No Boundaries (9 page)

I went off to my room feeling a million dollars. I’d had a great evening and tomorrow I would wear the England sweater, pull on the cap with the crown and the three lions on it, and walk down the steps at Edgbaston a fully fledged Test cricketer. For the only time in my life, I didn’t sleep a wink all night. Normally I’d have a couple of beers over dinner the night before a big match to help me nod off but I didn’t feel I could do that sitting next to the chairman of selectors. I wondered about a glass or two of wine but decided against it and stuck with mineral water. I lay in bed tossing and turning, visualising loads of different scenarios, some triumphant, some disastrous. Eventually I decided to give up the unequal fight and flicked through the TV channels and came across
The Shawshank Redemption
.

I’d heard about this movie everyone was raving about but I’d never seen it. I quickly became hooked and for an hour or so I stopped thinking about cricket. Or almost. I couldn’t help identifying with Andy and Red’s fight against the establishment and bullying, and cheering their eventual escape from prison. While playing second-team cricket for Lancashire could hardly be compared to serving a life sentence in jail, there had certainly been times when I thought I would never get away and that some people were out to break my spirit. I too had been in danger of accepting that’s just the way things are. But now, this first Test would be my version of walking along that wide, sunlit beach and believing there was another, better way.

B
y the time Mike Atherton threw me the ball to bowl, Sachin Tendulkar, who was just reaching the peak of his considerable talent, and the stylish Mohammad Azharuddin were threatening to put on a bit of a partnership. However, my fifth ball for England – not a particularly good one I will admit – tempted Azharuddin to have a swish and instead of racing for four it was brilliantly caught by Nick Knight.

If I'm completely honest, my back problems meant my bowling was not quite up to Test standard but I felt as though it was improving and I just concentrated on bowling tight. We dismissed the Indians for a little over 200 and looked very healthy overnight at 60 without loss, but on the second morning wickets started to tumble. Nasser Hussain, who was making his Test comeback after three years in the wilderness, was battling away, although he was fortunate to still be there. He had gloved one down the leg side to the keeper early on but got away with it when umpire Darrell Hair turned down a jubilant appeal.

He went on to score a priceless century and he and I
produced the vital stand that put things back on an even keel. I was nervous as I made what seemed a longer than usual walk to the crease but I quickly got off the mark and settled into it. I liked being out there in the centre of the arena in front of a big crowd, knowing the TV cameras were on me. It felt right. I hit 34 off as many balls. It all went by in a flash. I was playing shots but without really being conscious of what I was doing. I started to feel really good and wondered if a half-century and maybe more was on the cards but then I got a quick delivery from Javagal Srinath that got up a bit. I failed to drop my hands, it clipped me on the way through and was taken by the keeper.

Still, we won the game comfortably in under three days. I felt I'd contributed to the victory and was buzzing, but, when I went back into the dressing room after the presentations, everyone was just packing up and leaving. It was all so matter of fact. I had been hoping to sit around with the lads over a few beers and savour winning my Test debut; instead, they were all shooting off home. I packed my bag, slipped a bottle of presentation champagne in with my England sweater, and within an hour I was on the M6 making my way back to Essex. It was something of an anti-climax but I guess it reflected the way Mike Atherton liked things done. I just hoped I'd made a big enough impression to be selected for the next Test, which would fulfil another dream – to represent my country at Lord's.

I still wasn't sure I was playing until I saw my name on the team sheet and it turned out to be an incredibly memorable match, mainly because of Jack Russell, a great wicketkeeper, nice guy, top-class painter and complete eccentric. I'd heard a lot about him on the circuit, not least that he was very superstitious and would never change any of his kit. His
floppy old sun-hat that had survived a fire, his patched-up gloves, even his vest and tatty old jockstrap had to be continually washed and reused long after they should have been chucked in the dustbin. He insisted on using the same tea bag for all five days of a Test match and his diet seemed to consist of mainly beans and rice.

My favourite story was of how protective Jack was of his privacy. Even his Gloucestershire team-mates didn't know where he lived, and rumour had it that he was so paranoid someone would follow him home that he would drive round a roundabout two or three times just to make sure no one was on his tail. One day he was asked to drive a young player to a match and, being a good team man, he agreed. But it gave him a dilemma because he had to go home first and collect some kit so he actually blindfolded the lad so he wouldn't know where he was going and only let him take it off when they were four or five miles away from the house.

