Читать книгу No Boundaries - Passion and Pain On and Off the Pitch - Ronnie Irani - Страница 11

I was a month short of my 17th birthday and just finished another good season at Heaton Cricket Club when Lancashire told me to turn up at Old Trafford for the announcement of my signing. I was impressed, thinking they must rate me pretty highly to hold a press conference. It was only when I got there that I realised the main point of calling the journalists together was to let the world know that they had signed England all-rounder Phil de Freitas. The boys from the national newspapers didn’t take much notice of me, but I got reasonable coverage in the local papers and the following day I made my debut for the Lancashire second team against Glamorgan at Old Trafford to round off a good summer.

The signing of de Freitas was a sign that Lancashire were ambitious to win trophies and were assembling a great squad of players. They already had Mike Watkinson as an all-rounder so I realised it would be hard for me to break into the first team, but I was always ready to back myself and to put in the work that was necessary to make it. From now on cricket was to be my number-one priority and I played a hell of a lot of matches the following season, despite the fact there was a new distraction in my life in the form of a stunning-looking girl with legs to kill for.

By this time, Dad had arranged my first non-cricket job, working part-time at Tom Fraser’s butcher’s shop. Tom taught me to bone brisket, grind mince and make sausages, but the job was somewhat lacking in glamour so after three months I moved on. I took up an offer to work in a video store owned by Fil Mercer – he insists on the F because he says it’s easier to spell and that people remember an unusual name. He is one of several brothers well known in Bolton, and indeed further afield, for their entrepreneurial leanings. I went on to work with several of them over the years, with varying degrees of success.

The video shop suited me down to the ground – there was less blood, a bit more money and I’d always liked movies. As a kid I was hooked on the Rocky films and, even though they are a bit cheesy towards the end of the series, they still strike a chord with me today. I identified with the strangely satisfying pain of pushing yourself to your absolute limits in training, the rush you get when you realise that your body has just been stronger or gone faster than ever before, the pleasurable ache of achievement. I can remember the first thrill of watching the scene in Rocky II where Sylvester Stallone comes out of his house in the mean streets of Philadelphia to a fanfare of horns that build into Bill Conti’s uplifting ‘Rocky Theme’ as our hero jogs up the railway line, through the market and then into the city, gradually picking up a trail of kids like a latter-day pied piper until he reaches the top of the steps of the Museum of Art where they all gather round, chanting his name. I wanted to be up there with him. It still makes the short hairs on the back of my neck stand up whenever I see it and I defy anyone to watch it and not feel they could go out and become champion of the world.

I’ve always been chatty – some would say that was an understatement – and I enjoyed helping customers pick out a film, although I tended to be stronger on action than romance. ‘If they ask your opinion, tell them the truth,’ Fil advised me. ‘If it’s crap, tell them it’s crap. But, if they don’t ask, let them find out for themselves.’

One Sunday night, this terrific-looking girl with a great smile came in to return a video. She had all the right bits in all the right places and, being a leg man, I immediately noticed that she had two of the finest-shaped calves I’d ever seen. Her bum wasn’t bad either. It was obvious she knew Vicky Burke, the girl I worked with, so after she’d gone I asked who she was.

‘That’s Lorraine Chapman. Why? Do you fancy her?’

I admitted I was interested and it was arranged that I would ‘bump into’ the two of them in the pub the following Friday night. Lorraine and I got on well. We seemed to click straight away – something to do with my sophisticated charm and great patter, I thought. Much later, she told me that, without knowing it, I’d done all the right things to impress her: I’d turned down a cigarette because I didn’t smoke, I’d talked about her as much as I’d talked about me, and the clincher was when she asked for a glass of coke I didn’t try to persuade her to ‘have a real drink’ so I could get her pissed. Strangely, no mention of the pop-star looks and the great taste in clothes.

The evening went very well and, as she put on her coat to leave, I said, ‘Just a minute. I want to see you again. What’s your phone number?’

‘I’m not on the phone,’ she said, and started to walk away.

My heart sank. I thought she was giving me a line just to put me off but then she turned back and said, ‘But my granddad is. He only lives down our street. You can phone me there if you like.’

So I did. I got through to granddad Bill and, a little bit embarrassed, explained who I was and asked if he would please go and get Lorraine. ‘Right, lad, just a minute,’ he said and I heard him put the phone down, shuffle down his hall, open the front door and leave. I must have hung on for a good couple of minutes and I was beginning to think it was a wind-up when I heard some lighter footsteps running back in and a slightly out-of-breath Lorraine said, ‘Hello, Ronnie, is that you?’ And that was that. We were, as they say in those parts, courting. We are still together 20 years later, although communication is much easier now they’ve invented mobile phones.

