No Boundaries (3 page)

That reaction was fairly typical of Heaton. They had no money to pay amateurs and only a little for overseas professionals. Former Barbados and Kent all-rounder Hartley Alleyne was probably the biggest name they signed, but he’d already been around the wealthier local clubs before joining Heaton. I remember playing against him in the
Huddersfield League. But if Heaton were seldom among the trophies, they enjoyed their cricket and were genuinely pleased to celebrate a young player’s success. They always made youngsters feel welcome and on a Friday night there could be more than a hundred kids playing cricket beneath my bedroom window. Jack Taylor was in charge of the juniors and Jeff Todd was club captain. They loved the fact that I was eager to learn and gave me tremendous encouragement. There was never any question of ‘when you get older’ – if you were good enough, you were old enough and they threw you in the deep end. I was in the Under-13 side before my seventh birthday and quickly got used to playing against boys much older than me.

Having hung around the dressing room a lot with Dad, I was used to the atmosphere and unbothered by the language. I didn’t blink twice when a guy named Phil Roberts, who was built like a tank, started coaching me at the age of 13 and yelled after one particularly bad, cross-bat shot, ‘If I ever see you play another shot like that, I’ll kick you up the fucking arse, you pillock.’ I got the point.

League cricket in Lancashire is an institution. It’s hard for people down south to realise just what a big part it plays in life up there. There are clubs all over the place – there must be 40 in the Bolton area alone – and, without wishing to preach, I believe it’s important that these leagues are supported. The clubs are great places for youngsters to grow up – there’s a nice social side as well as the sport and the whole family can get involved. Cricket clubs are not snobbish like some golf clubs and you don’t find the parents yelling obscenities at the officials like you do at a lot of youth football games. I think that most kids that come through the ranks of a cricket club turn out to be all right as people.

Heaton Cricket Club was a great place to be as a teenager because they treated you as an adult as long as you behaved properly. One of my pals, Jason Nash, had a bench and we used to go to his place and do weight training. We were both big lads for 15 and on most Friday nights, dressed in our chinos and blazers – it was the era of Rick Astley after all – we went into town to the Balmoral pub for a few beers and then on to a nightclub called the Ritzy. I’m sure the bouncers knew we were under age but they also knew we wouldn’t cause any trouble. Occasionally we’d bump into people from the cricket club and they’d buy us a pint! We’d roll out of the nightclub late and catch the last bus home where I’d let myself in quietly and creep upstairs before Mum and Dad realised what the time was and how much I’d been drinking.

My parents were always very supportive and, even though they didn’t have that much spare cash, every birthday and Christmas I would get my football and cricket kit. In the early days I used to borrow bats and pads from the Heaton dressing room, but then I got my own first bat, which remains one of the best presents I ever received. Mum ordered my first gloves and pads from a mail-order catalogue and I can still recall the excitement I felt the day they arrived through the post.

I think I was fortunate in a way that Dad wasn’t able to see many of my matches. I was able to perform without worrying what he would say. Even though she didn’t enjoy driving that much, Mum used to take me to matches but she never commented on how I’d played, probably just relieved to have negotiated the traffic and found the ground. When I got home, Dad would ask how I’d done and, even if I knew I’d got out to a crap shot, I’d make out I’d been unlucky or been done by a great ball or suffered a terrible umpiring decision.
I knew where I’d gone wrong and there was no point in risking a lecture about ‘knuckling down’ or ‘never give away your wicket’.

Mind you, there was the odd occasion when Dad did watch me and on one memorable day he gave me some match-winning advice. It was a schools cup final and I was captain. I scored a hundred then bowled the first over nice and tight but the lad at the other end got whacked all over the place and went for about 20 runs in one over. I heard a whistle from the boundary and went over to see Dad, who pointed out that my football team-mate Glen Foster, who was our wicketkeeper, was also a good bowler. I took the hint and for the rest of the match I would bowl at one end with Glen keeping wicket, then I’d take the gloves while he bowled. We won the cup but our tactics weren’t widely approved of and they changed the rules the following year.

As I worked my way through the age groups, I set a few league records, started to get my name in the local paper and got picked for Lancashire and England schoolboys, taking 6-24 on my international debut against Wales. Through these games I got to know other young players around the country and struck up a firm friendship with another local lad, John Crawley, who was later at Lancashire with me and then in the same England team.

There was only one innings I regret. Heaton were playing against Kearsley where Dad was now in the second team. Their first XI were short of players that day and, even though he was 57 years old, he agreed to play. He bowled against me with a wet ball, which made it hard for him to get any purchase, and I smashed him all round the ground, including two sixes off consecutive balls, one of which broke the slates on our neighbour’s roof. It’s one of the few things in my life
that, if I could take it back, I would. But perhaps his granddaughters will gain revenge for him by spanking me at tennis or golf one day.

From the age of around 14 or 15, I realised that I had to make a decision about my future. If I was going to become a professional sportsman, I would have to concentrate on one sport and not try to be a jack of all trades. Bolton Wanderers, then in the lower divisions, had expressed interest in my becoming an apprentice at Burnden Park and I probably could have made a modest living at that level. But I realised that much of my football success was down to the fact that I was bigger and stronger than the other lads my age and that advantage wouldn’t last when I moved up the grades. In cricket, however, I had been playing successfully against men for a while and knew I could handle it. So cricket it was, and nothing could have been more perfect than when Lancashire offered me a contract at the age of 16. 

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.