Jack's ritual at matches was that he had to have two Weetabix soaked in milk for eight minutes at the close of play and, if he were batting, it was the twelfth man's job to prepare them. God help them if they were a minute out either way, because Jack could tell and would play hell.

The Lord's match started with an emotional entrance by the great Harold Dennis ‘Dickie' Bird, who was in tears as he made his way to the wicket to umpire his last Test. He received a standing ovation, which is more than can be said for England. We made a dreadful start, the captain out for a duck with only one run on the board. But with Graham Thorpe making a solid knock we recovered and had scored over 300 when Jack was last man out, having hit his second Test century.

It looked a decent score until the Indians started to run riot over the next two and a half days. Ganguly and Dravid both made big scores on their Test debuts and helped them establish a big lead. I bowled very economically and picked up the wicket of Ajay Jadeja, and between innings David Lloyd made a point of telling me I'd bowled intelligently. It didn't look as though we could win the game but there was a grave danger we would lose it if we were dismissed cheaply in our second innings. Alec Stewart, who was fighting for his international career and only in the team because Nick Knight was injured, gave us a reasonable platform overnight but he was dismissed early on the fifth day and wickets started to tumble. We were six down when Jack Russell came out to join me in the middle.

‘We're only 85 in front, Ronnie,' he said. ‘It's up to us. We need runs but we must also make sure we don't get out.'

For me it meant playing against my natural game. I liked to attack the bowling and, while I was able to pick up some runs and had the occasional swish, most of the time I took no risks. Jack was like a stone wall. He must have been so frustrating to bowl against. Time after time it looked as though they would get the edge but he'd hop in the air and somehow withdraw his bat just in the nick of time. It was the most surreal innings I'd witnessed. He cracked one ball into the outfield and disturbed a group of pigeons as they pecked away at the seed. I set off for a run but Jack yelled, ‘No! Go back! I can't see. Pigeons.' Then he called down to Dickie Bird, ‘Dickie! Dead ball. Pigeons. Can't see.' Dickie obviously only heard the last part and got out his light-meter to check if it was too dark to play.

Later on, Srinath bowled a peach of a delivery that cut back and I thought rapped Jack on the thigh pad. He went
down like a sack of spuds, clutching his knackers and groaning loudly. I ran over and asked him if he was OK.

‘I'm fine but I can get five or six minutes out of this and it will help save the match.'

Dickie Bird shuffled up, clearly concerned, and Jack started to groan even louder. Srinath came over and said to me, ‘No, no, no. This is no good. I know Jack. He's just pretending. If I had really hit him in the balls he wouldn't be able to make that much noise.'

Dravid and Ganguly looked on completely bemused. This wasn't anything like they had imagined Test cricket would be.

By now the twelfth man was on with some water. Jack took his time, walking up and down between sips. ‘Come here,' he said to the twelfth man, who looked a bit apprehensive about what he was going to be asked to do. Then I heard Jack add, ‘You'll have to re-time the Weetabix now because of this delay.'

I got out to one that kept low but we'd put on 60 and made sure the game was safe. I felt good because I'd played my part in helping us salvage a draw. I watched the highlights on TV and it was satisfying to hear the comments about my contribution. Geoffrey Boycott said that I'd shown character, and added with that familiar Yorkshire twang, ‘I'm impressed with Ronnie Irani. If he has a day when things go well for him, he could do a lot of damage. There's a bit of Botham about him.' And Richie Benaud, one of the people my dad insisted I should always listen to, said he felt I'd already done enough to start packing my bags for the winter tour of New Zealand.

We made our way up to Trent Bridge and I unpacked all my gear at the hotel ready for the final Test. We knew we couldn't lose the series and I was hoping to round off what
had been a good start to my international career in some style. I always enjoyed playing in Nottingham and when we looked at the wicket it was its usual flat self, a real feather bed. I briefly allowed myself to visualise the scene as I celebrated my maiden Test century.

On the afternoon before the match, I discovered another of Jack Russell's passions. He drove me to look at Nottingham castle and then we stopped at what felt like dozens of military memorabilia shops in the town. Jack was a very enthusiastic collector, especially of medals, and urged me to take it up. ‘It's a great investment,' he assured me and suddenly I realised why people joked that he had dug a moat around his house.

