Читать книгу No Boundaries - Passion and Pain On and Off the Pitch - Ronnie Irani - Страница 13

Not many batsmen boast about getting out but I was once run out by Vivian Richards – not yet knighted but already a god. It was my competitive one-day debut in Lancashire’s first team and a match I will never forget.

I’d been given the nod to play against Glamorgan and got to Old Trafford very early to warm up well. As I was walking back to the pavilion, I saw the man I’d grown up worshipping standing near the entrance. Isaac Vivian Alexander Richards was in his early forties, past his prime but still a legend and I was going to play against him. I walked towards the dressing room, head down, too in awe to say a word. As I passed him, I heard that deep Caribbean voice so familiar from countless TV interviews.

‘Ronnie Irani.’

I was shocked he knew my name. I turned back and muttered, ‘Mr Richards.’

He laughed. ‘Just call me Viv.’

‘Err, right, Viv, sir.’ I don’t think I’d ever been so nervous.

‘You’re making your debut today?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Well, good luck and good luck for the rest of your career.’

Viv Richards, one of the greatest men ever to grace the game of cricket, had taken the time not just to notice me but to wish me well. That was fucking massive. I bounced up the steps to the dressing room and vowed there and then that, if I ever got to be a tenth of the player he was, I would seek out kids making their way in the game and give them a bit of a gee-up.

Once we crossed the boundary rope, his attitude was less benevolent. It was my own fault. For some insane reason, I decided I would take a quick single to one of the finest-ever fielders. The odds were in my favour – he wasn’t young any more and the ball took a nasty bobble just before it reached him – but he still managed to swoop and throw in one graceful movement and I heard the clatter of the stumps with the safety of the crease still yards away. As I trudged off I cursed myself: ‘What on earth were you thinking of? You’ve watched him all your life. You’ve learned from him. You know how he fields. You’re a tosser.’

While I was totally in awe of the man, I was also fighting for my career, so, when it came time to bowl against him, I backed myself and took him on. I sent down one particularly good ball and he tried to knock it out of the ground. It was the last ball of the over and I walked towards him and said, ‘What are you doing have a whoosh at that? You should respect me when I bowl a good ball at you.’ I turned on my heel and started back towards the umpire to collect my sweater, already regretting what I’d said.

I heard that voice again: ‘Young man.’

I ignored him. The umpire handed me my sweater and said, ‘He’ll kill you next over.’

‘Young man. Young man.’ The voice was a bit more insistent and a bit closer.

I decided to pretend I’d not heard him and walked away towards the boundary.

‘YOUNG MAN!’

No pretending I hadn’t heard that. I’ll have to face him and take my bollocking, I thought, cursing myself for being an idiot. I turned. The great Viv Richards had followed me beyond the umpire at the bowler’s end and was still coming.

‘Yes, Viv. What is it?’

‘Young man, you will go far in the game.’ And with that he turned and went back to his crease.

He blocked every ball of my next over for a maiden and at the end of it said, ‘Well bowled.’

The crowd could sense something was going on and applauded. I think they loved the fact that I was willing to take him on. My team-mates weren’t so enthusiastic. Some of them had already made it clear they thought I was too full of myself and would do better to keep my mouth buttoned. They thought a rookie should show more deference and when we got back in the dressing room a few started taking the piss, accusing me of being a big-time charlie, chirping Viv Richards. Dexter Fitton, my pal from the second team, congratulated me and John Stanworth, the second-team player-coach, said, ‘Ignore that lot. That was good out there.’

But I was still feeling low and reluctantly put on my blazer and tie and made my way to the small committee room where players from both sides have a drink after the game.

As I opened the door, it was just my luck that the person standing next to the bar was Viv Richards. I froze for a moment. What do I do now? I couldn’t turn round and go back, and I couldn’t pretend I didn’t drink.

