No Boundaries (6 page)

Bob’s face changed. ‘I’ve no problem with Durham or those other counties you mentioned,’ he said. ‘But I think it might be difficult if you chose Essex. People on the committee might object to that because we see them as one of our main competitors and you might strengthen them at our expense.’

I could hardly believe what I was hearing. It seemed it was OK for me to leave as long as I didn’t go to a club where I might be successful and win things.

‘Look,’ Bob said. ‘I’m very friendly with Keith Fletcher. I’ll have a chat with him and see what we can sort out.’

Oh shit, I thought. Keith Fletcher doesn’t know anything about it. I had to back down quickly and said, ‘Don’t bother, Bob. It probably won’t come to anything anyway. I’m much more likely to go to Durham.’

We left it at that. He told me I had to write a letter to the committee, explaining why I wanted to leave and asking them to make me a List Two player. I went straight to see Rose Fitzgibbon who, together with Anne Murphy, ran the office at Lancashire. Rose was a gem, always friendly and helpful. She had been there when I signed, and whenever I’d been to her for anything it had never been any problem. She was a big cricket fan and a member of the committee. I explained that I had to compose this letter and asked her advice – letter-writing was one of the subjects I’d rather neglected at school – and she said, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll draft it out for you to sign and I’ll put your case to the committee. I don’t want you to leave but I understand why you feel you must.’

True to her word, she did exactly as promised and a couple of weeks later I was told that I was a List Two player. Now I just had to sort out a contract with someone else.

I
t was time to get on the phone. I’d narrowed it down in my mind to Essex or Durham, and I needed to find out exactly what was on offer. Durham was quite an attractive proposition – they were only a couple of years into the county championship scene, had already attracted people like Ian Botham, Aussie David Boon, Johnny Morris, David Graveney, Paul Parker, Simon Hughes and Wayne Larkins, and I was reliably informed they were very keen to sign me. In addition, it was only a couple of hours away from home, which would be an advantage in view of my growing relationship with Lorraine and also getting back to see my parents. We all talked about it for hours, going over the pros and cons. The only thing I was certain of was that I desperately wanted to make it as a player and would do whatever it took to achieve that goal. Lorraine was brilliant, listening as I argued this way and that, and always said, ‘Whatever you decide is best, I’ll back you.’

I tried to get hold of Geoff Cook at Durham to find out what deal they had in mind. He wasn’t an easy man to reach.
I spoke to his wife more than to him but eventually he told me they would pay me
£
18,000 a year and would try to get me a car and accommodation. There were a few bits and pieces I needed clarification on but each time I phoned it seemed that Geoff was in a meeting or away for a couple of days. I sensed he was after some bigger names and possibly juggling a budget. I guessed he didn’t want to settle with me until he’d got his first targets in place and knew how much they would cost. I understood and respected that. I’d done nothing in the game so far and certainly wasn’t the kind of star name who was going to put bums on seats at their matches.

The longer I agonised about it, the more I was leaning towards Essex. They were a big club and had won the county championship five times in the previous ten years. I liked the fact that they had a long tradition and wore old-fashioned jumpers with no colours, just the distinctive three-sabre badge. That was the kind of county I wanted to play for.

I rang John Bird, whose office is in Essex. The more I’d got to know him, the more I valued his advice and he said, ‘Durham or Kent would be good for you, but I think you should play for Essex.’

‘Why, John?’

‘I employ people in every town in the country and the people of Essex are the nicest. They are genuine and warm, and if they have a problem with you they will stab you in the heart, not in the back. They have a lot of the best qualities of northerners but mixed with what’s best about the south. I’m sure they will love the way you play cricket and will make you feel at home.’

I wanted to play cricket for people like that. As John Lennon said, ‘A working-class hero is something to be.’

I needed to talk to Sav and make sure it was still on. As
usual, there was a snag – I’d forgotten to get his phone number and I could hardly ask at Old Trafford after my recent chat with the chairman. I remembered that John Crawley had been born in Malden in Essex before the family moved up to Lancashire. It was a long shot but worth a try. John’s mother Jean had always been tremendous for me, taking her turn in driving John and me around to county representative matches, and his dad Frank was one of the guys you listened to when you were growing up because he always talked sense. I rang Jean and asked her if she’d got Sav’s number. She hunted around for a bit, then came back and said, ‘I haven’t got a number but there’s an address here. He lives in Great Notley, near Braintree. Try directory enquiries.’

There was no joy there, but, just as I was wondering what to do next, Jean phoned me back and said she’d managed to get hold of an office number for him. I thanked her for taking so much trouble and she said, ‘Ronnie, we are sorry you are leaving Lancashire but you are a fine cricketer and we know you are going to make it wherever you go. Good luck.’ It was just the encouragement I needed at that moment.

