Dylan Hartley - The Hurt: The Sunday Times Sports Book of the Year

Dylan Hartley is a New Zealand-born English rugby union player who played at hooker for Northampton Saints. He was the captain of England from January 2016 until the end of his international career in 2018 and is the countrys most capped hooker of all time, earning his first cap in 2008. Dylan captained England to the Grand Slam in 2016, the first time that England had done this since 2003, and to a 3-0 series win in the 2016 Cook Cup against Australia. He retired from rugby in 2019.

To my wife Jo, for her unwavering support, my kids, for inspiring me, and my parents, for giving me the opportunity.

You re fucked, mate

Eddie Jones may be a brilliant coach, but his bedside manner leaves a little to be desired. Even by the standards of the 6am texts he delivers while running on the treadmill, which make the recipient s balls tighten and the brain melt, this phone call was brutal.

I d spent four years as his captain, confidant, pupil and ambassador. I d accumulated ninety-seven caps over ten years, coped with controversy and survived the ebbs and flows of international rugby. I d lived the slogan Leaders never show weakness but had struggled with a knee injury for eight months. He was effectively ending my England career with three words.

Eddie is always prepared, whether he is throwing the media a bone with a smart soundbite or confirming he has written you out of his provisional World Cup squad. I was at a disadvantage, because when he delivers bad news in person you can at least read his eyes. They are sharp and penetrating, and give a tantalizing hint of his inner thoughts.

The England environment was never relaxed, by design. To quote one of Eddie s favourite phrases, borrowed from P. T. Barnum, the nineteenth-century American showman and entertainer: Comfort is the enemy of progress. It s difficult to assess his mood when he is a disembodied voice, so our subsequent conversation was fractured and pretty surreal.

I m not fucked.

You can t run, mate.

I can. I ran this morning.

You ran ten sets of fifty metres. That s not fucking running.

There s a bit of swelling on the knee, but I m powering through, training every day.

I can t pick you. You re not fit enough. Start making a decision on what you re gonna do.

I saw a chink of light. It felt as if he was trying to get me to withdraw, voluntarily. That was never going to happen. I wasn t going to make it that easy for him. I knew him as a firm but fair man, and it was time to try to set my own agenda.

Before you make any decisions, why don t you give me some parameters, a goal, a level that I need to run at, to be considered?

A pause: OK, mate. I ll get back to you.

Twelve days remained until the provisional training squad for the 2019 World Cup was due to be announced, on 20 June, when one of his strength and conditioning staff sent me the session that would decide my fate. It was a forty-minute beasting, repetitive shuttle runs and explosive movement, on and off the floor, with barely a minute s rest. That s manageable at peak fitness, immediately after pre-season and with a few games in the legs and lungs, but close to impossible at that stage of my rehabilitation.

Eamonn Hyland, the Northampton Saints S&C coach overseeing my recovery, studied the programme and cut to the chase: Do they want you to pass this? He works methodically, in a world of protocols and professional caution. I work instinctively, in a world of pragmatism and professional urgency.

Though I understood his concern, and shared his suspicion that I had not been given the leeway allowed to others, as they sought to reach peak condition, I had no choice. Do you know what? I said. Fuck it. I m nearly out of time. Let s just get some running done. I m going to have to drive this. Fuck the warm-ups. Fuck all the drills and technique work. Let s just see how we go.

My knee swelled every day, despite my wearing compression leggings. I did an hour s round trip each morning to do low-impact work in a swimming pool. I paid for a masseur to work on me at my house each evening. I took painkillers, backed up by CBD, the naturally derived cannabis oil that elite athletes, in sports as diverse as golf, football and swimming, use to regulate sleep, the immune system and chronic pain.

My diet was ridiculously harsh since I needed to reduce body fat to underline my determination to regain and retain my fitness, but my body ultimately dictated the limits of my commitment. Everything came to a head after three days, on a Friday morning when I got into Franklin s Gardens especially early to do a running session before driving to Wales to attend the wedding of George North, my friend and clubmate.

The routine had become familiar. My knee blew up, and the pain kicked in. I silently repeated the sportsman s mantra of no pain, no gain, and went for a final push. Suddenly, I was seized by what felt like a sustained electric shock. Not for the first time, I had pulled a back muscle. I caught it before I entered spasm, and Eamonn advised me to stop.

I couldn t, wouldn t. What s that they say about the definition of insanity, doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result? I was ready to take that particular clich to a different level. I merely reduced my speed, closed my mind to potential damage, and got the distance in. I paid the price on the way to Wales, when I had to stop and find a doctor to drain my knee.

So-called joint aspiration is not a process for the squeamish, and involves the insertion of a needle into the knee. The doctor drew 80 millilitres of fluid into the syringe, an unprecedented amount. To put that into context, it is popularly assumed that 5 millilitres is enough to switch muscles off. The pressure on the joint was eased, but the process was as much mental as physical.

I was on my own in the hotel that night, because my wife, Jo, a make-up specialist, was attending the bride. As I lay in bed, churning over the possibilities, I had a moment of clarity and release. I d had enough of being governed by Eddie. I was a grown man, who wasn t ready to be a semi-detached guest at my mate s wedding.

I d keep off my feet as much as possible, but would have a drink, and enjoy the celebrations. My knee was bloody sore, but from that moment on I vowed to take things at my own pace. I accepted that I wasn t going to be announced in the initial World Cup squad, and wasn t bothered about the fallout, the public perception of failure.

I unloaded on the Rev. Jez Safford, Northampton s club chaplain, in a quiet corner at the wedding reception. Like many men of the cloth, he has a reassuring presence. It s never about him, it is always about you. What s going on in your life? he asked. How are you? Are you OK? We d both had a few I was on pints and he was on the wine and the barriers were down.

We talked softly about the hardest thing of all, having almost to justify myself to strangers, who would ask How s the knee? with good intentions, when it was the last thing I wanted to dwell on. I couldn t tell them the truth: Actually, mate, it fucking hurts. I was forced to be an actor, reciting a well-rehearsed line: Just trying to get it right, thanks, and training hard.