I soon got to know Lorraine’s family, who were having quite a tough time. She had a brother Paul and sister Alison. Her dad wasn’t living with them and her mum Pat was holding down three jobs to look after her kids. Lorraine, who was only 16 when I met her, was also grafting to pay her way, getting up at 5.30 each morning to catch the bus to her job as a machinist, making curtains at Dorma for Marks & Spencer.

On one of our first dates, I told her that, as well as working in the video shop, I also played cricket, although, not wanting to sound boastful, I didn’t say I was on the books at Lancashire. Lorraine showed a suitable amount of interest and then said, ‘I play rounders.’ So, being a modern man who likes to share interests – and relishing the idea of seeing those legs in a really short skirt – I went along to watch her and she was pretty good. The match was quite tight and the opposition were getting a bit feisty, so I started to wind them up from the sidelines. It worked in so far as they lost their composure and Lorraine’s side won the match but I hadn’t realised that women tend to react to losing far more aggressively than men. I couldn’t believe it. One woman lost it all together. She picked up first base and threatened to use it as a spear. It was riveting to watch but I decided it was time to make a tactical retreat. I’ve faced some of the most hostile fast bowlers in the world, but none of them was as scary as that woman and I decided there and then that men should steer well clear when women start scrapping.

It was only when the season started and I began to disappear for weeks on end that Lorraine realised that cricket was my main job. It brought a big change in our lives because we weren’t able to see nearly as much of each other, but she never complained once and has always accepted the fact that my work meant we’ve had to spend long periods apart.

As well as playing for Lancashire second team and Under-25s, I signed for Eagley Cricket Club and so became the youngest ever Bolton League club professional. I also had the chance to play a couple of games up at Penrith, which turned out to be one of the most significant trips in my life. I got chatting to their pro Gavin Murgatroyd – I was filling in while he was injured – and he suggested I should ring a chap he knew called John Bird. ‘He’s a great bloke – a director of Tesco and a cricket nut. You’ll like him.’ It was one of the best bits of advice I ever received and was soon to help me in my latest business venture, with Fil Mercer.

Fil – a cross between Arthur Daley and Del Boy with a bit of Alan Sugar thrown in – had sold his video shops to Video World which later became Blockbuster. He was now looking for a new venture to invest in and I was keen to have another string to my bow just in case the cricket didn’t work out. He’d assisted in a fruit and veg shop when he was a teenager and reckoned, if modern retail techniques were applied to what was a very old-fashioned business, we could clean up. ‘The first thing that has to go is that imitation grass draped over apple boxes,’ he said.

We drove all over the north of England, looking at greengrocers and most of them were rubbish. We found a great shop in Sheffield, Arthur Fox Fruiterers, and that gave us several ideas for our own place. Fil put in £75,000 and I borrowed 25 grand off my dad and we started to look for our first shop. We realised that position was everything and, contrary to most advice, we decided our shop should be as close as possible to a big supermarket so we were within walking distance of their car park. We labelled our produce as farm fresh, while everyone believed the supermarket stuff was mass-produced and pre-packaged. It was bollocks because it often came from the same market but it worked for us.

I was determined to be hands-on so I needed a quick education in retailing and that’s when I remembered Gavin’s tip about John Bird. Surely the Head of Retail at Tesco, a guy employing more than 60,000 people, would be able to put me right? I rang and spoke to his secretary, and a couple of days later he phoned me back and agreed to meet. I warmed to him straight away and he was very encouraging. He even created a training course for me and sent me to work at Tesco’s Hatfield branch under the experienced guidance of manager Gary Snell. It was quite an eye-opener. Gary gave me a crash course in everything from rotating stock to display, from margins and profit and loss to how to get customers flowing through the store. He also put me to work in the fruit and veg and dairy sections.

One day, I was on the till when the tannoy sounded out: ‘Mrs Robinson to reception, please. Mrs Robinson to reception urgently.’

Gary came racing over and said, ‘Quick! That’s the code for someone nicking stuff.’

As he spoke, a guy came tearing past me clutching a couple of bottles of whisky, raced out of the door and started to leg it across the car park. For some reason, I went after him. I passed Gary, already puffing, in the car park and set off up the hill towards a roundabout. As I overtook the rather portly security guard, I heard him wheeze, ‘Go on, my son! You can get him.’

