Gavin Henson: My Grand Slam Year

GAVIN HENSON

MY GRAND SIAM YEAR

Gavin Henson with Graham Thomas

Cover

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE Can I Kick It?

CHAPTER TWO Away Days

CHAPTER THREE Get Lost, Gav

CHAPTER FOUR Slamming It

CHAPTER FIVE Rat Attack

CHAPTER SIX Ball Boy

CHAPTER SEVEN Up On The Roof

Images

CHAPTER EIGHT You’re Not Going

CHAPTER NINE A Fresh Start

CHAPTER TEN Elvis and the Ospreys

CHAPTER ELEVEN Clocking Off

CHAPTER TWELVE Chip Alley

Images

CHAPTER THIRTEEN Routine Entertainment

CHAPTER FOURTEEN Celtic Kings

CHAPTER FIFTEEN How Do You Want To Be Remembered?

CHAPTER SIXTEEN ‘Stephen on for Gavin’

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN The Shadow

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN All Blacked Out

CHAPTER NINETEEN Crazy Chick

List of Illustrations

Index

Acknowledgements

Copyright

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE Can I Kick It?

As soon as the referee blew his whistle for a penalty, I knew I could kick it. Forty-four metres out from the posts and two or three in from the touchline, it was my kind of distance. Go a bit closer and everyone watching expects the kicker to score, rather than hopes. Sometimes that expectation can get to the kicker. From 44 metres out, and by the touchline, I could sense the hope of 70,000 people in the stadium and the millions more watching on TV, but I think the only person who truly expected it to go over was me.

Firstly, though, I had to be told to give it a go. Stephen Jones was our first choice goal-kicker and took all the short-range kicks. That’s how we had practised all week in the build-up to the match. He took short and medium-range kicks and I practised long ones. This was 44 metres and at an angle, but it had to be out of Stephen’s range for it to be in mine. I looked across and saw Stephen signal to Gareth Thomas that I should have it. There were four minutes left on the clock and this was very likely to be our last chance to win the game. But Stephen didn’t hesitate. ‘Give it to Gav,’ he said and walked off. The skipper backed up the decision and then it was down to me.

After the match, after we had beaten England and were back in the dressing room, Mike Ruddock, our coach, told me he couldn’t watch. ‘Why not? I knew I was going to kick it.’ And it wasn’t bravado. I did. I really did. I had spent all week practising kicks from that kind of distance and when I concentrated, and got all my preparation right, they had all gone over. All I had to do was repeat it. That’s what I was thinking as I was lining up the ball on the tee. I wasn’t thinking about the match, or the result, or the time that was left. My mind was clear of all that stuff. Believe in your technique … don’t hit it too hard … you’ve got the legs … and keep your head down.

To be honest, I did have one small seed of doubt. But that was nothing to do with me or my abilities. It was the pitch. The Millennium Stadium is an incredible arena, but the pitch can sometimes be a problem. Because precious little sunlight gets to it, it is regularly re-laid and sometimes it can cut up badly under pressure. Put it under a lot of pressure – like 16 huge guys scrummaging against each other in a Wales-England Six Nations match – and it can cut up very badly as it did that day. All over the field there were mounds of turf where the pitch had been churned up by the twisting force of 16 sets of studs. What about one set of studs? When it really mattered? In the back of my mind was the fear of slipping if that top inch of turf gave way. If my non-kicking foot slipped just before impact then the ball would go off line. Remember David Beckham’s missed penalty for England in Euro 2004? Stay nice and light on the left foot … be flexible … strike it down the middle.