We got to the ground on the morning of the match and had a good warm-up. We were just about to go into a circle for fielding practice when David Lloyd and Mike Atherton called me over. I instantly knew what was coming. There's only one reason for the ‘Have you got a minute?' shout at that stage of the preparation. I couldn't believe it. Inside my head I was screaming, ‘No! Fucking no!'

I could hardly take it in as Bumble's Accrington accent pronounced the verdict: ‘Ronnie, you've done brilliant so far this series. You've done reeeally well. But we just want to take a look at Mark Ealham.'

‘I don't understand,' I blurted out. ‘We won the Test at Edgbaston and I helped save the match at Lord's. Why change it?'

‘I know,' Lloyd said. ‘You've done reeeally well, but that's just the way it is.'

Mike Atherton grinned sheepishly and shrugged. ‘That's just how it goes.'

I knew it was no good arguing and said, ‘So what do I do now?'

Lloyd patted my shoulder. ‘Go back and play for Essex, lad. Don't worry, I'm sure you'll get other chances.'

The crowd were starting to come in as I made my way from one of the best batting tracks I'd ever seen towards the pavilion. I had no problem with Mark Ealham getting a chance – he was a good player and had earned it – but I had the shirt and, to my mind, I deserved a run in the side as long as I didn't screw up. I was in tears as I collected my bag from the empty dressing room. Then I had to go back to the hotel to pack my overnight gear.

Essex were just down the road at Leicester, so I phoned Paul Prichard from the hotel and told him what had happened. He couldn't believe it but said, ‘Come down to Grace Road and we'll put you in the side.'

Before I knew it I was padded up but, instead of performing on a dream pitch in front of thousands, I was walking out to bat in front of a handful of people on a real sticky dog of a track. I was mentally fucked. I got a duck in both innings amid a torrent of sledging from the Leicestershire players about whether or not I was wearing the right sweater. ‘Shouldn't that have three lions on?' the bastards sniggered. It was the first time in my life that I hated playing a game of cricket.

Fortunately, my season didn't end there. I quietly cursed David Lloyd and Mike Atherton, and wondered if their decision had anything to do with my leaving Lancashire, but then I remembered John Bird telling me when I was working in Tesco that ‘Success comes in cans' and when I looked puzzled, he added, ‘Not in cannots.' I decided the only way I could really prove them wrong was by playing better than ever and redoubled my efforts for Essex.

We were proving to be a growing force in the one-day
game and by August we were just one match away from the final of the NatWest Trophy final at Lord's. We faced a tough semi-final in front of a full house at the Oval against a top Surrey side that included Alec Stewart, Graham Thorpe, Chris Lewis and Adam Hollioake. Stewie hit a century as they reached 275 off their 60 overs, though I recall he found it hard to get me away. We felt they'd fallen short of what they should have scored on a very good pitch. We lost Paul Grayson early on to an lbw but Graham Gooch got runs as usual and our overseas player Stuart Law was just coming into form and he picked up a rapid half-century. We were still exactly a hundred behind Surrey when I went in at number six. I smashed them around for a quick 52 and together with Rob Rollins saw us home. I thought I'd done enough to pick up the champagne for man of the match but David Gower gave it to his mate Alec Stewart. Never mind: while Stewie was left to drink what must have tasted rather flat bubbly in defeat, I was heading for Lord's and a final against, of all clubs, Lancashire.

I would love to report that I scored a hundred as we carried off the trophy after humiliating my former county, but that kind of thing happens more in movies than life. Instead, we were robbed by a crap umpiring decision and some good play by Lancashire. We started brightly enough on a pitch that was giving the bowlers a lot of help. Mark Ilott knocked over Mike Atherton early on and the very next ball rapped John Crawley on the pads. It was plumb in front but for some reason umpire David Shepherd decided to shake his head instead of raising his finger.

That was a major turning point. My old pal John went on to take the game away from us with a superb knock as wickets tumbled around him. I picked off two more of my
mates, Jason Gallian and Graham Lloyd, and had the great satisfaction of nipping one back to Neil Fairbrother, the man who didn't think I was good enough to pick, and it knocked out his middle pole. I ran past him and I think he was expecting a load of abuse but I just smiled and gave him the silent treatment. They only scored 166 but we were never in the hunt. Peter Martin and Glen Chapple were moving it sideways and we collapsed. It was a massive blow to me and the hurt of that day lasted a whole year until we returned to Lord's and picked up the trophy the following summer.

Before that, however, I was given my first full tour with England and it turned out to be one of the most dramatic periods of my life.