No Boundaries (11 page)

‘Don't worry, Ronnie, they won't mess with us.' Wayne made sure he spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear. ‘There would be an international incident if they did and they won't want that.' Turning to the man behind the desk, he asked, ‘Are you in charge round here?'

‘Yes I am.'

‘Did you cancel our flight?'

‘Yes I did.'

‘Well, you had no right. We've come here to play cricket and help promote your country around the world. Your president is coming to the match and we need to be in Bulawayo.' He slammed the desk as he emphasised, ‘Tonight!'

The airport official didn't blink. He just sat there calmly smoking a cigarette.

‘Look, I'm serious,' Wayne went on. ‘You had better lay on a flight for us in the next half-hour or you can start looking for a new job.'

The man sucked on his cigarette, picked up the phone and in less than half an hour we were climbing aboard a smart private jet. As we settled into our seats, Wayne smiled at me sheepishly and admitted, ‘I can't believe I did that.'

We had a very pleasant flight back to Bulawayo and within a couple of days I was able to resume training.

That wasn't the only flight Wayne and I had in a light plane on that tour. Our hosts had laid on a sightseeing trip for the squad to fly over the Victoria Falls. While the rest had modern aircraft, Wayne, Darren Gough and I had an old crate that looked like something out of
Murphy's War
. The view of the falls was unforgettably spectacular but the trip back rather took the gloss off the day. We hit a storm and the plane rattled and shook so much I thought every rivet must fall out. I was convinced we would all die. We eventually limped back to the airport but my legs were still shaking for a good hour after we touched down.

I was fit enough to be selected for the first ODI where, like the rest of the team, except perhaps Nasser Hussain, I struggled as we slipped to a two-wicket defeat. Two days later, Craig White was preferred to me for the first ever Test between the two countries. Watching from the sidelines, it became clear that, while Zimbabwe were the minnows of international cricket, they had a few top players, not least Grant Flower and his brother Andy, who later became my Essex team-mates. Andy was sheer class and scored a great century in that match. Nasser and John Crawley also scored tons and, while England had been expected to romp to victory, we were held to a draw. When Nick Knight was run out on the final ball with the scores level, Zimbabwe celebrated as though they had won, even though they had only scraped the draw by bowling as wide as they could without being signalled. Their joy at not being beaten clearly upset David Lloyd, who instead of being gracious said, ‘We murdered them,' in his press conference. That remark didn't endear us to our hosts and their fans.

The papers back home gave Mike Atherton a lot of stick for not being able to polish off the weakest team on the international circuit, and the management decided to cancel the traditional Christmas party with the journalists who were following the tour. It was a petty decision – most of the stuff they objected to was done by editors back in London, not by the guys in the press box – but a pattern was beginning to emerge of a siege mentality from Lloyd and Atherton when they were put under pressure. What the players didn't realise at the time was that the ECB were concerned that the tour was turning into a shambles and the visit by the chairman Lord McLaurin was to bollock the management, not cheer on the troops.

With no wives allowed, Christmas turned out to be a miserable affair. The management didn't even arrange a Christmas dinner for the squad so Thorpe, Tufnell and I ended up in a hotel bedroom tucking into take-away from KFC and Pizza Hut and playing endless games of Balderdash. We were getting a reputation as being a bit of a clique. Mike Atherton made a few barbed comments and some of those at the front of the bus used to click their fingers whenever we made our way to the back. I felt that was unfair. When it came to training or playing, no one could doubt our commitment to the badge and the team, so what was the problem if we chose to spend our spare time together? Sports teams are made up of all kinds of different individuals. You have a lot in common with some of your team-mates and very little with others. That doesn't mean you wouldn't run through a wall for them in a match. Just as I'm sure Mike Atherton would have hated the idea of hanging out with me, I preferred to be with Thorpe and Gough.

Andrew Caddick was also part of our group. He's an
intelligent man, who knows his stuff and could be a fantastic bowler on his day. He also beats my missus all day long at ironing. There's not a piece of Caddy's clothing that hasn't been ironed immaculately, and he's such a good-hearted guy, he even volunteered to press a couple of my shirts when I was going out.