There had been a roar when Steve Walsh awarded the penalty, but now there was just silence. I didn’t mind that as it helped clear my head. I stepped back, kept my rhythm through the run-up, and struck it just as sweetly as every other kick I’d put over on the training ground. I didn’t need to wait to see it go over, I knew it was there from the moment I struck it. I always do. It must be like that if you’re a tournament golfer and you hit a putt you’ve practised a thousand times. You know from the connection, just from the feel of the ball as it leaves the putter or your foot, whether or not it’s going through the posts. Normally, I have a quick look just to convince myself it’s on line and then I run back before the touch judges signal, while the ball is still travelling towards the posts. Only if it’s a windy day, and I don’t trust the breeze not to blow the kick off line, will I keep looking until it’s through. There was no wind in the Millennium Stadium that day as the roof was closed. It was blowing a gale outside but under the protection of all that steel the wind was never a factor. From the moment I struck it I knew I’d scored. I turned away, threw the tee back to the touchline, and raised my finger in the air. Thanks for coming.

A few of the Welsh players shouted and screamed but I can’t remember what was said. I was in my own little world. But I snapped out of it when someone demanded we re-focus and win the ball straight from the restart. We did better than that, we won another penalty and were able to pump the ball back into their half. It was 11–9 to us and England were running out of time. John Yapp made a burst and I tried a drop goal but it was charged down. A 14–9 lead would have given us a little more breathing space, but there was no time for England to get back into range and win it with a drop goal of their own or another penalty. Time had run out for England. This was our time.

There was a huge amount of pressure on us going into that game. We felt confident we could win it, but the circumstances had changed from Wales-England matches in previous years. We still weren’t the bookies’ favourites but the Welsh public certainly expected us to win. You could sense that from talking to fans and it was reflected in the media coverage where all the talk was about this being our best chance of winning for years – perhaps the best opportunity since 1993, which was the last time Wales had won against England in Cardiff, and certainly the best since 1999 when Scott Gibbs’s famous try had won the same fixture at Wembley.

I felt we could win and would win. So did the rest of the squad. But the expectation from outside added to the nerves we all felt and looking back now it was an edgy performance, definitely our most nervous display of that championship.

To me, it felt as though almost all the pressure was on us rather than on England. Okay, they were the world champions but this was a very different team to the one that had lifted the trophy against Australia just 15 months before. Sir Clive Woodward had gone and there was no Martin Johnson, Lawrence Dallaglio or Neil Back. Andy Robinson had come in as coach and although England had beaten South Africa the previous autumn, the Wallabies had taken their own revenge at Twickenham a week later. Also – and most importantly for us – they looked vulnerable because of lots of injury problems. Jonny Wilkinson had been missing since the World Cup, but other key guys, like Mike Tindall, who I would have been up against in the centre, were also crocked.

But there was pressure coming onto us from another direction, too. It was coming from within. We knew we needed a big scalp to give us that confidence boost. It was crucial if we were going to go from being an improving side, in the second tier of world rugby, to a team who could not only rub shoulders with the big boys, but often beat them. Before the Six Nations championship had begun there were plenty of pundits who felt talk of a Welsh revival was just hype. Keith Wood, the former Ireland captain, said as much on TV, and so did Jeremy Guscott who laughed out loud in one interview when Jonathan Davies suggested Wales could be about to take some big scalps. I suppose you couldn’t really blame them. It’s hard to claim a genuine revival when you are basing it on matches that ended in defeat, even if those defeats were extremely narrow and accompanied by some superb performances. Heroic defeats may be exciting at the time, but they are always followed by massive feelings of frustration instead of a satisfying glow. You can dress it up, you can put a spin on it, you can talk about encouraging progress until you’re blue in the face; but a defeat is still a defeat.

We had suffered two such defeats in the previous autumn. The first was against South Africa when we came from a long way behind to lose by just a couple of points, 38–36. Then we suffered an even greater agony by being edged out by New Zealand by just a single point. That defeat, 26–25, was harder to take because we had not only been ahead but we had chances late on to win it. Both those results were very much in all the players’ minds going into the game with England. We were very proud of our performances against the Springboks and the All Blacks – and we felt the supporters’ pride – but we didn’t want to suffer like that again. We wanted to get that first big win under our belts because we all felt the confidence it would generate would provide huge momentum for the rest of the championship.