I was now closing in on the guy and suddenly realised what I was doing. For all I knew, he had a knife. Or even a gun. He’d certainly got a couple of bottles he could break and try to glass me. I kept chasing but made up my mind if it turned nasty I wasn’t going to risk my cricket career for a couple of bottles of scotch. I reached out, grabbed his collar and he stopped, clearly knackered and in no state to fight. ‘All right, all right,’ he panted and put the bottles down. Then he started to walk away.

‘Hey, mate!’ I shouted to him. ‘You’ve got to stay here! Don’t make it difficult. I don’t want to roll around the floor with you, but I’ll stop you if I have to.’

He stopped and at that moment the security guard and a couple of members of staff caught us up and to my amazement jumped on him and pinned him to the floor.

As we walked back down the hill, I said to Gary, ‘Is it always like this?’

‘Oh yeah,’ he said. ‘At least one a week.’

Shortly after that, I had to fill in one of those questionnaires sports people get from newspapers and magazines. One of the questions was: What do you do in the off season? I wrote: ‘Security guard, Tesco’.

By the time I got back home bursting with ideas, Fil had found our first shop and we kitted it out like no greengrocers Bolton had ever seen. We tiled the floor, made an inviting wide entrance, fixed up a television to create a bit of interest and installed a machine for making freshly squeezed orange juice. As far as I know, it was the first in any greengrocers in the country and it brought in loads of customers. I would stand there, squeeze the oranges and hand round samples. ‘Here you are, luv, try this. The freshest orange juice in the world.’ Then I’d bottle it in front of them. Another satisfied customer. We also bought a van and had the slogan painted on the side: ‘Stop me if you’re feeling fruity!’

Fil and I worked our socks off. We’d be in the market at 2.30am to buy the produce and we wouldn’t finish until about half past six that night. Lorraine thought I was a gentleman because I didn’t try it on with her but in reality I was too knackered.

But the shop took off. We ploughed all the money back into the business and soon we had three shops. Fil was a great partner and knew a hell of a lot about business, which he was happy to pass on to me. There was a lot to learn, some of it making no sense at all, such as the morning a load of retailers were scrambling around the wholesale market desperate to buy some Marks & Spencer reject cauliflowers. ‘Why would we buy someone else’s cast-offs?’ I asked, completely bewildered.

‘Because they are still quality at a slightly knock-down price and you can sell them as M&S collies.’

I still didn’t get it but put in a bid anyway.

Fil could be a hard bastard if he thought I’d got it wrong. There were several bitterly cold mornings, well before dawn, when I would get a bollocking because I’d bought the wrong gear, maybe the 10p lemons when I should have bought those at 3p. It wasn’t easy to take because I was usually dog tired but I knew he was only doing it for my own good, so I bit my tongue.

It was on one of those early-morning sessions at the market that I spotted the former Lancashire captain Jack Bond driving a wagon for Liptrots, a well-known local firm. I’d grown up hearing stories about Jack. He was a Lancashire legend – he’d taken an under-performing team and won the one-day Sunday League two years on the trot and followed that with three successive Gillette Cup final victories at Lord’s. I’d also come across him as an umpire and knew him to be a lovely bloke and a fair umpire. I was taken aback that someone as well known and successful as Jack Bond could be driving a wagon for a living at an unearthly hour of the morning. It gave me a new outlook on fame.

At the start of my second season with Lancashire, I returned to Heaton as their pro and I also had a season among the Yorkies with Skelmanthorpe in the Huddersfield League. My life was manic – I’d play all week with Lancashire then Saturday and Sunday with the club sides, who expected me to bowl my full 25 overs and open the batting. Fortunately, I was as strong as an ox but there is no doubt it took a toll on my body and was probably the starting point for some of the injuries I suffered later on. I was already walking with a limp but I disguised it because I didn’t want to stop: playing cricket seven days a week was my idea of paradise and everything seemed to be going my way.

At the end of my first season at Lancashire, I was selected to tour Australia with the England Under-19 side. I was one of the youngest in the squad and only played a couple of one-day games but it introduced me to the management of Graham Saville and was the start of a relationship that was to prove pivotal in my career. The following summer I was selected for the U19s again, to play against Pakistan at the Oval, and was due to travel on the tour to New Zealand that autumn but had to withdraw because of a knee injury which required an operation, the first of many during my career.

I’d also made my Lancashire first-team debut against the Zimbabwe touring side and was about to taste my first major international success.