Alec Stewart was another who liked to have a good laugh. He would stir the pot a bit with his remarks and then duck out leaving others to sort it out. But he could take being teased too and took some stick about his superstitions. One day as the bus drew up at a ground, Graham Thorpe said to me, ‘Check out Stewie.' Sure enough, as soon as the bus stopped, Alec was at the door with a small bag that he always carried with him. While the rest of us got our ‘coffins' out of the baggage section, he was already in the dressing room claiming the spot he wanted. He was especially keen to have the same peg if he'd played at the ground before and done well. By the time we reached the dressing room, his stuff was set out immaculately, everything perfectly aligned. Mine was chucked in the first corner I came to.

Alec hovered between the front and the back of the bus, by nature one of the lads but not wanting to piss off the management too much. Nasser Hussain was also a bit torn on this trip because, while he enjoyed our company, he was vice captain for the first time so felt he had to toe the party line and not be seen hanging around too much with the clique.

I was left out of the second Test, which started on Boxing Day and also ended in a draw. But I was starting to feel strong once more and during the Test I received a fantastic masterclass in bowling from Ian Botham. He was covering the series for Sky TV and volunteered to give me a hand with my action, which I was trying to modify in order to protect
my back. Just the fact that one of the legendary all-rounders with nearly 400 Test wickets to his credit was willing to spend time helping me, a novice with just two Tests and a couple of victims to my name, gave me a boost. Ian had great self-belief and confidence which was infectious, but he also had a lot more technical understanding than people give him credit for. At that stage I had been a professional cricketer for seven years and I can honestly say that was the best bowling coaching session I'd had. As I shook hands with Ian and went off to have a shower, John Emburey, who was the bowling coach on the tour, said, ‘You're right again, aren't you?'

‘Yeah, I feel really good,' I replied.

As it turned out, this was not my only coaching session from a legend. Geoffrey Boycott walked past the nets when I was batting and said, ‘What's up with you?' I told him I'd had a back problem but that I was now close to full fitness and he replied, ‘Good, because some of this lot are a waste of time – no heart and no bottle. Some of them can't bat for toffee.'

I'd known Geoffrey since he'd approached me during the final against Lancashire at Lord's. He'd stuck his hand out and said, ‘All right, lad? I must admit, I like the way you play. I like your attitude. Bloody good cricketer.' As I started to preen, he smiled and said, ‘Do you know what, though? I'd have loved batting against you. I'd have batted all day and you'd never have got me out.'

I was feeling a bit cocky because I'd taken on some of the greats like Brian Lara and Graeme Hick that summer and got them out, so I said, ‘I only get good players out, Geoffrey.'

He gave me a big smile. ‘You only get fucking good players out? In that case, you'd have got me first and second innings because I was a fucking good player.'

There was no arguing with that so, when the great man offered to take a look at my batting, I jumped at the chance. I arranged an extra session in the nets with Wayne Morton bowling to me. Wayne fancied himself as a bit of a
medium-pacer
and to be fair he would have probably been a reasonable bowler in the Yorkshire leagues, which are, of course, a step or so below their Lancashire equivalents. The nets were very wet after a downpour and had lots of grass on them but I thought I'd be OK against Wayne.

Geoffrey came over in his beige suit and Panama hat and said, ‘You ready, Irani? Get down there and let's see what you've got.'

Wayne took out a brand-new Kookaburra, ran up and whipped one down to me which I got nowhere near. A sighter. I played and missed the second and the third knocked over my off stump. Boycott stood at the other end, impassive.

I got an edge to the next ball – straight on to my middle stump – and one of cricket's legends strolled down the wicket and said, ‘Are you taking the piss out of me, Irani?'

‘No! What do you mean?'

‘I could bat against him without my pads.'

I mumbled something about the wicket and the fact that he had a new ball, but that well-known voice cut across me: ‘New fucking ball? My grandma can bowl better than him. Now stop wasting my time and get on with it.'

By now a few people had spotted Geoffrey and were standing around to see what the great man had to say. He warmed to his audience and a couple of balls later yelled down the pitch, ‘You've got some shit on the end of your bat, lad.'

I picked up my bat and looked at the end of it which was caked with mud. As I cleaned it off, he called out, ‘No, Irani, the other end!'

I realised it was one of his favourite lines and just laughed. I knuckled down and the next 20 minutes were among the best I had with a batting coach. He spotted little things that made a big difference and when I put them into practice he'd say, ‘Good technique that, good technique.'

