No Boundaries (7 page)

‘Make sure you rest it up for three weeks and you should be fine,’ he said. I could have hugged him.

Sure enough, three weeks later, I was able to train hard and play without a problem. I was just over
£
1,000 poorer but I felt great. It was an enormous relief and a good lesson. I swore from that day on I was going to take charge of looking after my body and always seek out the best advice even if it cost me.

A good chunk of the rest of my cash went on a podiatrist that Tony Edwards introduced me to. I’d been wearing insoles since I was a kid to help with shin-splint and knee
problems but this guy was something else. He recommended that I switched to Asics shoes. They didn’t do a cricket shoe, so we adapted a cross-trainer by taking the sole off and adding spikes. He also took a cast of my foot and made me my first customised insoles. The difference was incredible. For several years, I spent hundreds of pounds having special insoles flown in from New Zealand but it was worth every penny.

I enjoyed my last few weeks over there, playing cavalier, painless cricket. I felt sharp. I was seeing the ball well, scoring runs and taking wickets. I thanked the Lucas family for their hospitality and headed back to England, eager to start my new life.

D
ad smiled to break the tension. ‘Don't worry. I can always get you a job as a butcher if it doesn't work out.' I'd only been home a few days after three months in New Zealand but now I was off again. Dad said goodbye before he went to bed. He left for work every day at six o'clock so wouldn't see me in the morning. ‘Ronnie, I just want to wish you luck. My only advice is to play so well that they find it impossible to leave you out of the team. I know you can do it. And remember, we are always here for you.'

As I gave him a hug, it dawned on me that I was leaving home for good. This would be the last time I would sleep in that room overlooking Heaton cricket ground as a resident of that house. More than ever before I was hit by the enormity of what I was doing. I was leaving a whole part of my life behind me for good and stepping off the high board without even knowing how deep the water was below me.

At least, I thought, Lorraine will be near. Over the last few years she'd been studying to become a nursery nurse and had written to me in New Zealand to tell me she too had got a
job down south so we could still see each other regularly. The only snag was that her geography was no better than mine. She'd taken a job in Aylesbury and we soon discovered we were still a good couple of hours apart.

The next morning, Mum cooked my breakfast and prepared to drive me to the station. We were both close to tears, so the conversation was a bit stilted, saying irrelevant things but not daring to say what we felt. I wore my blazer to travel in and had four bags – two with my bats, pads, gloves, size-12 boots and the rest of my cricket gear, the other two with the rest of my life in. Mum dropped me off at Lostock railway station at the start of one of the saddest yet most exciting journeys of my life. I kissed her goodbye, determined that I would make her and Dad proud of me and reward them for all the effort and love they had put into getting me to this important point of my life.

As a kid I'd twice been to India with the Bolton touring teams Dad had organised. More recently I'd been to South Africa with Nick Derbyshire, to Australia with England U19s and that winter to New Zealand. But this journey to Essex was by far the most daunting I'd undertaken.

I heaved one bag over each shoulder, picked up another in each hand and lugged them on to the train from Lostock to Bolton, from there to Manchester Victoria and then finally to Manchester Piccadilly, where I bought a one-way ticket to London. Normally, it's a straightforward run into Euston, taking a couple of hours or so, but there had been a derailment and they announced we were being diverted via Sheffield and Nottingham. What they didn't tell us was that we were no longer heading for Euston and the trip would now take more than four hours.

It was probably the longest four hours of my life, a real
stomach-churning journey during which I experienced every emotion imaginable. I felt very alone. I was the only son and I knew my parents would have preferred me to be closer to home. It may seem an odd thing to say these days, but back then Essex was a long way from Bolton and most people didn't just jump in the car and drive a couple of hundred miles or so as they do today.

But I also felt angry and defiant. The system at Lancashire had never given me the chance to fulfil my potential and that had forced me to take this giant step. I knew I had given my all while I was there but they had never rewarded my effort.

I was also a little nervous about the kind of reception I was likely to get when pre-season training started the following day. I'd met some of the Essex guys from playing with them in England teams and against them in the second XI, but it still felt a bit like the first day at a new school, wondering how the southerners would take to a gobby lad from Bolton. But I'd learned a lot from Fil about mixing with people and getting on with strangers, so I was reasonably confident I could carry it off, especially as my other emotion right then was elation.

