No Boundaries (21 page)

Just before we went out on the pitch, I gave my team talk: ‘Right, you lot, it’s a big game. We are streets ahead of this lot but I have to say I’m fucked off with one or two of you at the moment. I’m not going to name names but I need more from you. Your attitude needs to improve. Some of you ponce around as though you’ve made it but you’ve won fucking nothing yet. That’s what it’s about – winning trophies, not posing like tarts. Now get out there and do it today because, if you don’t, some of you will have me to answer to.’ It was all totally bogus rage but it worked and we slaughtered the opposition with some of the sharpest cricket we’d played.

You have to keep players on their toes. Sometimes when we’d lost, I’d pick on the things we’d done well, and in contrast, when we’d won comfortably, I’d highlight the areas where I’d thought we’d been sloppy. I found that, if you kept your criticism fair and constructive, people would take it on board and, when you’d had a poor game yourself, it was important you held your hand up and admitted it. I liked to let people have their say – and not just those who chip in automatically like that bolshie kid Irani used to, but go round everyone and ask them what they thought. Sometimes the quiet guys were the ones who had thought deepest about the game. And I always made sure I finished on a positive thought that they could take away with them.

I was determined to lead them from the front and wanted them to always be up for the challenge. Sometimes my combative nature saw me in the headlines for the wrong
reasons, such as when I pulled a fast one over Shane Warne and he responded with typical Aussie aggression.

Without doubt, the best two spinners in my time in cricket were Shane and Muttiah Muralitharan. Murali is a really nice bloke but I’ve always thought his action bends the rules far more than any of the dubious practices associated with reverse swing. The first time I faced him, I didn’t have a clue where the ball was going to bounce. There was so much fizz on it and I couldn’t read it out of his hand. I was completely bamboozled. Gradually, I worked out the angles and learned to play him. It was easiest with the white ball where the seam was clearer – if the seam was straight, it was the orthodox delivery; if it was scrambled, it was going the other way.

He is an outstanding talent and it’s a shame that he will always have a question mark against his action. I wonder if there is not a case for changing the law to accommodate players like him. After all, he is never going to break a batsman’s arm, so there is no real danger as there would be with a quick bowler who bent his arm.

There was never any question about Warney’s action. It was perfect. He hardly ever bowled a bad ball and had an incredible variation all apparently from an identical delivery. His ‘flipper’ could be devastating. I first heard about him when he was a youngster playing for Accrington in the Lancashire League. The stories coming back were that he was a fun-loving Aussie who enjoyed chips and beer, and bowled a few leggies. They were smacking him around for fun but, before you knew it, he was knocking Mike Gatting over in a Test at Old Trafford and a legend was being born. I doubt we will ever see anyone else of his class in my lifetime.

There was always a bit of needle in matches between Hampshire and Essex and, when Shane arrived as their
captain, he was certainly ready to hype things up. We turned up to play them at the Rose Bowl in one of his first games in charge. Whenever you play down there, you want to bat first because the pitch is going to get worse as the days go by. But this was a damp morning and I admit to a few doubts and thought about letting the bowlers have a go at them but then decided against it. As Shane and I went out to the wicket to toss up, I sensed he too was unsure and thought I might be able to work it to my advantage.

He’s a big poker fan so I wondered if he was testing me when he said, ‘Not the normal Rose Bowl wicket.’

‘Yeah, you’re right. You normally know what you’re going to do here but I have to admit I’m not so sure today. I think I’ve gone the other way looking at that.’

Now I was certain he was wavering and, to ram home my advantage, I squatted down and rubbed my hand over the grass on the wicket. ‘Bloody hell,’ I said. ‘That is wet.’

The coin went up and I lost the toss. ‘Your call, mate,’ I said. ‘I don’t think that’s a bad toss to lose.’

‘Yeah. You have a bat.’

If I’d been a better actor, I would have winced. As it was, it took an Oscar-worthy performance for me to suppress a huge grin. I suppose there was a possibility that we could have been knocked over for 80 but we saw off the early overs and were on the way to making 416, inflicting Hampshire’s heaviest defeat for 108 years.

By the time I went in to bat, Shane was not a happy man. He started to sledge me before I’d even reached the crease. ‘Here he is, Mr Essex. Strange how nobody likes him at the club. None of them want him there.’ He couldn’t possibly have been talking to Stuart Law, could he? He continued to have a go throughout my innings with some pretty personal
stuff. Even when I was at the non-striker’s end, he was rabbiting away and the umpire just stood there and said nothing. His team-mates took their lead from him, and they started to join in. I was determined not to react or to let it affect me, although I was boiling inside.