He spotted me and said, ‘What do you want to drink, Ronnie? Have a rum and coke.’ He ordered the drink and added, ‘Well done out there today. You taking me on – that’s what you’ve got to do every day. When you are out there, you have to fight for everything. Don’t give an inch.’

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’ve had a bit of a bagging from my team-mates about it. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.’ I paused and blurted out, ‘Did you mean it when you said I’ll go far?’

‘I meant it. I’m going to watch out for you. Ignore people who are negative. But also remember, if you take someone on in a match, try to shake hands with them afterwards. If they won’t have a beer with you, it’s their problem, not yours, but you should make the effort.’

I spent the next hour in the great man’s company, loving just being able to listen to him talk about cricket. As he got up to go, he said, ‘Do you need a lift somewhere?’

‘No, it’s all right. My mum and dad are waiting for me.’

He chuckled. ‘You are a young lad, aren’t you?’

I never forgot that day. I didn’t see him again until 2008 when we hooked up to do four dinners in as many nights, four of the best nights of my life. I’d learned a lot about cricket from watching Viv on TV as a kid but he also taught me about being a professional sportsman, what it means on and off the field of play. Superstar is an overused word in modern life but he truly was one in every respect and I just wish some of today’s sports people carried themselves with as much dignity and sheer class as he does.

I’ve got no time for people who think that, because they have a talent, it gives them a licence to act as they please and feel no need to put something back. I remember Tommy Smith, a key part of that great Liverpool football era, telling me that, when he was trying to raise funds for some of the older Anfield players who had fallen on hard times, a few of the current side refused to sign shirts because they were being sold. I’ve heard of clubs stopping players signing photographs because they were being auctioned on eBay. So what? Football and footballers make enough out of the game. Does it matter if someone else makes a few quid out of a photo? Some of them need a reality check.

Back in Bolton, the greengrocery business was doing well but then along came the recession of the early 1990s. We got through the summer OK because there is a good margin on soft fruits but then we struggled. It’s hard to make a living out of spuds and carrots. Fil tried to reassure me that things would turn round but I was worried about finding myself lumbered with a load of debt and knew I couldn’t afford that kind of distraction at this stage of my career. So we agreed that I would leave my money in the business but would sign it all over to him. Fil finally sold the shops and eventually paid me back my £25,000 out of his other businesses, which was an incredibly honourable thing to do. It had been a massive learning experience for me and I would apply some of the lessons when I again went into business with the Mercer family later in my career.

Life as a young professional at Lancashire was a strange mixture of emotions. I loved my cricket, and the bunch of guys I was with in the second team was terrific – the spirit and camaraderie in that group were as good as I’ve ever experienced. But there was also growing frustration. I became aware that my first-team chances were going to be few and far between. That was partly because there were some very good players ahead of me and I had no argument with that, but there was more to it than that. There was a divide between the first and second teams, right down to capped players changing in a different room from uncapped ones, even when they were playing in the same match. We put a sign on the second-team dressing-room door that read ‘MUSHROOMS’ and, when one of our senior colleagues asked what it was about, we explained it was because we were kept in the dark and had shit shovelled on us from time to time.

I also felt there was a lot of snobbery in the club, with people like Mike Atherton, who came from the posh part of Lancashire and was educated at Cambridge, looking down on oiks from Bolton like me, people who had too much to say for themselves and didn’t know their place. I sensed that, for me to make it, I would have to work a lot harder than most people. It was a challenge I needed to face up to. It was no good whingeing and moaning that it was unfair. That would just confirm what people were thinking. So I buckled down and worked even harder. I was determined I wouldn’t let them grind me down and vowed never to let them see a moment’s doubt. I kept on smiling, even when I felt low. I kept on offering my opinions – partly because I knew it annoyed them but partly because I’d grown up in dressing rooms where everyone’s view counted and I thought that’s how it should be. I’m a great believer in saying what you have to say to someone’s face and then moving on.

