Jonathan PEARCE Column: At last, all our dreams have come true and

0 Comments | Sunday Mirror, Nov 23, 2003 | by Jonathan PEARCE

THEY stood toe to toe and slugged it out like two grizzled old bare-knuckle prize fighters punching themselves to a near standstill.

But no longer can Australia jab with the cheap shots about English courage. We are world champions.

How long have you dreamed of hearing it? England winners of a World Cup. Bloody marvellous.

Bruised, battered but never bowed or beaten, Clive Woodward's team have emerged as a side of genuine heroes to cherish in the years ahead. They even won it with the sort of dramatic flourish provided by Sir Geoff Hurst's hat-trick in 1966.

As the drop goal soared over I even found myself looking for a Russian linesman.

To dethrone the reigning world kings in their own castle after enduring testing challenge after challenge and ferocious enmity from all quarters along the way is the very stuff of legend.

In the end it wasn't pretty. It was never going to be in conditions which left the ball like a slippery bar of soap in the shower.

Australia's running game was never going to succeed in the wet. The downpours were always likely to better suit England's kick-and- run percentage play even if handling errors were guaranteed.

We suspected that if England kicked astutely for position, the Australian rugby league converts wouldn't be able to reply.

We knew both sets of forward behemoths would tackle like fury and cancel each other out. We hoped Matt Dawson would snipe around the scrum and Richard Hill would snap and snarl.

But all along we knew, we just knew. The dream was for Jonny Wilkinson to win the World Cup with a drop goal in the last seconds to silence the whingeing Wallabies.

Of course they were terrified of the nightmare becoming reality. That's why they tried to cheapen the glorious skill of the drop goal art in the build-up to the final.

But cometh the hour, cometh the superstar. Just like Bobby Moore seeing the opportunity to launch a downfield pass to the marauding Hurst in extra time at Wembley, Jonny saw the moment and dropped the historic goal.

This was the stuff of Hollywood suspense with a true matinee idol. We roared, we sang, we cried when the greatest coach in the history of the English game thanked the fans with glistening tears in his eyes.

Sir Clive Woodward, surely. Typically modest, typically committed to his players and supporters. Why, it could have been Sir Alf himself speaking!

Wilkinson has guaranteed himself a place in the pantheon of world superstars, answering all the critics who poured scorn on his self- analytical perfectionism.

Hours on hours of kicking practice in lonely isolation have paid off. The nation expected, he delivered.

But let's not forget the other marvels. Let's turn a blind eye to the sloppy penalties given away as Australia threatened to spoil the party for a while.

Think instead of how Lawrence Dallaglio and Ben Cohen have overcome terrible personal tragedy in recent years.

Remember how Mike Catt fought back from injury and the near loss of his baby through illness this year. How Will Greenwood had to interrupt his World Cup to return to his anxious pregnant wife after suffering the awful loss of their previous baby.

Never forget record-breaking Jason Leonard or Steve Thompson, whose emergence as a world-class hooker over the last few years has been astounding.

The list is endless. Back, Kay, Robinson. Then as the strains of Swing Low, Sweet Chariot echo around your memory in the months to come see again in your mind's eye the sheer naked pride etched on the face of Old Beetle-Brows himself.

When Martin Johnson, that grumpy nemesis to the Aussies, lifted the Webb Ellis Cup to the Sydney skies, how many Englishmen weren't in tears? Relief, joy, pride, elation.

We have just witnessed one of the great sporting moments. What a fitting climax to a wonderful event. This was the most dramatic and memorable of all the Rugby World Cups. The missed South African kicks against the stuttering England, the power of the Samoans, the breathtaking resurgent Welsh, the potential brilliance of Michalak of France. All the cameos merge together to provide a rich tapestry for the memory bank.

And in the end the generosity in defeat of the eloquent George Gregan spoke volumes for the dignity of the sport and the respect between two titanic teams.

The sledging and Pom-Okker baiting has been fun. Long may it last. Its woven into the fabric of Anglo-Australian tradition.

But now there is a genuine and not begrudging respect for England Down Under and all around the world. This is what this victory has achieved.

Six years of painful preparation enabled it to happen. It is a team triumph. It is a dream triumph. We have the superstar, we have the coaching brilliance, We have the cup.