Jean died a few years before I retired and, although she was a different generation from me, it was like losing a friend. I felt so sad for John and gave him a big hug as we both bawled our eyes out. We were no longer as close as we’d been as teenagers but I knew what it must mean to him. At the crematorium, I looked across at my parents who were of a similar age to Jean. They had done so much for me. I cut the thoughts off. It was just too painful to think about.

When I called Sav’s number, I got an answering machine, so I left a message asking him to call me. I heard nothing for two agonisingly long weeks. I didn’t realise he was away on holiday and a million thoughts, most of them negative, kept
going through my head while I waited for him to get back to me. I tried Geoff Cook again, but he was away. I was in limbo. Why hadn’t I signed that Lancashire contract when they pushed it across the desk at me?

Finally, Sav rang me back. He’d had a word with the committee and he’d talked to Graham Gooch about me over a game of golf and they were happy to take his recommendation and sign me. He pointed out that there were no guarantees of a first-team place but, with Neil Foster and Derek Pringle recently retired, if I was half the cricketer he thought I was, I’d have a great chance of getting in the side. I assured him that was all I was asking for. It was all I’d ever asked for at Lancashire.

‘There’s a process to go through but it’s on,’ Sav said. ‘What are you after money-wise?’

I wondered if I should mention that Durham had said they would pay me 18 grand but decided against it and just said, ‘That’s not my priority, Sav. I’m just happy to get the opportunity.’

A couple of days later, he came on again after a meeting with the club secretary Peter Edwards and said they were willing to pay me
£
12,000 a year and provide me with a car and a flat. It was six grand less than the Durham offer but Geoff had only said they would try to get the car and a flat. I hesitated for all of a second and said, ‘Sav, that’s great. I’m up for it. I want to play for Essex.’

What he didn’t realise was that I was only vaguely aware of where Essex was. I knew it was down south and left a bit before you hit London and I remembered that it was somewhere near the Dartford Tunnel because after Nick Derbyshire and I played for England U17s at Chelmsford we set off in his car for a second ODI at Canterbury but broke
down in the tunnel. I also had the feeling the sun always shone in Essex – or it had every time I’d played there. I recalled one four-day match with the second team on a great track. Ian Folley was in one of his ‘fuck Lancashire’ moods and, when he was sent in as night watchman, he heaved two massive sixes before squandering his wicket the following ball. We’d found some great bars that trip and I seem to recall that the team got quite hammered one night.

I’d also been to Ilford as twelfth man for the first team – a terrible job that means you are basically a gofer who carries the drinks and does jobs around the dressing room. But during the game some of the Essex fans had come up to me and said they remembered me playing in the England U19s, which was nice. I liked the way the local crowd applauded good cricket, whichever side played it. I’d also had a good time in the evening around Romford and even sorted the lads out a table at the dog track courtesy of Coral. Essex may have been something of a dark continent to me, but the little I knew was positive.

The other thing that Sav didn’t realise when he made the offer was that I’d been struggling for a few months with a groin injury that had spread to my hip towards the end of the season. I was in agony in the last few matches – it was as though someone was thrusting a knife into my hip joint – but I was young and could play through the pain without too much difficulty. Now I had a dilemma. I needed to get it fixed but I also wanted to get away for the winter and play some cricket so that I was in good form ready for my new challenge. I decided I’d try to do both at the same time.

Jack Simmons asked me to go up to Bowlers, his indoor cricket centre in Manchester, and said he’d been asked to recommend someone to play in New Zealand that winter
and, if I wanted it, the job was mine. ‘There’s no real money in it,’ he said, ‘but they’ll pay your air fare, provide you with a place to stay and a car. The guy over there is Paul Lucas. I don’t know him but judging by his letters he seems a good bloke. He’ll give you some work and pay your expenses to do some kids’ coaching.’

I said I’d love to take it and thanked Jack for thinking of me.

He shook my hand and said, ‘I don’t want you to leave Old Trafford – you’ve got steel and you’re a good cricketer. However – and I shouldn’t say this because I’m on the committee – I think you are doing the right thing. Essex is a tip-top county and you’ll do well there.’ Jack was a proper Lancastrian, honest as the day is long.

Within a couple of weeks, I was on my way to New Zealand. I’d drawn out all my
£
1,500 savings which got me around 4,000 New Zealand dollars and I planned to use it to sort out my injury problems. I was determined to make the most of the next few months to get myself in great nick before heading to Essex.