In short, I was pleased that I'd taken my courage in both hands and made the decision to leave Old Trafford. It would have been easier to stay and hope for the best but I felt that would have been letting down both me and my dreams. I was proud that I had taken control of my destiny and I was excited at what lay ahead.

As the train meandered slowly down the centre of England, all these emotions swirled around in my head. I stared blankly out the window, lost in a million contrasting thoughts, barely noticing anything we passed. As the time dragged by, I became anxious about being late on my first
day and cursed the train that had chosen this of all days to go off the rails. But through all this turmoil I kept coming back to a central belief: this is my big chance. I want to be a successful cricketer. I am going to be a successful cricketer. I'll show them at Old Trafford. I'll make Lorraine, my family and friends proud of me. I will make this work. I have to make this work.

Graham Saville had told me to make my way to the ground at Chelmsford, where someone would meet me and take me to my new flat. With no mobile phones back then, I was unable to let them know why I was late, so, as soon as the train pulled into the station, I ran through the ticket barrier and found a phone box. With 6ft 4in of me and four large bags it was a bit crowded in there and I had to fumble around for some change. Eventually, I got through and a voice the other end said, ‘Essex County Cricket Club, Malcolm Field speaking.'

‘Hi, Malcolm, my name is Ronnie Irani. I'm just joining Essex but my train has been held up because of a derailment.' I was aware that I was gabbling because I was so keen to let them know it wasn't my fault I was late.

Malcolm, who was the assistant to secretary Peter Edwards, was calm at the other end. And he sounded really welcoming. ‘Ronnie, good to hear from you. We are expecting you. There's no problem – just make your way to Chelmsford. Paul Prichard's going to take you to your flat. Where are you now?'

I didn't have a clue. I looked around me, spotted the sign and said, ‘I'm at St Pancreas station.'

I heard a laugh at the other end of the phone. ‘I think you'll find that's St Pancras, Ronnie. Pancreas is your stomach. Just take the tube to Liverpool Street and you can get a train from there. See you soon.'

I heaved my bags back into place and made my way on to the underground, trying not to wipe out too many commuters as I went. Eventually I got to Liverpool Street, found platform 12 and clambered aboard the Chelmsford train. At the other end I decided to splash out on a taxi to the county ground. A minute and a half later, the cab stopped and the driver said with a smile, ‘Here you are, mate. Essex County Cricket Club.'

‘Sorry,' I stammered, ‘I didn't realise it was so close.'

‘No problem, mate. There's a minimum fare so you've done me a favour.'

As I made my way towards the pavilion, I saw George Clarke, the dressing-room attendant. He was a lovely old boy and I'd chatted to him a few times when I'd played there but I didn't think he would remember me. He came over as soon as he saw me, shook my hand and said, ‘Ronnie, good to see you again. I'm so pleased you've joined Essex. I can't believe Lancashire let you go but their loss is our gain.'

After more than five hours travelling, the hassle, the doubts and the sheer bloody loneliness of not knowing what was in store for me, those few words were just what I needed. For the first time in years, I felt I was at a club that wanted me. George's warmth has always stuck with me: it meant so much I even mentioned it in my wedding speech.

As promised, Paul Prichard was there to meet me and he too played an important part in making me feel welcome. He drove me to his home to have something to eat with his family before taking me on to my new flat in Colchester. It wasn't a big welcome do or anything like that, just a very pleasant family meal and a thoughtful gesture.

If I hadn't been greeted so warmly, I might well have turned round and gone home when I saw the flat I was to share with
Richard Pearson, a young off-spinner from Yorkshire and a former England U19 team-mate who was also joining the ground staff. It was on the ground floor, dark, not particularly well furnished or decorated, and had carpets that had seen better days. It had a small living room, kitchen, shower, two bedrooms and an odd smell, like rotting fish. It took me two weeks to track down that stink. I looked behind cupboards, in dark nooks and crannies, went all over the flat sniffing like a bloodhound until finally I realised it was coming from an old light fitting that stank as it warmed up. I'm not sure what that said about the wiring but at least the smell went away when we put in a new fitting.