I thanked him at the end of it and he replied, ‘Any time, son. I like your attitude. Different class from some of these others.' I hoped that had been loud enough for the small crowd to hear and maybe it would even get back to the management.

Trying to bed in a new action until it becomes automatic takes a lot of hard work and time, so I wasn't too dismayed when I only performed averagely in the final two ODIs. Both were won by Zimbabwe with the Flower brothers again leading the way. Andy showed he was as hot behind the sticks as he was in front of them with a reaction stumping that sent me trailing back to the dressing room for nought.

We were all disappointed that we hadn't won a single international match on the tour so far but, free of pain and with a new action beginning to groove, I was looking forward to the next stage of the trip when we boarded the plane to New Zealand. It turned out to be a nightmare.

I
t was a good job the press lads didn't see us when we reached our hotel in Auckland. The journey had taken the best part of 30 hours and we were completely knackered – far too weary to sleep – so we just dumped our bags and made for the bar. As I remember, several of us got hammered, including our captain, Mike Atherton. It felt like a ritual dumping of the disappointment of Zimbabwe and anticipating the rest of the trip. We had the next day off and I think most of us spent it in bed, shaking off our hangovers and catching up on sleep.

I couldn't wait for this part of the tour to get under way. I liked New Zealand and was looking forward to meeting up again with the Lucas family and other friends I'd made on my previous stay there. I was pain-free and raring to go. I knew I had a lot of competition for my place – Craig White was still with us and Dominic Cork had arrived after sorting out some domestic problems that made him pull out of the Zimbabwe leg. But I was firing on all cylinders. I was bowling long stints in the nets and knocked over Mike Atherton's off stump a
couple of times. I also did well against Nasser Hussain and Alec Stewart and was one of the best performers in a practice match among ourselves. With a couple of warm-up games before the Tests to come, I felt my form was peaking at the right time. I was desperate to show what I could do.

Not everyone was feeling as good as I was. In Atherton's first press conference in New Zealand, Michael Nicholson of ITN asked, ‘When are you going to do the decent thing and resign?' Ath had been struggling with a back injury and was badly out of form. With that and poor team results, the knives had been out for him since just before Christmas and he was a bit shaken when Nicholson added, ‘If you were the chief executive of a public company, you would have been kicked out by now.'

Bumble was also feeling the pressure after ECB chief executive Tim Lamb stated, ‘Lord McLaurin and I were horrified by what we saw in Zimbabwe. We were not happy with the way the England team presented themselves. Their demeanour was fairly negative and not particularly attractive.' That might go some way towards explaining the management's overreaction shortly after we arrived in New Zealand.

One by one, the whole squad was called into a meeting with Lloyd, tour manager John Barclay, Mike Atherton and John Emburey and asked how they thought the tour was going. When the question was put to me, I replied, ‘Obviously it's not been great for me so far. I was gutted when I did my back in but we've got it sorted out now. I'm feeling good and looking forward to the games coming up. I'm really up for it.'

Lloyd shook his head and said, ‘I'll tell you exactly what's happened to you. You came on tour unfit. You've hidden
behind injury after injury. You are injury-prone and you have covered up from the start. You are a disgrace. You are one of those players who is always in the physio's room with some niggle or other. You know what? I'm banning you from seeing the physio again. It's not good enough.'

I was stunned. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. For a while, my head was spinning, trying to make sense of what he'd said. I looked at the others. John Barclay looked nervous, and Mike Atherton and John Emburey wouldn't look me in the eye. I could feel my fury welling up but I forced myself not to jump in and protest too angrily.

As calmly as I could, I replied, ‘With all due respect, I did not come away injured. If you remember, I finished the season at Essex fully fit and played in the Lord's final. If you look at my record at the end of the season, I bowled loads of overs and made runs – I couldn't have done that if I wasn't fit. For God's sake, when we were in the Algarve, I won the triathlon with Chris Silverwood. Does that suggest I was covering up an injury? Until I did my back in Zimbabwe I was playing well. You saw that. I don't understand how you can accuse me of coming away unfit.'

‘I'll tell you how,' Lloyd said. ‘I've got a list here of every time you've been to see the physio. You've had problems with your back, trouble with your hamstring, niggles in your side, your shoulder and your knees.'

