Perhaps the most tell-tale aspect of Johnny Sexton’s new autobiography is that it took seven years to stitch together. Seven years? Not since James Joyce took a similar timeframe to write Ulysses has there been such a slow-cooked Irish literary stew. And as Peter O’Reilly, Sexton’s excellent (and potentially long-suffering) ghostwriter, reveals in the final acknowledgments, there was little need for many supplementary interviews because of “Johnny’s exceptional memory for detail”. Combine those twin ingredients and a tasty dish is all but assured.
Because Johnny can remember everything and everyone. What his friends said and did, what his enemies were thinking (or, at least, what he thought they were thinking), how he felt at certain crucial moments. If it reads at times like a cold-eyed dispatch from an endless battle that is, for a good deal of his career, how it felt. “For so much of the time I was at war – with opponents, with rivals, sometimes with coaches, often with myself. For the most part … it felt like a fight.”