Having just got back from living in luxury with the Lucas family, and having left the home comforts that included Mum doing my washing and ironing, this was a bit of a comedown. There was no Sky TV so I had to rely on 5 live to hear my beloved Manchester United make another title charge. But the welcome I'd received made me optimistic. I soon discovered there was a laundrette just up the road with an inexpensive service wash and a superb Chinese takeaway opposite. Fuck it, I thought. This will do just fine. Get on with it, Ronnie. You've got people to impress.

G
eorge, our dressing room attendant, was also a qualified umpire and he took charge of our pre-season inter-squad matches. Having regained full fitness and form in New Zealand, I was already firing on all cylinders and relished the chance to show what I could do, especially against Graham Gooch. This was my chance to impress the captain – and my new team-mates. I steamed in and let go a beauty that smacked against Goochie’s pad. I roared my appeal and, to my delight, George’s finger went up. I was enjoying my cricket more than I had for years.

The first rule of entering a new dressing room is that silence is golden. Listen more than you talk and choose your moments to make an impact. I’d gained a reputation around Old Trafford as being a bit brash and never shy to give my opinion. I also enjoyed the banter and could give as well as take, but I was determined not to get on the wrong side of anyone early on at Essex and turned most of my jokes against myself.

In all honesty, settling in wasn’t a problem. It was made
easier because it was John Childs’s benefit year so I got to hang out with the lads socially and met a number of the members and supporters at his events. The fans seemed pleased to have the chance to quiz the new boy about what he hoped to achieve with the county, while the players appreciated that I was willing to do my bit to support John. It all helped me be accepted. But really it was no great effort on my part. I had nothing much to fill the time when I wasn’t training and, having grown up around the local cricket clubs at home, I was used to these occasions and enjoyed them.

The Essex dressing room was very friendly anyway, taking their lead from Graham Gooch, a legend as a cricketer, much funnier than his public image suggests and just a great bloke to be around. He was 41 years old by this time but still one of the keenest trainers, setting a great example from the front. And he had everyone’s respect as a player. Although he’d handed over the England captaincy, he was still first pick as his country’s opening bat. It crossed my mind that the England lads would be noticing a difference between Graham’s style and the more aloof, autocratic way Mike Atherton went about his job.

At that stage Keith Fletcher was manager of England but he was still a big influence around the place. I once read an article that credited Fletch with making Essex ‘the happiest and most successful of the 18 first-class counties’ and I wouldn’t argue with that. I got to know him even better when he returned to his beloved Essex as our coach the following year. He only set one goal – to try to win every game. He was brilliant at man-management. He wasn’t a rabble-rouser; he preferred to have a quiet word with individuals, but what he said always made a lot of sense. He made you feel good about yourself and your ability and, what’s more, he introduced me
to fly-fishing at East Hanningfield reservoir for which I’m eternally grateful.

As well as a good dressing room, Chelmsford had one other advantage over Old Trafford – the temperature was two or three degrees warmer than in Manchester and it didn’t rain nearly as much, making pre-season training in March a more pleasant experience. There was a serious side to that because, while it was nice to have your pre-season in South Africa or the West Indies, we could train outside at home and spend plenty of time in the nets in the kind of conditions we would face when the season started.

As a junior member of the squad, you don’t get much batting time early on but I did a lot of bowling shifts and put in a bit of extra effort when facing Graham Gooch. I even lifted the seam a bit to get some extra movement and the skipper would nod and say, ‘Good ball.’ I smacked a few runs in the inter-squad matches and did well in a second-team match, taking four wickets up at Cambridge.

I was wondering if I’d done enough to make the team when Lady Luck decided to give me a leg up. Essex had signed my old Australian U19 adversary Michael Kasprowicz to boost their pace attack. In training he bowled one that flew up and hit John Stephenson on the hand, breaking his finger. As an England all-rounder and a senior member of the Essex squad, John was probably the man who would keep me out of the side. Suddenly he wasn’t able to play and the season was just around the corner. Essex decided to take a chance. They threw me into the first game, against Hampshire at the old Southampton ground, a place I’d played before and liked. I bowled OK, got a few runs, we won the match and I kept my place. I was on my way.

My new county was turning out to be everything I could have hoped for. Richard and I had even managed to brighten up the flat a bit and make it more comfortable. The only thing that hadn’t materialised yet was the car I’d been promised. Paul Prichard was still driving us in every day but I was keen to get some wheels of my own. Getting a sponsored car was a big deal for a young pro. You couldn’t afford to buy anything decent and I thought Essex’s connections with Ford might see me in line for a nice little run-around, but each time I approached the marketing manager, Kit Brockley, he fobbed me off with the
sponsored-car
version of ‘the cheque’s in the post’.