‘Sure, but all bowlers have that. It doesn't stop you playing. You have some treatment and then you go back out there and perform. You must know that. But what happened in Zimbabwe was different – it was impossible for me to play until I had the injection.'

‘No. As far as I'm concerned, you came on this trip unfit and it's not good enough.'

I was getting desperate now. ‘I would never lie just to get on tour. You've known me since I was a kid, I can't believe you would say that. I was fine – I just injured my back in Zimbabwe and had to get it fixed.'

The rest of them sat there like the three wise monkeys. I couldn't believe that Atherton didn't speak up when he'd also been nursing a bad back all the way through. I was about to say that but stopped myself. No point in antagonising them by attacking a member of
their
clique. Somehow I had to try to retrieve the situation. It was clear I wasn't going to change Lloyd's mind, so I decided to try to move it on to something more positive.

‘David,' I said, ‘you are the boss and I have to respect what you say, but you also know that I've had my injection, I've been working my guts out with Dean Riddle and Wayne Morton. I had a great session with Ian Botham to iron out some problems in my technique. Embers, you commented how much I'd improved. I've been putting in extra shifts in the nets and I've done well in practice games. I've bowled my heart out.'

Lloyd nodded. ‘Yeah, you've done well.'

‘I feel really good now. I'm up for it. I was first-choice
all-rounder
when you picked the squad and all I'm asking for is a chance.'

‘We'll see.'

And that was it. I left the room angry, confused and despondent. I wanted to scream with frustration, to punch something or someone. I was appalled at the injustice of it – I was being made a scapegoat for the failures of the tour, punished for picking up an injury while doing my job. I'd longed to play for my country again but now it looked as though it would never happen and I didn't understand why. I
got back to my room, raided the mini bar and poured myself a stiff drink. I just wanted to catch the first plane home.

Not long afterwards, there was a knock on the door and when I opened it Mike Atherton was standing there. ‘I've come to tell you that we have two warm-up games and then the Tests and you won't be playing in any of them. Craig White will play in all of them.'

Just like that. All the effort I'd put into getting myself ready for this leg of the tour counted for nothing. ‘Mike,' I protested, ‘I've obviously got some problem I don't understand but I was first-choice all-rounder at the start of this trip. Why can't I play in one of the warm-up matches and prove that I'm ready to play?'

‘It's not going to happen. It's been decided and that's just the way it is.'

I was completely shattered. I told Phil Tufnell, Graham Thorpe and Darren Gough and they couldn't believe it. I said, ‘You guys have been with me all the time. Tell me, what have I done?'

They had no answer. They were sympathetic and supportive, as was Nasser who commented, ‘I don't know what it is, Ronnie, but for some reason Bumble has taken against you. Whenever you are mentioned, he is always critical.'

I had virtually been told I had three weeks off. I worked my bollocks off every day in training, bowled in the nets morning and evening and took every opportunity to work with fitness coach Dean Riddle. Every night I went out and got hammered. They'd also told Jack Russell that Alec Stewart was keeping wicket so he too had three weeks off. I could tell he was frustrated but he went back to his room and got on with his painting commissions. He was at his happiest on his own with his paints and easel and preferred a cup of tea to
alcohol, but one evening I went to his room to see if he fancied a night on the town. ‘Why not?' he said. Once again, he was fascinating company with lots of great stories. We managed to make short work of a few bottles of a very nice New Zealand white wine, chatted to some of the Barmy Army and had a thoroughly good time. Jack is built like a jockey and at the end of the evening I lifted him over my head and carried him out of the bar.

The first Test was at Eden Park. After some stunning batting by Alec Stewart and Graham Thorpe and a super little cameo innings from Dominic Cork, England were cruising to victory when they took the ninth New Zealand second-innings wicket with the Kiwis only 11 in front. Danny Morrison, who was coming out to join Nathan Astle, held the world record for ducks in Test cricket, so I'm sure the bookies had already stopped taking any bets. But Danny chose this day to produce his finest batting performance. The two of them hit a record stand for the last wicket and managed to bat out the whole of the last day, turning certain defeat into a heroic draw. Morrison only scored 14 but just would not be shifted. The irony is that, after all his efforts, he was never chosen for his country again. Welcome to the club.