It wasn’t all negative. I received terrific support and encouragement from those in charge of the second team, people like John Savage, Alan Ormrod, the Lancashire manager, and ironically, in view of my later experiences with England, the coach David Lloyd. Bumble, as he was known throughout cricket, was a chirpy character and his enthusiasm for the game was infectious. He would hand out bollockings when he thought they were due but mostly his criticisms were constructive. I remember working on my game with him and thinking he’s a top man. He also seemed to rate me, which made his change of heart later in my career even more puzzling.

I was doing well on the field. The highlight was the double hundred I scored for the second team against a Kent attack that included England bowler Richard Ellison, Min Patel and a guy named Duncan Spencer who was seriously quick. His bowling was once timed at 98mph but he was later banned from the game when it turned out he’d been taking steroids.

My cricket education increased when I was introduced to the joys of reverse swing by one of the masters of the art. I don’t want to get too technical but, for those of you who are not familiar with this magical weapon in the bowler’s armoury, it is the ball the batsman expects to move out towards the slips but which cuts sharply back and rattles his stumps. Pakistani bowlers discovered it with devastating results. If you want to see some perplexed expressions on batsmen’s faces, go on YouTube and call up reverse swing. It’s the stuff bowlers’ dreams are made of.

Wasim Akram was one of the best in the world at what was then called late swing. He was Lancashire’s star bowler when I was at Old Trafford and I think Javed Miandad had asked him to look out for me, because he was always helpful from the day I joined the ground staff. He was a great role model for any wannabe bowler, not just technically sound but with a massive heart. He struggled against injury but time after time he would shrug it off and keep powering in. All fast bowlers bowl through pain – if they don’t, they won’t play much cricket – but this guy was special. I have seen Wasim steam in without wilting when I’ve known he should be on the treatment table. Even when he was only 90 per cent fit, he was a better bowler than almost anyone else out there.

It was on one of his appearances in the second team, on his way back after an injury, that he handed me a key to bowling glory. Different bowlers have different targets in their mind when they run in – some aim for a spot on the pitch, others concentrate on the stumps but I have always visualised the ball flying past the edge of the bat. If the batsman misses, I’ve got a chance of lbw or bowled; if he just makes contact, it could carry to the keeper or slips. That’s what I had in mind in this game as the ball started to move around. I ran in and let go of a peach of a delivery, but, instead of beating the bat on the off side, it shot down the leg side for byes. I was confused. What had I done wrong? The same thing happened to the next ball and I started to panic inside. Had I lost the ability to swing the ball? What should I do next?

Wasim came running down the pitch as I walked back to my mark. ‘Ronnie, hold the ball exactly as you would for an outswinger but pitch it six to eight inches outside off stump and let it go as fast as you can,’ he said.

Now I was really bemused. Everything I knew about bowling told me that if I followed his advice I would bowl a wide. But who was I to argue with Wasim?

I ran in and zipped one down the off side. Instead of swinging away, it cut back sharply, beat the batsman and almost took his off peg. Wow! The next over I sent one down that completely bamboozled the batsman and trapped him plumb lbw.

As we gathered in a huddle, Wasim said, ‘Well done, you’ve got it.’

I wasn’t sure what it was that I’d got, but I knew it was important. I’d never been blessed with tremendous pace but now I’d got something even more lethal.

I gradually learned that the reason the ball behaves in that extraordinary way is the contrast between the shiny side, which you keep polishing, and the other side which has been roughened up through play. You are allowed to use spit or sweat to shine the ball but you are not supposed to do anything to rough up the other side. I soon found out that plenty of bowlers were using a thumbnail to ‘assist’ what was happening naturally and I confess that from time to time I joined them. I felt, if we were getting turned over by this tactic, I would use it to my team’s advantage too.

Some will say that I cheated but I would argue that I was only pushing the laws to their limit just as others did in their own way. If the odd nail should happen to roughen up one side of the ball a little, is that any more reprehensible than the people who discovered that the ball would shine like never before if you sucked a pepermint when you spat on it? And what about those clubs who prepare a wicket that is so flat you could bowl on it all day and get no help at all? They are all cheating in a way, but to me they are just pushing their advantage as hard as they can.

