No Boundaries (5 page)

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.

D
exter Fitton had had enough. He let the shower pour over him and said, ‘Ronnie, you’ve got to fuck off out of here before they grind you down. You can make it. You’ve got the ability.’

I knew he was right and said, ‘What about you?’

He soaped his manhood and smiled. ‘I think I’ll become a porn star.’

I burst out laughing. ‘Well, I don’t know about your acting ability but you’ve certainly got the tackle for it!’

Dex was a quality off-spinner who could smack it about a bit with the bat. He was a genuine guy and one of the best people you could ever want in the dressing room but, with Jack Simmons playing on, he seldom got his chance to show what he could do on the big stage. He realised he should have left the club a few seasons before and now regretted that he’d rejected an offer from Derbyshire in the hope of making the breakthrough at Old Trafford.

He was not alone. Ian Folley from Burnley was tipped as a future England left-arm spinner. He went out of his way to
help me and often drove me to and from matches, entertaining me with a mixture of advice and Tracy Chapman tracks. His favourite was ‘Talking ’bout a Revolution’ and we were often ready to rise up and get our share. Ian had enjoyed a taste of the first team but had got the yips and been dropped down the pecking order, and now he felt quite bitter. Eventually he left and after a couple of years at Derbyshire went to play club cricket in the Lake District.

In a way, our shared frustration created a great spirit in the Lancashire second-team dressing room. We were all in it together, us against the world or rather us against the bastards next door who were standing in our way.

We all believed, if we could get a run in the first team, we could perform. Don’t get the impression we were a lot of upstarts with a bloated opinion of ourselves. That team included people who went on to play for England, such as Peter Martin, a Yorkie who liked a swig of Baileys during a game, John Crawley and Graham Lloyd. Then there was Jason Gallian, Nick Speak, Steve Titchard, Nick Derbyshire, Marcus Sharp, Ian Austin, Glen Chapple, Mark Crawley, Jonathan ‘Trigger’ Fielding and Tim Orrell, whose
after-match
drink was a pint of white wine and soda. Every one of them could play but promoting young players was not the Lancashire way. I remember having a good match to help us win the semi-final of the Baines Clarkson trophy, a tin-pot second-team competition, but they dropped me for the final and put a senior player in ‘because we want to win it’. I felt like screaming but, as the man said, what doesn’t break you makes you, so I bit my tongue and made up my mind that one day I would show them.

We took every chance we were given to stake our claim. There were two particularly satisfying pre-season matches
when we went head to head with the first team. In theory they should have battered us but in the first clash at Centurion Park in South Africa they scraped victory off the last ball when I bust a gut to try to reach a huge skier but couldn’t quite get to it. On the team bus on our way back to the hotel, ex-England opener and Lancashire stalwart Graeme Fowler said, ‘You lot took that a bit serious, didn’t you?’ Of all the senior players, ‘Foxy’ was probably the one who treated us best, but even he clearly believed places in the team were set and there was no room for others to break in. Some of the players at Lancashire had earned the right to expect their name would be on every team sheet but not all of them, otherwise why have a second team? The second game was back at Old Trafford and we creamed them. They were not happy with us but I don’t think they really gave a shit because they knew it wouldn’t count for anything once the season got under way.

Towards the end of 1993, I’d been on the ground staff five years and played just nine first-class matches, including against the Zimbabwe tourists and Oxford University. When I’d played in the England U19s, several of my team-mates were already regulars in the county championship game whereas I was in danger of spending my whole career in the stiffs and disappearing off the radar.

I felt I had to move on and would have liked the chance to discuss it with some of the senior players, but Neil Fairbrother had problems of his own as he was just about to pack in the captaincy and I didn’t feel confident approaching the others. One day I came across Mike Atherton alone in the dressing room reading the paper. He had just been appointed England captain and, as I’d known him since I was 14, I thought this might be an opportunity to get some advice. He
lowered his paper slightly as I came in, glanced at me and said, ‘So we’re thinking of leaving, are we?’

I said, ‘Yeah, there’s some great players here and I’m obviously going to struggle to get in the team, so a move might be good for my career. I’m not really sure at the moment.’