Jack’s gut feeling about Paul Lucas was spot on. He’s a successful businessman with a lovely family. They live in Epsom, just outside the city of Auckland and he and his wife Tina invited me to stay with them. They had a daughter, Kate, who was at school, and two sons, Matt and Daniel, who were away at university. The family took me under their wing and I quickly settled into a home from home.

Also on the trip with me was Joe Grant, a strapping West Indian fast bowler, who had played a bit for Jamaica and was later to join me at Essex after a stint in the Lancashire leagues. Joe’s a powerful man with a big heart and he and I enjoyed each other’s company. We had a great time coaching
the youngsters who were keen to learn. Joe’s only problem was that he had a short fuse and if he thought people were being awkward or racist he would let them have it. A West Indian face was quite a rarity in those parts so there were a few dodgy moments, such as the time we were out in town and a family stopped in their tracks and stared at Joe as though he had two heads. ‘What are you looking at?’ he snapped and started towards them. They high-tailed it out of there and I grabbed Joe and told him to forget it. ‘You’ve got to ignore people like that,’ I said. ‘You’ll only get yourself into trouble.’ He clearly wasn’t convinced and the next time we had hassle it wasn’t so easy to hold him back. And, if anything, I was ready to join him.

It happened when we drove into a ground where we were due to play that afternoon and Joe parked in a spot near the pavilion. We started to get our gear out of the boot when a guy came over and shouted, ‘Hey, blackie, you can’t park there.’

I saw Joe pick up a stump from his bag and just managed to grab his arm. Keeping him behind me, I said to the guy, ‘You are bang out of order. That’s just plain racist.’

‘Well, he can’t park there.’

‘Why? Because he’s black?’

‘That spot is for special people.’

Joe was still behind me and I could feel that he was about to explode. ‘Look, pal,’ I said, ‘we’re playing here this afternoon. Is that special enough for you? Now I suggest, if you want to stay healthy, you get out of my face and stay out of it for the rest of the day, otherwise you’ll have two of us to deal with.’

The guy slunk away.

I said to Joe, ‘I know you’d like to kill him but, trust me,
I’ve been there. He isn’t worth it. Wankers like that will get nowhere in life.’

Joe gave me a half-smile. ‘Yeah, I trust you, Tiger. But it riles me. Now let’s go and take it out on some batsman.’

The standard of cricket was good and I scored runs and took wickets, but my groin and hip were hurting badly and after about six weeks my knee blew up. I knew I had to get it fixed – I dared not go to Essex injured – and after making enquiries I went to see Dr Tony Edwards, a young orthopaedic surgeon in St Helier Bay.

The first difference I noticed was that there was no rigmarole about needing to be referred by a GP. I just walked into his reception and booked an appointment. He took a look at me, put me on a course of anti-inflammatories and referred me to Graeme White for physiotherapy. After three weeks I was still struggling so I went back. Tony examined my swollen knee, then stuck a needle in it and drained off about 90mls of fluid. As soon as he did it, the knee felt good. It was as though all the pressure had been eased. He also had the results of an MRI scan he’d done and said, ‘You’ve got a lot of scar tissue in the knee. What have you had done?’

‘I had a cyst removed from behind the knee when I was about 17.’

‘Looks to me as though they didn’t know what they were doing. But don’t worry, we can get you right.’

I felt he was someone I could trust. I emphasised how important it was that I sorted out all my problems before I went home, and he said that, while he couldn’t fix the hip and groin trouble, he knew someone who could. He arranged for Stewart Walsh, another young orthopaedic consultant, to examine me and he explained that the two lots of pain were connected. ‘If we sort out the hip, we’ll sort out the groin,’ he
said. ‘You’ve just got some inflammation in the joint and, if I can drop some cortisone on it, that should do the trick. You’ll feel great as soon as it’s done but you mustn’t train or play cricket for three weeks afterwards.’

I was concerned that the club would send me home if I was out of action that long but, when I spoke to Paul, he said it wasn’t a problem because there was a long break over the Christmas period so I could fit in the treatment then.

For Stewart to inject the joint, I had to lie on my back with my knees raised and legs splayed out like a woman giving birth. He then slid a needle in through the groin area and into the hip. It didn’t reach at first so he fitted a longer needle and this time I let out a yelp of pain. ‘That’s the spot,’ he said and dropped the cortisone right on it. The only way I can explain the impact is to say it was like those Gaviscon TV adverts for heartburn where the firemen are in the stomach spraying soothing liquid to cool things down. What a feeling, indeed. I knew in an instant that he’d done the trick. He circled my leg around and there was absolutely no pain. He took me outside and made me sprint a couple of shuttles and again I didn’t feel a thing.