But this same imagination, undisciplined, is also a curse. Put yourself in Hodgson’s position last Sunday as the electronic clock commenced what seemed like its sprint towards the 80-minute mark and defeat for England.
The forwards maintained their shape and drove once, twice, deep into the French 22. Martin Johnson and the World Cup final sprang to mind. Hodgson, à la Jonny Wilkinson, was waiting in the drop-goal position from which he has salvaged games for Sale throughout his career. Normally he does not miss, but then normally the world is not watching.
Thirty metres out and in front of the posts, you’d fancy his chances. I’ve seen countless people drop goals at Twickenham from where he stood as part of the pre-match entertainment. They only start hooking when the competition boils down to a kick that can win a few grand or a holiday in the Seychelles. They start to imagine what is within their grasp, and the target shrinks to the eye of a needle.
Only a similar mental process explains why Hodgson fluffed a gimme. For him, it wasn’t the chance of a free holiday but the undisciplined imagination to consider the consequences, one way or another, of his kick. Imagine. You have just enough time to think how you will be savaged in the press if you screw up. Talented as you are, even in your dreams, are you certain that ball would soar gloriously between the posts? Test-match sport can be won by sheer superiority across the board, but often tight encounters are a test of nerves. If you are not in control of your imagination, chances are you will fail. I remember Neil Jenkins, the metronomic goalkicking Welsh fly-half, but an inferior instinctive talent to Hodgson, talking about his art. He mentioned the metaphorical “box” in which he locked all his subsidiary thoughts as he approached a kick at goal.
Seal everything off and strike. Such discipline separates great kickers from the rest. Jenkins, not as imaginative as Hodgson, probably didn’t need such a large box in which to keep his non-kicking thoughts.
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Jonny Wilkinson’s mental box — in his pomp — was padlocked tight. That’s why he could miss three drop-kicks to win a World Cup but slot the final effort home off the wrong foot without any fear of failure.
Not so with Hodgson. If he keeps a box in his head, it bears more resemblance to Pandora’s. His imagination unchecked, he prised it open and the demons flew out.
Here is another problem with the Sale man that has been glaringly exposed: he is too honest for his own good, painfully so. It is admirable to own up — as he did after two fearful kicks against Australia — that his nerves played a detrimental part in his game. The same last Sunday. The captain and manager are contracted to talk to television and radio; nobody else has to do it. Hodgson should have hidden his torment in the changing room away from prying eyes, not saying mea culpa seconds after full-time.
Again, the contrast with Wilkinson during the World Cup is illuminating. Contrary to what his devotees claim, our Jonny was decidedly mortal at times in Australia. He was downright awful in a couple of games. His mates bailed him out. Yet he took his demons into his room and through sheer force of will beat them to a bloody pulp. They went into the box, along with the stream of easy misses against Wales and Samoa, and they suffocated.
If England select Hodgson for next weekend, Eddie O’Sullivan will expect the demons to turn out wearing the green of Ireland. Hodgson deserved the call over a rusty Wilkinson last autumn, but his temperament has trashed his technique and confidence to such an extent that it is the selection of the Sale man, not Wilkinson, as I then argued, that will be the speculative call inspired by blind faith. It would be the kind decision, but not the brave one.
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There is still no Wilkinson, let alone the pre-2003 model, to slay the demons and soothe the nerves of a team that has mislaid its self-belief. England need a steadying short-term fix if they are to kick their losing habit. Andy Goode, the Leicester fly-half and most confident pivot playing in England, is the sensible bet.
An uncapped player thrown to the Furies of Lansdowne Road is not an odds-on banker, but sticking with Hodgson seems an even riskier proposition.
The smart option for Andy Robinson would have been to telephone Goode before yesterday’s game and tell him he was 80 minutes from a cap. Place him under psychological pressure above and beyond thinking he might just have a chance of a cap by being included in the extended squad. It would not have turned Leicester versus Newcastle into a Test match, but Robinson would have had a clue as to whether Goode could master his own imagination and repel, with his boot, the demons that have tormented poor Charlie Hodgson in recent weeks.