I almost snapped when someone, not Warne, made a filthy comment about my mother, but I wasn’t going to let them see they were getting to me. My jaw ached from clenching my teeth in concentration. I was just as angry at the umpires as I was at Shane and the Hampshire players – the pair of them were gutless and never said a word.

I was still at the wicket when play stopped for the day. I thought, Right, now it’s my turn. I asked my batting partner, Paul Grayson, to take my helmet and bat and went over to Warne and said, ‘Right, what’s your fucking problem?’

He looked startled and muttered, ‘Not here, mate. Not on the pitch.’ And he started to walk off.

I shouted after him, ‘Hey, where do you think you’re going? I’m talking to you. I want to know what your fucking problem is. You’ve been slaughtering me big time. If you’re such a big man, let’s have it out here, face to face.’

The other Hampshire players started to walk towards me. I yelled across, ‘You lot can fuck off. You’ve all been standing there while he’s been abusing me and done nothing. All you do is suck his cock. I’ll take you lot as well if you want.’

Warne had slunk off by now and, as I left the pitch, I got some stick from the Hampshire fans. I turned on one guy and said, ‘How would you like it if your mother was called a whore?’

The next morning, Shane and I were summoned to the umpires’ room and they said, ‘We have to do something about this.’

Shane looked innocent and said, ‘About what, mate? What’s the problem?’

‘It got too heated out there. We are going to have to put a report in. We don’t want to see any repetition.’

I said, ‘Hang on a minute. It’s not just me and Shane involved. He was giving me stick for ages and you two blokes did nothing about it. No wonder it got heated.’

I was obviously getting nowhere and decided to shut up and take whatever consequences arose. Shane stuck out his hand and said, ‘Let’s move on.’ I took his hand but he wasn’t looking me in the eye, so I hung on. Eventually, he looked up and gave me a nod, and we went out and finished off stuffing them in the match.

Somehow, a journalist heard or was told what I’d said to the fans and there was a headline in the
Daily Mail
: ‘Irani: Warne called my mum a whore’. Shane rang me and I said, ‘I know you didn’t say that. Don’t worry – I’ll put the record straight,’ which I did and I also put it in writing to him. He’s a hell of a competitor. On that occasion, I felt he’d gone much too far, maybe because he felt I conned him over the wicket. But, whatever his reason, it could have all been nipped in the bud by the umpires and need never have got as ugly as it did.

The next few years were among the most enjoyable of my career. With no bowling to do, I had more time to spend on my batting, while the energy and ambition of the young players around me gave me renewed enthusiasm for the game. It wasn’t always easy. We had to ask Paul Grayson, a good mate for many years, to take up a new, non-playing role and we let Darren Robinson go, to make room for the youngsters. But part of the job of a captain is to do what is best for the club in the long term, even when that is painful.

As well as Goughie and Andy Flower, we were boosted by
the arrival of Danish Kaneria, a fine leg-spin bowler who won us a lot of matches with really tight bowling in the middle of an innings. I’ve always said that a captain is only as good as his bowlers and, thanks to these guys, I was now a much better captain. In 2005, we won the Totesport National League one-day trophy, a competition described by Keith Fletcher as probably the hardest to win. We were unstoppable, losing only one match in 16 and clinching the title with three games to go. The following year, we retained it, although it was a much tighter margin.

I was starting to think about just how far this team could go. Essex hadn’t won a county championship since 1992 and I knew that would mean a lot to the members. But my knee was playing up again and I needed to go back to see Richard Steadman in Colorado. What he said changed my life.

V
ail, Colorado is stunning. A relatively recent town, it nestles high in the Rockies among huge mountains and ski slopes. It only has a population of around 5,000 people but each year around three-quarters of a million arrive to enjoy the spectacular scenery, the fresh air and the local sport. I was one of those limping before I got near the ski slopes!

I'd hoped Richard Steadman would be able to fix me up and send me back fighting fit to finish the 2007 season. I firmly believed I was captaining a side that could go places and I was in some of the best form of my life. I'd averaged in the high 50s for each of the three previous seasons and I'd already scored 465 runs in the first four county championship matches, including a career-best 218 against Glamorgan in front of the fans at Chelmsford. That was one of the most enjoyable knocks of my life – I went past my previous best 207 with an on drive for six off Alex Wharf, and Ryan ten Doeschate and I were only four short of a record sixth-wicket stand for Essex when he pulled a
long hop into the hands of Robert Croft in trying to reach his 150.