At that time, umpires seemed unaware that a certain amount of ball-roughing was going on. They were only looking for old-style seam-picking, when bowlers used their fingernails to raise the seam, which increases grip and gets the ball to move. I recall toiling away on a flat pitch that was giving the bowlers no help at all in a game that was petering out into a high-scoring draw when the umpire at my end, a former fast bowler, said, ‘Come on, lad, get the seam up.’ I did and took three wickets.

I never felt uncomfortable giving the rough side of the ball a bit of a helping hand, despite the clear disapproval of Graham Gooch at Essex. He had a batsman’s natural hatred of reverse swing, and would make a point of ostentatiously showing the ball to the other slip fielders to demonstrate what I was doing. A few batsmen murmured, ‘Fucking cheat,’ when they trailed off having failed to deal with a great delivery, but that always seemed like sour grapes to me. I’ve been on the other end of reverse swing many times and never complained when it got me out. I was of the Hansie Cronje school on this. I knocked over his stumps with one that boomeranged. He was in his prime then, and he was a great batsman. He just looked down the wicket, nodded and said, ‘Well bowled, great skills.’

Hansie was caught up in the 2000 match-fixing scandal linked to gambling in the sub-continent. As a member of the England team at the time, I was given a briefing by Scotland Yard about how the system worked. I was gobsmacked by how simple it was. The police warned us that the bookies would ‘groom’ us by just being friendly at first and then giving presents. When the relationship was reasonably good, they would ask for simple information like news on an injured player or the weather conditions, all of which seemed quite innocent, although relevant if you were setting spread-betting odds. Finally, they would drag you in so deep that it would be difficult to claw your way out. Fortunately, I’ve never been approached – they probably knew they would get sent away with a flea in their ear – but like most cricketers I’ve seen some bizarre run-outs that have made me wonder what was going on.

The extra wickets I started to take thanks to Wasim and my continuing success with the bat meant Graham Saville was still picking me for England U19s, and in the summer of 1991 I enjoyed a memorable series against a very good Australian team. The first one-day match was my debut at Lord’s, where every cricketer in the world wants to play. I rang John Bird and told him I’d been picked and he said, ‘Great! I’ll see you there. We’ve got a box at Lord’s.’

The Aussies were a talented outfit – when are they not? – and their side included people like their captain Damien Martyn, Greg Blewett, Adam Gilchrist and Michael Kasprowicz. They made a big score and we were facing a tough ask. John Crawley got some runs and when I went in we needed to push on. I smashed 38 off around 20 balls, including a six into John’s Tesco box. He and his guests were out on the balcony waving their arms enthusiastically, which was a strange sight in a ground that was nearly empty and where his was the only executive box in use.

I had several good knocks in that series, including 56 at Chelmsford where John was also in attendance, and it culminated in my first international century, 106 not out, in front of my own members at Old Trafford. I was voted player of the series and Graham Saville went out of his way to congratulate me.

Everyone at Lancashire was very complimentary, but I still hardly got a sniff of the first team. Neil Fairbrother had taken over as captain from David Hughes and he was struggling in the role. He wasn’t my biggest fan and only picked me a couple of times. Funnily enough, we get on better now than we did then and I tend to pull his leg and thank him for not picking me because it helped to plant the seed that I should move elsewhere.

I didn’t have anything other than club cricket to compare my situation to, and I found life at Lancashire a long way from the spirit that existed at Heaton. I was starting to realise that, while cricket is a team game, at the top level it can also be very much an individual sport. Bowlers need others to take catches, batsmen need someone at the other end to take runs, and we all rely on our team-mates to do their bit in the field, but, when it comes down to it, everyone is looking after number one. I wasn’t alone in the second team of that era in feeling the frustration of not getting a chance no matter how well we performed. Driving back from a match, David Lloyd’s son Graham told me he was getting a hard time from one of the senior pros but added, ‘Don’t worry, Ronnie – I’ll have the bastard’s job one day.’

