that he mixed this criticism with encouragement. I have always responded to people who have confidence and belief in me; show me that and you’ll get the best out of me. It is doubt which breeds distrust in me. Geech said he believed in me, that I would reach the top if I was prepared to work with him to unlock my potential. He devised a gameplan which he said would help me achieve my ambitions; he got me working one day a week with Nigel Melville, the former England scrum-half and captain, and he gave me this single piece of advice which transformed my game: ‘Think “There’s a hole!”, not “Where’s a hole?”’ Before every game he would come up to me and say, ‘Don’t force it.’ It became a trigger phrase for me. He had seen what I’d gone through in 1994, when I was trying to create holes and was getting smashed all the time, to the detriment of the team. He could tell I needed to become more patient. ‘Keep passing it,’ he said. ‘Get rid of it, bide your time, and then, when you see a hole, go and take it.’
As the 1995–96 season wore on I began to gain the reputation I wanted for Matt Dawson. I took risks, I was a bit ballsy, I made the right decisions and I took control. I was helped massively by Geech’s ban on us kicking the ball whenever we were awarded a penalty. Unless we were right in front of the posts, 20 yards out, I was under orders to tap and go, forcing the team to go with me. Sometimes this was comical. One point behind or ahead with 20 minutes to go, we get a penalty 25 yards out and 10 yards wide of the posts and I’d be off. You could hear the crowd groaning, ‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?’ But we’d score – maybe not in that very play, but it would always come. We were playing at such a pace that we would congratulate a team if they stuck with us for 60 minutes. We were so fit and strong and so determined that we knew no team could last the full 80 with us.
By the time newly crowned world champions South Africa came to Twickenham in November, Northampton had won their first 10 league games, only once failing to top 40 points, and I had already scored more tries than I had in the whole of the previous campaign. My resurgence was too late to force England’s hand for the clash with the Springboks, but my time was approaching.
It helped that England were beaten far more comprehensively than the 24–14 scoreline suggested, and also that Kyran did not enjoy one of his better afternoons. Consequently, by the time Western Samoa touched down at Heathrow my cause was again being championed. ‘If England are to find the missing link, a pivot for their game,’ wrote Mark Reason in the Sunday Times, ‘they need a scrum-half who can provide fast ball and the hardness to run at defences. With Dewi Morris retired and Kyran Bracken failing to deliver, the man who is increasingly recognised as having the best credentials is Matt Dawson.’ Geech added his weight to the push for my inclusion in the side to play the Polynesians by saying, ‘If he does make it through into the international field he’ll make a significant impact. He will be one of those players who will be involved all the time.’
A week later I was on the team sheet, in the same back line as some of the all-time greats of English rugby: Will Carling, Jeremy Guscott and Rory Underwood. And not just me, either, as Grays had also got the call. England had decided to roll the dice and blood two half-backs in the same game.
It was difficult for Grays and me to come into such an experienced team in such influential positions, to play with authority and to run the game as you need to at 9 and 10. Nobody seemed to appreciate that except for one person, the England captain. I thought Will Carling was a really good lad. He was a big kid and liked a similar sort of banter to me; he was a real cheeky chappy. But what impressed me most was that he always looked after me and Grays. Will was obviously a big name, a big star, the first genuine rugby celebrity. But he was great with us, referring to us as his ‘sons’ (Grayson and Dawson). He knew it was crucial for us to have his support, and it was unequivocal.
But that could not calm my nerves in the days leading up to the game. I didn’t really venture much outside my bedroom. I was bricking myself, spending half the time on the toilet with acute stomach aches. I didn’t realise that I was genuinely ill, as sick as a dog. On the big day itself Grays and I sat together in a room in the Petersham Hotel doing anything to try to take our minds off the ordeal to come. We were just mucking about when we were suddenly brought back into the here and now by the theme tune for Grandstand on the television in the corner.
‘Oh quality, Steve Rider from Twickenham,’ I said. ‘That’ll be us later.’
Within a minute I was on the toilet and Grays was pacing around the room impatiently waiting to follow. From that point until I came round in the dressing room after the game to find Bill Bishop, president of the Rugby Football Union, waiting to present me with my senior cap and tie, everything is a blur in my memory.
People warned me that I wouldn’t remember any of it, and they were right. I still haven’t got a clue. I can’t even tell you the final score. I think Lawrence Dallaglio and Rory Underwood scored tries, and that we played left to right in the first half, but I can’t be sure. I do know that the game was quick – obviously a step up from what I’d been used to as in the last 10 minutes my legs were heavy and my lungs started to burn as the adrenalin ran out – and that we won, but more than that I have to rely on press clippings. I have never watched the game on video.
Experience brings with it a greater awareness and an ability to slow down pressure situations in your own mind to a manageable speed. It has also enabled me to manage my nerves. I no longer worry myself stupid that we are on television, or that there are 70,000 watching in the stadium. I don’t even give it a second thought. As soon as the whistle goes there could be no one in the stadium. The only thing I still get nervous about is making mistakes. I’ve done all my homework, I know I’ve got it in my head, so there’s nothing actually to get nervous about other than execution.
That does not mean I am completely dispassionate. To this day the National Anthem gets me every time. Whenever I sing it I try to pick out Mum and Dad in the stand. I watch Dad take his cap off, throw his head back and belt out the words. I feel pride in the fact that they are proud of me. I will only sing the opening couple of lines because I know if I go on I’ll start blubbing. After that I let Mum and Dad take over while I run through my key notes and trigger thoughts – which in plain speak are shorthand reminders of what is required of me in the England number 9 shirt. Why am I doing this? What am I going to get out of it? How much effort am I going to put in?
Back at Northampton the wins continued to pile up, but the complexion of the season, and indeed the Game, had changed. Rugby union, for so long the most Corinthian of sports, had thrown open its doors to professionalism.
I was at my local gym at Dallington, with Brett Taylor, Paul Grayson, Tim Rodber and Ian Hunter when the news broke. We had just finished a session and were sitting in the bar having a sandwich and a glass of orange juice. My initial reaction was that the game wasn’t ready for such a move; only later did I think of the financial repercussions. Fortunately for Northampton, Keith Barwell had cut straight to the chase. His view was that once the game was ‘open’ it would be a race between the clubs and the RFU to sign up the players. So he called an emergency meeting at which he made a presentation, and promised that the club was going to look after its players. No one asked any searching questions because no one really understood what it all meant. I had no reason to doubt Keith anyway, as in many ways he had been providing a livelihood for me for the past five years. He had opened a couple of doors for me in terms of employment, and I knew I could trust him. So when he offered me the opportunity of doing as a full-time job what I had spent a large part of my life thinking about or doing anyway, I became very excited.
At that time it wasn’t a question of money for me – the thought of playing professional rugby as my job was enough of a dream to be going on with – but Keith had that sorted as well. He handed me a five-year contract in which Northampton agreed to pay me an annual salary of £15,000. It was double what I had been earning the day before as a schoolteacher at Spratton Hall. I grabbed the pen out of Keith’s pocket and signed the contract there and then. No lawyers, no agents, just thank you very much.
Keith had divided the squad into three tiers: A1s, As and Bs. The top tier, in which I was included along with the likes of Tim Rodber, Martin Bayfield and Gregor Townsend, were deemed to be established internationals and offered an annual salary of between