Finally, he told me he’d got something sorted out. I arranged with Graham Gooch to have the afternoon off and made my way to Kit’s office, still wearing my tracksuit trousers with grass stains on the knees and a rip in one leg where I’d tried to pull them over my cricket boots. I did have a clean T-shirt on but it would have looked much smarter if I’d mastered the art of ironing.

‘What car is it?’ I asked as nonchalantly as I could muster.

‘We’re not quite sure yet,’ Kit said.

That seemed an odd answer as we were just about to pick it up. Oh hell, I thought, they’ve got me a Lada and don’t want to tell me. How can I go back to Old Trafford in that?

‘Sorry to be vague,’ Kit said, ‘but it’s a company we haven’t dealt with before. It’s a new name to us and we’re not sure what it is. But don’t worry, I’m certain it will be OK and, if it’s not, we’ll arrange something else in a few weeks.’

I was more convinced than ever that it was a Lada and that he’d decided that, whatever it was, it would be good enough for a junior player, newly on the staff. I made up my mind that whatever happened I would just be grateful for having
something to get me around. I could always hitch a lift with someone else when we played Lancashire.

We set off in Kit’s car, which I noticed was a rather nice Volvo, and headed for Dukes Park industrial estate near Chelmsford. Kit wasn’t sure exactly where he was going, but after consulting his directions he turned into a forecourt of a Jaguar main dealer. ‘This must be it,’ he said, sounding very unsure.

It was impossible not to be extremely impressed when we stepped in to this immaculate, chrome and glass reception area. In fact, I felt a bit self-conscious because I was looking so scruffy. Kit introduced himself and the woman behind the desk said, ‘Oh yes, they are expecting you in the board room,’ and ushered us upstairs into this swish room, where we met MD Mike Flannery and a couple of the other directors. I looked round for the hidden cameras convinced this was an elaborate initiation wind-up that was being videoed to show my new team-mates.

Mike, a Scotsman, greeted us warmly and offered us coffee. Then he made a little speech: ‘Ronnie, we are delighted to welcome you to Essex and hope you are going to have a long and successful stay with the club. We’ve found out a bit about you and are delighted to be associated with you. We want you to know that, if there’s ever anything we can do to help, just give us a call. You are a new, exciting, young player so we think it is appropriate that you should be associated with a new, exciting, young car. Not many people have heard of this model yet but we firmly believe it’s going to be one of the leading cars on the road. It’s a
two-litre
turbo and has great speed and agility – a real wolf in sheep’s clothing.’

I was still sure this was a wind-up, although I noticed that,
behind a rather fixed smile, Kit’s face had turned grey. I said a few words of thanks and, after a bit more general chat, we were led back downstairs where the showroom manager was sent to fetch the car. I looked out the window, expecting something like Del Trotter’s Reliant Robin van to appear, driven by some of the Essex lads. But when the car reversed towards me all I noticed was it had two exhausts! I didn’t dare believe it was mine. But there it was in all its glory – a white Subaru Legacy Turbo. I had just been handed the best car on the Essex staff.

‘There you are, Ronnie,’ Kit murmured. ‘I told you we would take care of you.’ But I could sense he was cursing himself, knowing he was going to get so much stick from senior players. He’d obviously thought Subaru was another Lada and had not bothered to check. He’d fucked up big time but that was not my problem. This little baby had ‘Ronnie Irani, Essex CCC’ inscribed along the side and it was all mine.

‘Thanks, Kit,’ I said trying not to gloat, but unable to suppress a huge grin. ‘You’re a top man.’

I climbed inside. It had every gadget you could wish for and that fantastic ‘fresh from the showroom’ smell. I touched the throttle and the beast roared at me. I said my farewells and eased it gently into the road. I hit the accelerator and it took off like a jet plane. I flicked the switch to open my window, punched the air and yelled at the top of my voice, ‘You fucking beauty!’ I couldn’t wait for the day when I could turn into Old Trafford and park next to the rather less stylish motors of my former team-mates.