There were big question marks over Mike Atherton's tactics and the England dressing room was like a morgue. The mood hadn't improved when we boarded the team bus. Usually Graham Thorpe would take the microphone and do his wickedly accurate impression of Geoffrey Boycott – ‘Good day, England. Bloody good day. Good creeckit' – but this time he just made his way to the back seats and sank down beside Phil Tufnell, me and some other members of the ‘clique'. The spirit of the party was not helped when we were kept hanging about, which allowed a group of young New
Zealand fans to gather round and start shouting abuse at us. ‘Wankers' was one of the nicer things they called us and I could tell Tuffers was starting to get upset.

‘Fucking vultures,' he said. ‘Why do people love to have a go?'

As the bus pulled away, the crowd jeered and Phil climbed up on the seat, dropped his tracksuit trousers and stuck his naked bum against the back window – the hairiest smile those guys are ever likely to see. The rest of us laughed, which made the management turn round. By now, Tuffers was fully dressed again and looking as innocent as a choir boy, so they didn't know why we were laughing and probably just assumed that we didn't care about the way the game had gone.

The next day I was summoned to see John Barclay. ‘Ronnie, something has come to our attention that we take very seriously and I have to warn you that we are thinking of sending you home,' he said.

I thought, Fuck me, what have I done now?

‘We think this is a serious breach of discipline and not what we expect of someone representing England,' he droned on.

I was racking my brains trying to think what dreadful thing I'd done. Admittedly I'd been pissed a lot in the last couple of weeks, but I'd never caused any bother in a bar and I'd always turned up on time for training and worked my socks off in the nets, even though I knew I had no chance of playing. And, surely, if it was the drinking, they'd have pulled me about it before?

‘I don't know what you're talking about, John,' I said.

‘I think you do, Ronnie.'

I thought, He's testing me. He's not sure and he's trying to trap me into confessing something that he thinks might have
happened. I played as straight a bat as Danny Morrison. ‘Honestly, I don't have a clue. What is it?'

‘You were seen pulling a moonie on the team bus as it left the ground yesterday.'

‘What!'

‘You were seen dropping your trousers at the fans and the press. It is very serious.'

I knew he'd screwed up big time. I decided I wouldn't deny it for a bit and see where it took us.

‘Who told you this, John?'

‘I can't tell you that because it was told to me in confidence.'

‘That's all very well,' I said, ‘but you are threatening to send me home from an England tour in disgrace for something I didn't do. I think I have the right to know who told you.'

‘You deny it?'

I was seething by now. ‘John, get the person who told you I pulled a moonie to come here now and repeat it in front of me. I've got plenty of time. Get him here now.'

‘Are you saying you didn't do it?' He was starting to look unsure of himself.

‘I didn't. So let's see why your informant thinks it was me. Get the tosser in here now.'

‘There's no need to be like that.'

‘No need to be like that? Some anonymous twat tells you a tale and, before you've even checked, you are talking about sending me home. I think I've every reason to be like that.'

‘If it wasn't you, who was it then?'

‘John, I'm not going to drop one of my team-mates in it. I'm pissed off that someone came telling tales and I'm pissed off that you assumed he was right. It seems to be the general
view on this trip that, if anything is wrong, it must be Ronnie Irani. Now will you get him in here?'

‘I'll have a word with him and ask him if he'll come and talk to you.'

‘That's not good enough, John. You are the team manager.
Tell
him to come. He could have wrecked my career and the least he can do is to see me face to face.'

I stormed out and headed back to my room, fuming.

‘What's up with you?' Tuffers asked.

‘Those bastards want to send me home.'

‘Why? What have you done now?'

‘They've accused me of mooning at the back of the bus.'

He hit the roof. ‘The wankers! That was me. Right! They can send me home. Fuck 'em.'

‘No, leave it. It's not worth it. Let them stew.'

We both had a beer and calmed down. We agreed the tour was being managed by clowns who had no idea how to handle grown men. To my mind, if there was going to be any punishment for showing your arse to abusive fans, it should be a verbal rap over the knuckles or a fine. They had completely overreacted. We spent the rest of the evening having a few drinks and laughing about it. But deep inside I was still incredibly angry. It was another sign that for some reason the management had decided I was the bad boy of the tour and were looking for any excuse to bomb me out.