Although I felt the pressure, I wasn’t really nervous in the few days before the match. I felt confident and I wasn’t afraid to say so. The trouble is that some people take that as arrogance. I don’t see it like that. If someone asks you if you think you are going to win, what’s the point of saying no, or you’re not sure? What’s the point of pretending? I’ve never been into all that stuff when players offer no opinion of what the result of the game might be. For me, you might as well speak the truth, and the truth is that I felt we would beat England. If I build myself up, and my own team, then it makes me feel confident. It also puts pressure on me to go out and prove my point and I don’t mind that either. I’d rather that than spend time talking up how great England are and how they might do this or that to us. For me, that would just fill my head with doubts because I would be thinking about those opposition strengths instead of those of my own team. Anyway, in the days before the match the Welsh team management decided I should be put up before the media. I didn’t ask to be there. It was purely their call. But when I said that we would win it was taken as being a bit too cocky in some quarters. I didn’t care. I wanted to carry that complete self-belief with me onto the field on the Saturday and I wanted to put myself under pressure because that’s when I feel I respond. So that’s why I said it.

The journey from Wales’ team headquarters at the Vale of Glamorgan Hotel to the Millennium Stadium is always one of the highlights for me of any international match. But as this was my first Six Nations game and we were playing England, the old enemy, I took time to savour it and soak everything in. As the bus made its way to the centre of Cardiff there were thousands of supporters out on the streets even though it was still a few hours until kick-off. They all waved and shouted good luck when they realised it was the Wales team bus and as a player that makes you feel very special. It really gives me a hell of a buzz and I think it provides a massive advantage compared to the away team. By the time I got to the Millennium Stadium I felt ready to take on the world. The other boys were all in the same frame of a mind and we felt we couldn’t wait for the game to start.

It’s at this stage that some players get quite emotional about the whole occasion and what it means to them – especially as we were playing England. But I was determined not to let that happen to me. I just wanted to treat it as another game. I’m not one of those players who likes to use outward emotions to psyche themselves up. I prefer to be a bit more controlled and stay relaxed. I knew if I allowed myself to get caught up in the whole occasion then it would be a waste of energy – and I’d need every ounce of that.

The match began well for us and I managed to put in a solid early tackle on England’s Mark Cueto. Jason Robinson had thrown the ball into midfield, we chased up in a line and I got in a good hit on Cueto. That allowed me to settle. Suddenly I was able to concentrate harder and felt really into the game. I felt good about myself physically – strong. Then, Mathew Tait cut back inside towards me and I dumped him, although he managed to keep hold of the ball. It was his first touch in international rugby and I was aware of the crowd reacting to my tackle which gave me a big lift. Now, I felt settled and after another good tackle on Julian White I was flying. This is going to be okay, I thought. It’s going to be a good day.

Stephen Jones missed an early penalty, but within 10 minutes or so we scored a try through Shane Williams. I had a hand in the build-up but the crucial pass was the one delivered by Michael Owen, a lovely floated one that opened up enough space for Shane to dart over in the left corner. Michael is a wonderful rugby player and I really admire his handling skills and his vision, which so many other forwards just don’t have. It’s like having another back standing in the line so I had no hesitation about giving him the ball when he was calling for it. Stephen couldn’t add the conversion but we were 5–0 up and playing some good rugby. Nothing tight or anxious, just a nice flowing game, and the truth is that we should have got at least one more try in that opening 15 minutes or so. We had our chances.

Charlie Hodgson then struck a penalty before I put in another big tackle on Tait which got the crowd excited and led to all kinds of questions after the match. Mathew was an 18-year-old making his debut for England as a consequence of all those injury problems. Andy Robinson, the England coach, had paired Mathew in the centre with his Newcastle clubmate, Jamie Noon. Obviously, the thinking was that as they knew each other well the nerves might not feel as acute for Mathew as they might have been if he was next to a stranger.