All through my career, I'd tried to play every ball as though it was my last, but somehow I never thought it would be. But I had aggravated my knee against Leicestershire and, when he examined it, Richard pulled no punches. ‘Ronnie,' he said, ‘it is time to stop. I could patch you up and you could play on perhaps another season, but then you would be facing a complete knee replacement in your forties and that is not to be recommended. You have the rest of your life to look forward to with your family. You are going to want to do things and go places with Simone and Maria but there's a danger that you won't be able to, certainly not pain-free. It's your decision, but I think you should stop.'

It took a while to sink in and when it did, I was gutted. However, when I cleared the emotion away, it was a
no-brainer
. If the best specialist in the world couldn't help me, then no one could. I'd always said that cricket was just the stepping stone to the rest of my life and now it was time to accept that the first stage was over. I'd had 19 years being paid to play the game I loved. I'd given it my all but, as much as I knew I would miss it, I had to let my head rule my heart.

I went back to Essex and asked for a meeting with the committee. Some of the people I admired most were in the room. It was particularly poignant that Graham Gooch and Graham Saville, who had played such a big part in my career, were there as I told my county the news. They had offered me a lucrative new two-year deal just before I went to Vail and a couple of old pros suggested I should sign it quickly but that didn't seem right. These people had always been straight with me. I'd never even had to negotiate a new contract: each new one they offered me was for at least the going rate, sometimes
more. My final deal had been for three years with an increase built in each year. There were times when I could have gone elsewhere and earned another ten or twenty grand, but that wouldn't have been sufficient compensation for leaving a club and fans that I enjoyed working for. I remember reading Roy Keane's book where he said he took a lower wage than other clubs were offering to join Manchester United because it felt right. That's how I felt about Essex.

I told the committee that Richard had told me I might be able to play on and they said they would back any decision I took. I found it hard to say the words, but finally I said, ‘You've always been fantastic to me. It wouldn't seem right spending half the time in the physio's room and taking 100 per cent of the money. I think my time is up.'

We made the announcement and a few nights later I said my farewell to the fans who meant so much to me, walking around the packed Chelmsford ground with Simone and Maria.

Any player will tell you that when you retire you quickly forget about the pain and the frustrations and just miss the day-to-day contact of the dressing room and the rush you get when the crowd reacts to what you do on the pitch. I've never taken drugs because my life has always supplied natural highs, but I imagine going cold turkey must be similar to the way I felt for some time after I quit playing. There was an enormous hole. There was too much time. There was no buzz.

I don't like using the word depression – it's bandied about too much by people who are just feeling low – but I think I came close to it in the weeks following my retirement. I can certainly understand why some ex-sports stars turn to drugs or booze. I was surrounded by memories of a career I'd relished, including trophies I'd picked up as a kid. I hired a
skip and shoved them all in it, and have to admit I smiled when someone rang me to say they'd bought one of my Under-12 football cups at a car-boot sale. At least my disappointment had given somebody some pleasure.

I needed to get on with the rest of my life and I certainly found plenty to occupy me when Nick Bones, who had built my house, invited me to join him at a property auction at Dunmow in Essex. We'd worked together on two or three developments and he said this one might be quite interesting. ‘There's a bit of land I like the look of but I think it might go for a lot more than I want to spend,' he said. ‘It's got a house on it already and planning permission for another. If you like, we can go halves on it.' Nick had set his limit at
£
300,000 and, as it didn't look as though that would be anywhere near enough, I didn't bother to tell Lorraine the details of where we were going and why.

It was a bleak November day with the rain almost horizontal on a cold wind. The auction house was half-empty and the auctioneer was struggling to get business going. When he reached the lot we were interested in, he tried to start it at
£
300,000 but didn't pick up a bid until he dropped down a hundred grand. He was working his socks off and gradually moved it up to
£
235,000 when I heard Nick call out, ‘Two hundred and forty!'

Oh shit, I thought, I've just spent a 120 grand. What am I going to tell Lorraine? Fortunately, another couple of bids came in and I sighed with relief.

‘Two hundred and sixty.' It was Nick again!

I waited for a counter-bid but after a brief pause I heard the auctioneer say, ‘I'm selling at 260. Are we all done? Going once, going twice… Are we all done at 260? Sold for
£
260,000!'

