny's skills was in the Grand Slam decider in March 2003. He was fly-half perfection. He made 20-plus tackles, covered the field like a flanker, nailed his penalties and conversions like a marksman, was inch-perfect with his kicks from hand and dropped goals, off each foot into and against the wind.

But with Jonny, the playing part of the game was only part of the puzzle. He really was the first proper rugby heart-throb of the professional era and it didn't always sit easily. His drive for success on the field and hunt for perfection was called obsessive behaviour off it; his ability to command and direct the show during the game sometimes meant he felt a little helpless outside of it; and his role as leading man and fancy dan was a difficult fit for someone who loves their privacy. Ironically, as he has found more happiness and balance off the field, so his game at the highest level has creaked.

When I first met him in Toulon he was on a basketball court taking part in what looked like a rugby all-stars match. Flinging the ball about were Pierre Mignoni, Juan Martin Fernandez Lobbe, and Joe van Niekerk. Felipe Contepomi was watching. Jonny was in among them, smile on his face. In the lead-up to that meeting, the years had given more injuries than smiles, but here he was explaining that the move to France was all about playing for himself and not embarrassed that his hair was longer and his guitar-playing was improving.

I have two memories that should tell you everything that matters about Jonny. When that final whistle went after that dropped goal in 2003, I found myself jumping up and down with the man who would become a national icon. At that moment you see two mates just jumping around like overgrown kids. It is the pure joy of sport and friendship and it is Jonny at his best.

Lived for the game

The second memory comes courtesy of my wife, who was in hospital during the World Cup, when we had come close to losing our now seven-year-old son Archie. The midwives would run through and ask if he had texted and, always the thoughtful fella, he stayed in touch during that difficult time. The midwives looked horrified when Caro told them she had deleted the texts — they could not understand how you could delete a text from Jonny. But what matters is he sent them. So when people ask why Jonny mattered as a rugby player, the answer is simple — he was someone who lived for the game and his teammates and made us all better through his actions on and off the field.

— The Telegraph Group Limited, London 2011

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