I didn’t know much about Tait, although I had heard through the grapevine he had showed a lot of promise for Newcastle and our injured flanker Colin Charvis, a clubmate in the North-East, had singled him out before the game as an exciting prospect. Alun Carter, the Welsh team’s notational analyst, and the man in charge of finding video footage on all our opponents, had done well to find me some clips of Tait which I watched on the Friday. I could see that Tait was a quality player with quick feet and good hands. I also couldn’t help thinking about his age. Eighteen! I was still used to being described as a youngster myself and yet I had turned 23 at the start of that week. Here was a kid five years younger than me. I’ve always had a strange feeling about coming up against players younger than me. It creates an extra little competitive edge in my mind. It’s almost as if they are a bit of a threat to me and at the back of my mind a little voice is telling me to put them in their place. Or at least try to put them in their place. I suppose it’s a desire to try and set the standards rather than allow someone new to come along and set them for you.

We had been defending well and I was feeling confident when Tait tried to run straight at me. It meant I had to make a head-on tackle which is the type I have always enjoyed, right through from my earliest days as a kid playing age-group rugby. I like the aggressive side of the game and those tackles give you the chance to get right in someone’s face. When a player runs right at me, I don’t have many worries about the contact, I feel comfortable making that form of tackle and I must admit I enjoyed that one on Mathew. I managed to stop him and pick him up at the same time. Suddenly, his momentum was gone and it was me moving forward with him horizontal in my arms. Someone said afterwards it looked as though I was moving a shop-window dummy but at the time these things happen so quickly you don’t imagine that they will become a talking point. After the game, I was asked if I’d planned to embarrass Mathew but that was rubbish. It had nothing to do with the fact that he was 18 and making his debut. It was just that he was running straight at me and I was the one who had to stop him. It wasn’t as if I had singled him out or anything because I had also put in those solid hits on White and Cueto, too. But I’ll admit that tackle on Mathew did feel good. I liked the surge of adrenalin it gave me because this was a player we had talked about before the match as a possible danger man. Mathew had been bragged up in the Zurich Premiership and is quite a physical player himself. I had seen one try he had scored for Newcastle against Sale where he had bumped off Jason Robinson so he obviously had strength to go along with his general sharpness and good feet. So we did our homework on him and it paid off.

In the days afterwards there would be T-shirts printed with the picture of me holding Mathew in mid-air with a few mildly insulting captions on them. I don’t suppose Mathew minds too much. He shouldn’t. He’s a lot younger than me, he’s going to be a very good player for England, and I know that one day he’ll get his revenge. In fact, later in the game he made a tackle on me that denied us a try. I had made a break on the outside of Mathew and thought I had got away from him. But just as I tried to accelerate away he stretched out and got a hand on my jersey to pull me down. That was careless. Next time, I thought, I’ll make sure my shirt is fully tucked into my shorts.

We increased our lead to 8–3 at half-time thanks to a penalty from Stephen Jones. People have often asked me whether I mind having to share the goal-kicking with Steve but I’m more than happy to do so. A lot of people might view me as an individualist, a loner, and in many ways I suppose I am. But what I most want from playing for Wales is to be part of a successful team. That’s the priority. It always has been for me. I want to stand out but I want people to look at me as someone who catches the eye within a winning team. Stephen is a fantastic kicker, one of the best in the world, so there’s no way I would resent it when he’s asked to kick at goal. A lot of people don’t actually realise that kicking can be tiring because you are the only player on the pitch actually doing anything for 90 seconds while everyone else is having a rest. The nice thing about having Steve take all the short and medium-range kicks is that I get to have a breather like everyone else.