Nick punched the air. I stood there with a silly grin on my face, trying to frame the words that would tell Lorraine how clever I had been to spend
£
130,000 of our savings on a field in Dunmow. Surely I could convince her it was a good investment? I was less confident when, as I handed over a cheque for the deposit, a guy came up to us and said, ‘I own the land next to the piece you've just bought – how would you like to buy that?' Before I could say a word, Nick said, ‘Yes, please.' We were then offered the land on the other side with planning permission for a bungalow. By now, it felt as though I was dealing with Monopoly money. I just hoped the next card I picked up didn't say: ‘Go direct to jail. Do not pass Go and do not collect
£
200.'

If I have any good advice for men out there, it is choose a wife who is unflappable in a crisis and who says ‘Que sera sera' when faced with her husband stretching their bank balance to its limit. It's not that Lorraine is blindly willing to put up with anything I do, it's just that she believes there are a lot more important things in life than money, although, as this saga stretched its wayward course and we came close to losing our home, I must admit there were times she questioned my financial acumen. But, hey, I'd done such a good job with the dot.com investment of our mortgage money, I was sure I was on a roll!

I needed to raise more cash and it was suggested I took out a foreign currency loan against the value of my house. The theory is simple: you borrow money in a currency with low interest rates, and convert it to a currency with higher deposit rates. That would cover the interest payments and make me a handsome profit! For example, you borrow Swiss francs and switch to the pound. At the time of borrowing, Swiss francs were costing two per cent per annum and after
conversion were receiving interest at five per cent, a gain of three per cent. This works if the exchange rate between the two currencies remains stable or in your favour, as you need to buy Swiss francs to pay the interest payments. With the pound going great guns and a new job at talkSPORT, I was flying. Or I would have been if it hadn't been for a little local difficulty with an accountant which ended up costing me thousands of pounds.

Thankfully, I had a superb solicitor who I'd met through John Bird. It is fair to say that Michael Wright doesn't fit the usual image of a solicitor. He starts work at 2.30am because the phones won't be ringing, and he sits there with R&B blasting out with heavy bass as he solves his clients' problems. Several times I went round for a meeting at 5.30am before going on to play in a match. I trusted him completely and, even though it cost me money, he eventually freed me from the clutches of that London accountant.

I was still concerned about my situation with the foreign loans which were no longer looking such a good idea as the pound started to weaken. I couldn't sleep at night, worrying about what I should do. I just didn't know enough to sort it out myself. I phoned Alison Monk, who had tried to help me with earlier share problems, and said, ‘I need to talk to someone who is red hot.'

‘I've got just the man,' she said. ‘Richard Nixon.'

Even in the state I was in that made me laugh. But once again she turned out to be spot on. I met him in Barclays' magnificent offices in Canary Wharf and was immediately impressed by him. He was young and dynamic, a
no-bullshit
guy. Just like Hans Müller-Wohlfahrt, he handled the matters he was good at and passed me on to others to sort out areas he didn't specialise in. Between Richard,
David Pearce (a specialist in foreign currency deals) and Keith Carrington (who became my new bank manager), they got to grips with the whole of my financial situation. It wasn't great. David warned me that the way the market was going I was in danger of being
£
200,000 out on my loan and I had some hard decisions to make. I was summoned to a meeting in the West End and told to bring all my documents with me. I did more than that. I took along Linda Bennett (because by this time she was running my office and had all the figures at her fingertips), my new accountant Meher Tengra and Lorraine, because it was her future too.

We were introduced to Paul Shrimpton, a senior executive at Barclays, who appeared to be the person who would have the final say on whether or not the bank would back the scheme to get me out of the mire. He was very straightforward and spelled out all the options. He said that things had improved slightly – I was only down
£
80,000 now – but that the market was still volatile. I could leave the money where it was and hope it would continue to improve or I could switch to sterling and they would give me a loan to make up the difference. We looked at the figures and I realised that if we switched now I could still afford the payments, but if we left it and things got worse we might lose our home. It was time to take it on the chin. We switched back into sterling.

It was a chastened group that went over the road to a restaurant for coffee. There were a few tears, partly of relief but also at the realisation at how close we had come to possible ruin. Once again I had learned some valuable, if expensive lessons. Firstly, if a scheme seems too good to be true, it probably is. Secondly, the best advice might cost more
but if you pay peanuts you get monkeys. These people had sorted out my position and I was able to look to the future with some optimism.

It was good to shed all that anxiety over money. I needed to concentrate on my new radio career.