He said, ‘That’s what they all say. We’ll see,’ and went back to reading his paper. He clearly didn’t give a damn and I just thought, You arrogant twat. That’s typical of the senior people at this club – no one gives a toss about anyone else.

It was another nudge towards the exit. The only problem was, where could I go? I put out a few feelers and heard on the grapevine that Durham were definitely keen and that Steve Oldham would like to talk to me at Yorkshire. I liked Steve and a move to Yorkshire to team up with Darren Gough sounded attractive, but so far it was all rumour. I was in turmoil. This was a big step, and would things really be any different somewhere else? It was an agonising period and many nights I cried myself to sleep, not sure what to do for the best. Perhaps I’d be daft to jump ship before I knew what Lancashire had in mind for me.

Then the day came when the management summoned the second team to Old Trafford to hear about new contracts. It wasn’t the best of days to choose because we had all been shocked to hear that Ian Folley had died at the age of 30. He had got a top edge playing club cricket and the ball had smacked him in the eye. He’d gone in for an operation but suffered a heart attack on the operating table. The contract meeting was held a few hours before a group of us were due to go to his funeral.

We all sat around in the stiffs’ dressing room ready to be called into the captain’s room next door. I felt very uncomfortable. These were my mates. We’d sweated blood
together, enjoyed each other’s good times and commiserated when things hadn’t gone so well. We’d played hard and occasionally we’d partied hard. We were a team. One reason we had managed to beat the first XI in pre-season was that they played as individuals while we played for each other. But we knew as we sat there, heads down, hardly speaking, that some of us wouldn’t be offered a contract to come back next season.

One by one we went in to see team manager David Hughes and chief executive John Brewer. As each one returned the ritual was the same.

‘All right?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Congratulations, mate.’

I was dreading the first one to come back and say no. When it happened, we didn’t have to ask the question. Dexter Fitton, the life and soul of the dressing room, came through the door red-faced and obviously choked up. No one said a word. He was our man, but none of us could think of anything to say. He grabbed a black bin-bag and started to empty his locker. Then he slammed it shut and said, ‘That’s it, lads. I’m done.’ That afternoon he carried Ian Folley’s coffin.

A few more of the lads were given the bad news before it was my turn to go in. Part of me hoped they would tell me I wasn’t being retained. I didn’t want to go back and say I was OK because it would seem as though I was rubbing my mates’ faces in it. David Hughes and John Brewer were all smiles as I walked into the room, almost as though they didn’t realise what they were doing to people’s lives.

I was feeling quite emotional and only half took in what they were saying: ‘You’ve got a big future at this club,
Ronnie. We believe in you and think you can make it to the top here and we are going to back you all the way. We are delighted with your progress and want to offer you an improved two-year contract, up from eight grand to ten. Well done.’ A contract and pen were pushed across the desk towards me.

To be fair, their words may have been what they genuinely felt, but to me it sounded like the often repeated bullshit of a second-hand-car salesman.

I let them finish, then said, ‘Thanks very much and I really appreciate the offer. It’s been fantastic here. I’ve learned a lot and I love the county and its members, but it doesn’t look as though I’m going to get an opportunity for some time. So I’m not sure I will be signing.’

They must have been expecting that because David Hughes said, ‘I understand your feelings, Ronnie, but don’t make a hasty decision. Take the contract with you and think about it.’

I picked it up and left the room, knowing the fact that they had offered me a new deal had reduced my chances of getting away. It meant I was a List One player. In order to stop a transfer market developing in cricket like there is in football, counties were only allowed to sign two List One players in five years, so the odds were slim that anyone would use up one of their vacancies on an untried rookie. I had to get my status changed to List Two, but to do that I needed to get the approval of the Lancashire committee. They had me by the balls and my chances of getting away were looking decidedly ropy. I was starting to think I might have to accept the contract, but a chance remark a few days later hardened my resolve to get away.