Shortly after Stephen kicked his penalty, Danny Grewcock and Gareth ‘Alfie’ Thomas both ended up in the sin bin. Grewcock decided to plant his foot across Dwayne Peel’s head at a ruck and Alfie came running in to try and chin him. They both ended up in the bin – something for which Alfie was very apologetic about afterwards – but this was a Wales-England game after all and you don’t get many of those without a few sparks flying. With Alfie off the field, and both sides down to 14 men, I was moved from inside centre to cover for his loss at full-back. I felt perfectly comfortable with that. It’s a position I’m happy with and I’d played there lots of times before. I like to kick the ball out of hand because I know I can send it a long way – further than most players. When I managed to put England right back on their heels with two big kicks to touch then I started to feel really confident about the way things were going.

Sitting in the dressing room at the break, I felt a bit disappointed and so did most of the other boys. We had scored the only try but we hadn’t really played much rugby other than that. We hadn’t taken the game to them as we had planned. We promised ourselves that we would keep the ball in hand and run England around more in the second-half to try and stretch them and tire out their forwards. But it didn’t really happen. I think the occasion got to us and the match became quite scrappy. England dug in and found they had gained a territorial advantage which we didn’t seem able to do much about. Hodgson kicked a penalty to make it 8–6 and then with the game going into the final stages he slotted over another and suddenly we found ourselves 9–8 down. I have to admit a little bit of panic set in. Everyone became quite nervous, there were too many mistakes being made, and there was also the added factor of worrying about the clock. Back in the autumn against New Zealand there had been a mix-up over exactly how long was left in the game. The clock was being halted every time for stoppages so that while we all felt there was some injury time left to play, the referee blew up when the exact 40 minutes was up. When you are losing, although you should be able to remember whether it’s a stopped clock or not, that kind of thing goes flying out of your mind in the general panic that takes over. There was part of me that also realised England were much more used to holding out and winning tight games than we were. But as a team something gave us that little bit of calm in the final moments that day in February and I think it was this. We had all believed in the days before the match that we would beat England and I think every Welsh player on that field still believed it as the seconds counted down. We had the individual players and collectively we had the character. All we needed was one more chance. And then it came.

Gareth Cooper, who had come on at scrum-half for Dwayne Peel, made a break from a scrum and rolled a kick into England’s half. Jason Robinson tried to tidy up but got swallowed and when he was unable to release the ball quickly enough the penalty was given.

That kick changed my life and I’ll remember it forever. But I’ll also remember those feelings as the seconds were counted down to our victory. We were playing with a freedom we hadn’t managed since the opening few minutes of the match. We were back in the lead and the confidence came flooding back, helped by the crowd who lifted us higher again. We could easily have scored another try – perhaps we should have – but it was obvious we were not going to lose. It felt to me as though that last four minutes could have turned into 25 and England still wouldn’t have come back. It was our day and we knew it.

When the final whistle went, and we had won 11–9, the excitement I felt couldn’t be diverted into running, kicking and tackling anymore. So I ran about, jumping in the air. So did everyone else. We all went nuts. It was an amazing feeling and an incredible atmosphere, the best I had ever felt.

I did my utmost to savour those feelings, including later on in the evening when we were among the Welsh supporters. To see so many happy faces on the streets and around the stadium, to know that you can have that effect on people, made me feel fantastic. It was awesome. Like the players, the fans had been through so many bad times they deserved this moment – and they were going to make the most of it.

We spent quite a while celebrating before coming off the field, which was understandable given that Wales had not beaten England for six years. Eventually the rest of the boys headed down the tunnel and turned left towards our dressing room but I was grabbed by the BBC for an interview as I’d been given the man-of-the-match award. By the time I got back to the boys, Alfie had given his post-match chat to the squad but I did catch him giving the call that no-one was to go out that night to celebrate. We had another game in seven days against Italy which would mean flying out to Rome on the Thursday. Alan Phillips, the Wales team manager, backed him up, but I was on a real high by now so I shouted out: ‘No way! My fans are expecting me.’ It was half meant as a joke but the serious half was that I really did want to go out and let off some steam. It’s very hard when you have been in camp all week and everything has been extremely tense and serious. The idea of just going back to the hotel, and trying to get some sleep before getting up and going to a recovery session didn’t really appeal.