There are people who reckon you shouldn’t give young players too much too early because they get into a comfort zone and think they’ve made it. That might be true for some
people but believe me that car I’d got with a two-year sponsorship deal just made me even more determined to do well. I had to live up to it. And it also made me think that, if I really got my act together, there could be plenty of other rewards out there.

The lads gave me quite a lot of good-natured stick about my new motor – but not nearly as much as they gave Kit. However, it also triggered a couple of incidents that made me wonder about Nasser Hussain. He was a few years older than me, had been in the Essex side for a number of years and was already an England player. He had been friendly enough when I arrived but I had noticed that he was a bit of a loner and could be quite sharp and aggressive with his team-mates at times. He was definitely one of the senior players and I quickly decided that it would be sensible to get on with him. I didn’t think anything of it when he asked to take the Subaru for a spin. He had a big Peugeot that his dad sponsored and I presume it must have been quite a solid motor because when he climbed into mine he hammered it. He revved it like hell and two weeks later I had to take it back to get a new clutch fitted.

I was a bit upset but didn’t say anything. However, not long after, I decided it was time for me to stand up to him and make my mark over another incident. I had always been taught to be polite, and every birthday and Christmas Mum and Dad wouldn’t allow me to play with my new toys until I’d sat down and written the thank-you letters. It was a chore because, as I’ve said, letter-writing doesn’t come easy to me, but by now it was second nature and one afternoon I got some Essex letterhead paper and started to write to Mike Flannery to thank him for sponsoring me. I was in the dressing room, kneeling on the floor with the paper on the
bench. I took great care, composing exactly what I wanted to say and writing carefully so it looked good. It took me at least 40 minutes. As I was finishing up, Nasser came in off the balcony and went through to the toilet, making a couple of cracks about what a sad bastard I was to be writing letters to my sponsors. As he came back through, the breeze from the door blew the letter on to the floor and, before I could retrieve it, he stepped straight on it with his spikes.

It looked deliberate to me and I was livid. ‘Hey! You fucking twat. What the hell do you think you are doing?’

He looked a bit startled that I’d fronted him up. ‘What’s up? It’s only a letter,’ he said and walked back out on the balcony where a few other players were standing chatting.

I followed him out and had a right go at him. I told him that if he ever did anything like that again I would rip his face open. The rest of the balcony went very quiet. This was a side of me they hadn’t seen. I went and got another sheet of paper and rewrote the letter, wondering if there would be any repercussions but overall I thought it was probably a good thing that I’d stood up for myself. Even in a good dressing room like Essex, people need to know you can’t be put upon.

It certainly seemed to do the trick with Nasser because I was seldom on the wrong end of his tongue after that. In fact, over the next few years we would often drive to matches together. He was always quiet, but I could talk for two and, if he was driving, I’d often catch up on my sleep. It developed into a kind of friendship. We spent a lot of time in each other’s company, yet I never felt that we got really close. He wasn’t very sociable – if the lads invited him out, he’d usually say, ‘I spend all day with you lot – why would I want to see you in the evenings?’ And when he was made England
captain that became the only thing he cared about. He reminded me a lot of Mike Atherton in that way.

Those two incidents apart, I couldn’t have asked for a better start to my life in Essex. I hit a half-century in my second match against Durham and took a career-best 4-27 against Kent in the following game. Before the end of May, I had beaten my best ever first-class score with 83 against the New Zealand tourists. It was going like a dream for me and, every time I had a good day, I thought about the people back in Lancashire. I knew Mum and Dad would be thrilled and relieved. There would be a number of supporters who would see what I was doing and say, ‘I told you we shouldn’t have let him go.’ And I imagined some people in the Lancashire dressing room watching the scores tick over on Ceefax and cursing. It made my success even more satisfying.

The icing on the cake came early in June when I hit my maiden first-class century with Graham Gooch at the other end. We went to Worcestershire unbeaten in our opening five matches and with three wins under our belt. It was a terrific track for batsmen but even so I managed to pick up four wickets in their first innings as they piled on 381. We were bowled out well short of that, despite a century from Goochie and 50 from me. Then, with Graeme Hick and Tom Moody whacking it wherever they wanted, Worcester declared, leaving us to make 405 in a day to win. That certainly didn’t look on when Nasser was caught by Gavin Haynes for a duck at 133-3. But Graham was in imperious form and I felt good, and we set about chasing the runs. We put on 245 in double-quick time.