All the second-team players had arranged to meet in TGI
Friday in Sale for an end-of-season drink. It was a very emotional afternoon, very different from the many other occasions we’d been out as a group. Too many of the lads were suddenly out of work, their dreams shattered and their future uncertain. Those of us with contract offers felt embarrassed and unsure what to say. We had a few beers and a bit of banter but already it was no longer the same. It was uncomfortable and gradually two groups developed: those with contracts sat together and those who had been released seemed happier in another part of the bar where they could slag off the club and everyone connected with it.

I was sitting with Jason Gallian and John Crawley and they asked me what I was going to do.

‘I don’t really know. My instinct is to move. What do you think?’

Jason said, ‘It’s up to you, mate. But I guess it depends on how much you think they value you and if you believe they are going to give you the chance to achieve what you want.’

‘Well, they’ve offered me a two-year deal and increased my money to ten grand, so I suppose they want me to stay.’

Jason and John looked at each other.

‘What?’ I asked.

Jason looked embarrassed. ‘I don’t know if this will help you, but we’ve both been offered twelve grand a year.’

I thought, Fucking bastards. They gave me all that crap in the meeting but didn’t have the guts to say they didn’t value me as much as my team-mates.

Jason started to apologise.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry. It’s not your fault. It’s those bastards. But at least I know where I stand and what I have to do. Come on, I need another drink.’

Because I hadn’t signed my contract, I got called in to see the chairman, Bob Bennett. He’d always been very straight with me and I hoped he would give me a sympathetic ear. England U19s happened to be playing at Old Trafford that day, so I went along a bit early in order to seek out Graham Saville and say hello. I hadn’t seen him for a couple of years but I thought he might be able to give me some good advice. I found him in the gym next to the dressing rooms and we chatted away for a while, then he asked, ‘What’s going on here? You’re a fantastic player but you’re not getting a game. What are you going to do?’

I laughed. ‘As a matter of fact, that’s why I’m here. I’ve got a meeting with the chairman. I’m hoping to persuade him to make me a List Two player.

‘Have you anything lined up?’ he asked.

‘Not really. I know Durham are interested and I’ve heard there might be a chance at Kent, Derbyshire or Glamorgan, and Yorkshire have put out feelers.’

‘Let me know what happens,’ he said. ‘We’ll have you at Essex.’

I could hardly believe my ears. Suddenly from having an uncertain future with lots of loose ends needing to be tied up, I had a whole new opportunity opening up at one of the top clubs in country – a club with a strong tradition and a long list of outstanding players such as Graham Gooch, Keith Fletcher, John Lever and further back to Doug Insole and Trevor Bailey.

‘Really?’ I asked.

‘Sure. Keep in touch.’

Sav was a man I liked and admired and suddenly playing for Essex seemed like the best idea so far. Having walked into the gym feeling confused and unsure, I left thinking, Essex! I think I’ll have a bit of that.

I went to meet Bob Bennett in the library, the same room where he had greeted me the day I signed.

‘So, Ronnie, you are thinking of leaving us?’

I explained how I felt. I pointed out that Mike Watkinson had just been made captain and he was an all-rounder, so he was always going to be ahead of me, and that they already had other top all-rounders such as Wasim Akram and Phil de Freitas (I didn’t know at the time that Phil was about to leave too). In addition, players such as Peter Martin and Glen Chapple were ahead of me, so I couldn’t see a path to first-team cricket.

I added, ‘Ian Austin is a good cricketer but he seldom gets a chance here. I’m coming up to 23 and I feel I need to get regular first-team cricket. I think I need to move on.’

The chairman nodded and said, ‘I understand your position, but I’ll be honest, I don’t want you to go. I think you are a fine cricketer and you have a future here. Have you spoken to any other counties?’

I knew this was a tricky one because legally I wasn’t yet free to talk to other clubs but Bob had always been straight with me and I decided to trust him. I told him I’d had a chat with a few people and knew that some counties were interested.

‘Who are they?’

I told him. Again he nodded his head, as if to approve of what I was saying, so I decided to go the whole hog. ‘And Essex have made me an offer,’ I said, which wasn’t a complete lie but was perhaps gilding the lily based on the conversation I’d had with Sav a few minutes before.