It just doesn’t get any better than to have one of the greatest players, top leaders and an outstanding man say things like that about you.
It had been a fabulous career – I’d scored lots of runs, taken my share of wickets, picked up trophies, set a record for my country, made some lasting friends, had some great laughs and travelled the world. But I have to say that the greatest single moment was feeling the love from the fans at Chelmsford that night as I walked round the ground with my two ‘Essex girls’.
As I completed my lap of honour, I saw a familiar face in the crowd. ‘Kush’ Dave and his son had been among the first supporters to get behind me. It was he who had started my special song. I went over to him, gave him my last Essex shirt and said, ‘Thanks, pal. It’s been a ball.’
It only took a couple of days for the harsh reality to become all too clear: I was 36 years old and out of work. At an age when most men are settled into a career and in many cases looking to move into a senior position, I was starting afresh, as though I’d just left school. When I looked at my CV, it was obvious that, as impressive as it might be to wield a lump of willow effectively from the age of six, or make a small, hard ball swing out or in at will, neither talent was much use for anything other than being a professional cricketer. There was an additional snag – in honing those skills, I had somewhat neglected my formal education. There was no degree to impress a would-be employer, indeed not so much as an A level.
I had some ideas I wanted to pursue. I already had my own insole company with partners in Germany and the USA and I had high hopes for that. But it was very much at the development stage and was costing me money rather than bringing it in. I needed something that would make the most of my other talents and, when I analysed what those were, it came down to a willingness to work hard, boundless enthusiasm, a sense of humour and an ability to talk – some would say an inability to shut up.
Thanks to my natural gift of the gab, I was already commanding quite good money on the after-dinner-speaking circuit, and I would now have time to do more of that. And as Essex captain, I’d done a fair amount of broadcasting, which came quite easily to me, so at the back of my mind I thought I could probably follow some of my fellow ex-professionals into the media.
I’d been standing on my hind legs and speaking for about as long as I could remember. In my early days as a teenager at Lancashire, I would be asked to go along to a local cricket club or school and present prizes, sometimes to kids not much younger than I was. And usually someone would ask, ‘Would you mind saying a few words?’ I did mind, a lot. It was embarrassing. I’d mutter something about congratulations on last season and good luck for next season then try to get off as quickly as possible. I could chat forever in the dressing room, much to the annoyance of some of my senior colleagues who felt I should remember my place and shut up, but this was different. This was performing solo and I only felt comfortable doing that out in the middle of a cricket pitch. I felt like a plonker every time I had to speak and was tempted to turn down these invitations but then I remembered how good I’d felt when England footballer Francis Lee came to my cricket club at Heaton, and the excitement around the place when Olympic sprinter Allan Wells visited our school and showed us his gold medal. I reasoned that, if these people could put themselves out for a nobody from Bolton like me, the least I could do was to get over my nervousness and talk to a few kids from time to time.
Over the years, it became second nature to speak in front of people for a couple of minutes, but that was a lot different from my first proper ‘gig’ as an after-dinner speaker. By the time Woodford Wells Cricket Club invited me to speak at their presentation night, I was an England player and beginning to be a favourite among the Essex supporters.
‘Just come along and hand out the prizes and maybe talk for about 20 minutes,’ the secretary suggested, smiling encouragingly.
I didn’t like to tell him I’d never done anything like that before. I swallowed hard, agreed and then thought, What the hell do I talk about?
The shadow of that speech hung over me for several days. To say I was panicking would be an exaggeration, but not much of one. I started to scribble down all the questions fans usually asked me. Who’s the fastest bowler you’ve batted against? What’s it like facing a bouncer that flies at your head? Who was your favourite player when you were growing up? Who was the better captain – Mike Atherton or Graham Gooch? Who is the funniest guy in the Essex dressing room? What does it feel like to drop a catch? I reckoned, if I strung the answers to those into a series of stories, I would probably be OK, although I wasn’t sure if cricket was going to be high on the agenda when my formal invitation arrived and I saw that the other speaker was a guy called Sid Dennis, a scrap-metal merchant from Skegness. Wonder why they want to hear about the scrap-metal business? I thought.
As it happened, I turned up at the venue at the same time as Sid and the fact that he was driving an E-class Mercedes suggested there must be plenty of money in being a ‘metal-materials recycler’, as he described his job on the card he handed me. Sid looked like a dodgy nightclub bouncer. He weighed 20-odd stones, his head was as smooth as a polished egg, and, if owners grow to resemble their dogs, Sid definitely had a bulldog or two back in Skegness.
I sat next to him on the top table, looking out at a sea of around 300 faces. I was shitting myself. My nerves weren’t improved when one of the club members came up to ask for an autograph and said, ‘I’m really looking forward to your speech.’ Suddenly I realised that I was the entertainment and these people’s enjoyment of the evening was at least in part down to me. I confessed to Sid that I was an after-dinner virgin and feeling as nervous as hell.
He smiled reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry, lad, you’re not dead yet. You’ll be reet here. Every speaker is only as good as the crowd and this lot are OK. Just remember, they want to know what it’s like to be a professional cricketer. They would love to be able to do what you do, to meet the people you meet, and to be in that dressing room, padded up and waiting to go out to bat in front of thousands of people. Talk about what you know and they’ll love it.’
Just before I stood up, Sid slipped me a piece of paper and said, ‘Kick off with that.’
I read what he’d written, memorised it and got to my feet, gripping my notes firmly and hoping people couldn’t see how much they were shaking. ‘Good evening,’ I said, my mouth as dry as an Indian wicket. ‘For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Ronnie Irani and I play cricket for Essex. I should tell you that I wasn’t born in Essex but, one thing’s for sure, I could fucking die here tonight.’
The audience roared with laughter. The ice was broken and I started to feel a bit better. Thanks, Sid.
I went through my stories and the audience seemed to be interested and even laughed in the right places. By the time I reached my final story, I was enjoying myself.
I said, ‘You are probably wondering what it’s like in the dressing room before a big match. It varies a lot according to the captain. Graham Gooch is quietly encouraging, while others try to gee you up with a rousing speech, like Mike Atherton before the Test at Edgbaston. Ath was obviously feeling Churchillian. He stood before us and proclaimed, “What we have to ask ourselves is, are we men or are we boys? We are about to represent our country so it’s time to decide if we are men or boys. The fans expect us to deliver a victory. Are we men or are we boys? Millions will be watching us around the world on TV. Are we men or are we boys?” At that moment the umpire knocked on the door and Mike yelled, “Come on, let’s go, boys!”’
When I thought back, I wasn’t sure it was Mike Atherton who’d said it – his final gee-up was usually: ‘Let’s fucking get out there’ – but it was a good story and the audience laughed loudly then applauded as I sat down. One or two even stood up and clapped.
Sid