I realised he was right. From that moment on, every time one of my senior colleagues tried to put me down, I’d just smile and say to myself, ‘I know why you don’t want me to succeed – you’re scared I’m going to take your job. Well, that’s just what I’m going to do. You might think you’re snuffing out the flame, but you are just fanning it brighter and hotter.’

You need the hide of a rhinoceros in any dressing room or you won’t survive. People are not shy with their comments and criticisms and even the banter, which seems light-hearted, can have cruel barb in it. But at times Lancashire went beyond that. There was abuse that amounted to bullying and, if you didn’t stand up to it, you could easily go under. I vividly remember the day John Crawley decided he’d had enough. John is the most mild mannered of men and great company, so his outburst came as something of a shock to everyone. He’d been waiting some time for a game of snooker and, just as he was about to rack up the balls, a so-called senior player told him to move aside because he wanted to play. That was it. Frustration that had been bubbling up over the months erupted. John took his snooker cue and whacked the guy. No one messed with John after that.

My own reputation as someone to leave alone came after a night out in Bury with Nick Derbyshire and a couple of other guys from the ground staff. Nick, the brother of BBC 5 live’s Victoria Derbyshire, was always great company and we used to drive around the country to matches together. He was a great athlete and a fine fast bowler, and we became firm friends when we spent a winter playing club cricket in South Africa. We stayed with relatives of his, Geoffrey and Janet Bentham, in their magnificent house in Durban. When we weren’t playing cricket, we would go to the gym and then on to the beach to show off our finely honed bodies.

Although he was one of the lads, Nick suffered from reverse snobbery – some people took exception to the posh accent he’d picked up at school in Ampleforth. I could tell it might be a problem in that Bury pub when we started to get some dirty looks. It was my turn to drive so I wasn’t drinking and, as the evening wore on, I sensed the hostility growing, even though we were minding our own business and weren’t being loud. When the landlord called time, I suggested we drank up and got out sharpish.

We all climbed into the car we’d borrowed from one of the guys’ mothers and I started to ease out of the car park, only to find my way blocked by a gang of about 15 lads. I decided to keep going gently and hope they would part. One of them smacked his hand against the windscreen in front of me, then another took something harder to a rear-side window and smashed it. That pissed me off and I said, ‘That’s it.’

The other three echoed, ‘Yeah, that’s it,’ and we all climbed out, four fit young cricketers, facing odds of nearly four to one. In fact, they were worse than that because I was the only one who could fight.

My martial arts training had taught me to keep out of fights whenever I could, but this wasn’t one I could walk away from.

‘Who the fuck broke that window?’ I challenged.

A group of blokes came towards me. I took one of them down and smacked another. By now two more had jumped on my back. One of them hit me and I felt my jaw go. I glanced across and saw my mates scuffling with some of the others. I thought, We are going to get battered here.

One guy said, ‘I broke your poncy window! What are you going to do about it?’

With two still clinging to my back, I grabbed him and pushed him halfway over a wall and gave him a smack.

A woman’s voice yelled, ‘Stop it! Stop it!’ She started to have a go at me but I interrupted her: ‘Don’t give me a hard time! We just came for a quiet drink and this lot jumped us. They smashed up my mate’s car and all for no reason. You should be having a go at them!’ With that we got back in the car and drove off.

We got the window fixed the next morning before the mum spotted the damage and I heard that the guy I’d hit wasn’t too badly hurt. I was a bit concerned that Lancashire might take action against me for fighting but nothing was said. Word certainly got back to the dressing room, though, because I noticed a marked reduction in the verbals after that.

Nevertheless, I was beginning to think that hanging around Lancashire wasn’t going to fulfil my ambition of regular county cricket. Maybe I should forget my dream of representing my home county and think of moving elsewhere.