‘Because they are still quality at a slightly knock-down price and you can sell them as M&S collies.’
I still didn’t get it but put in a bid anyway.
Fil could be a hard bastard if he thought I’d got it wrong. There were several bitterly cold mornings, well before dawn, when I would get a bollocking because I’d bought the wrong gear, maybe the 10p lemons when I should have bought those at 3p. It wasn’t easy to take because I was usually dog tired but I knew he was only doing it for my own good, so I bit my tongue.
It was on one of those early-morning sessions at the market that I spotted the former Lancashire captain Jack Bond driving a wagon for Liptrots, a well-known local firm. I’d grown up hearing stories about Jack. He was a Lancashire legend – he’d taken an under-performing team and won the one-day Sunday League two years on the trot and followed that with three successive Gillette Cup final victories at Lord’s. I’d also come across him as an umpire and knew him to be a lovely bloke and a fair umpire. I was taken aback that someone as well known and successful as Jack Bond could be driving a wagon for a living at an unearthly hour of the morning. It gave me a new outlook on fame.
At the start of my second season with Lancashire, I returned to Heaton as their pro and I also had a season among the Yorkies with Skelmanthorpe in the Huddersfield League. My life was manic – I’d play all week with Lancashire then Saturday and Sunday with the club sides, who expected me to bowl my full 25 overs and open the batting. Fortunately, I was as strong as an ox but there is no doubt it took a toll on my body and was probably the starting point for some of the injuries I suffered later on. I was already walking with a limp but I disguised it because I didn’t want to stop: playing cricket seven days a week was my idea of paradise and everything seemed to be going my way.
At the end of my first season at Lancashire, I was selected to tour Australia with the England Under-19 side. I was one of the youngest in the squad and only played a couple of one-day games but it introduced me to the management of Graham Saville and was the start of a relationship that was to prove pivotal in my career. The following summer I was selected for the U19s again, to play against Pakistan at the Oval, and was due to travel on the tour to New Zealand that autumn but had to withdraw because of a knee injury which required an operation, the first of many during my career.
I’d also made my Lancashire first-team debut against the Zimbabwe touring side and was about to taste my first major international success.
Not many batsmen boast about getting out but I was once run out by Vivian Richards – not yet knighted but already a god. It was my competitive one-day debut in Lancashire’s first team and a match I will never forget.
I’d been given the nod to play against Glamorgan and got to Old Trafford very early to warm up well. As I was walking back to the pavilion, I saw the man I’d grown up worshipping standing near the entrance. Isaac Vivian Alexander Richards was in his early forties, past his prime but still a legend and I was going to play against him. I walked towards the dressing room, head down, too in awe to say a word. As I passed him, I heard that deep Caribbean voice so familiar from countless TV interviews.
‘Ronnie Irani.’
I was shocked he knew my name. I turned back and muttered, ‘Mr Richards.’
He laughed. ‘Just call me Viv.’
‘Err, right, Viv, sir.’ I don’t think I’d ever been so nervous.
‘You’re making your debut today?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, good luck and good luck for the rest of your career.’
Viv Richards, one of the greatest men ever to grace the game of cricket, had taken the time not just to notice me but to wish me well. That was fucking massive. I bounced up the steps to the dressing room and vowed there and then that, if I ever got to be a tenth of the player he was, I would seek out kids making their way in the game and give them a bit of a gee-up.
Once we crossed the boundary rope, his attitude was less benevolent. It was my own fault. For some insane reason, I decided I would take a quick single to one of the finest-ever fielders. The odds were in my favour – he wasn’t young any more and the ball took a nasty bobble just before it reached him – but he still managed to swoop and throw in one graceful movement and I heard the clatter of the stumps with the safety of the crease still yards away. As I trudged off I cursed myself: ‘What on earth were you thinking of? You’ve watched him all your life. You’ve learned from him. You know how he fields. You’re a tosser.’
While I was totally in awe of the man, I was also fighting for my career, so, when it came time to bowl against him, I backed myself and took him on. I sent down one particularly good ball and he tried to knock it out of the ground. It was the last ball of the over and I walked towards him and said, ‘What are you doing have a whoosh at that? You should respect me when I bowl a good ball at you.’ I turned on my heel and started back towards the umpire to collect my sweater, already regretting what I’d said.
I heard that voice again: ‘Young man.’
I ignored him. The umpire handed me my sweater and said, ‘He’ll kill you next over.’
‘Young man. Young man.’ The voice was a bit more insistent and a bit closer.
I decided to pretend I’d not heard him and walked away towards the boundary.
‘YOUNG MAN!’
No pretending I hadn’t heard that. I’ll have to face him and take my bollocking, I thought, cursing myself for being an idiot. I turned. The great Viv Richards had followed me beyond the umpire at the bowler’s end and was still coming.
‘Yes, Viv. What is it?’
‘Young man, you will go far in the game.’ And with that he turned and went back to his crease.
He blocked every ball of my next over for a maiden and at the end of it said, ‘Well bowled.’
The crowd could sense something was going on and applauded. I think they loved the fact that I was willing to take him on. My team-mates weren’t so enthusiastic. Some of them had already made it clear they thought I was too full of myself and would do better to keep my mouth buttoned. They thought a rookie should show more deference and when we got back in the dressing room a few started taking the piss, accusing me of being a big-time charlie, chirping Viv Richards. Dexter Fitton, my pal from the second team, congratulated me and John Stanworth, the second-team player-coach, said, ‘Ignore that lot. That was good out there.’
But I was still feeling low and reluctantly put on my blazer and tie and made my way to the small committee room where players from both sides have a drink after the game.
As I opened the door, it was just my luck that the person standing next to the bar was Viv Richards. I froze for a moment. What do I do now? I couldn’t turn round and go back, and I couldn’t pretend I didn’t drink.
He spotted me and said, ‘What do you want to drink, Ronnie? Have a rum and coke.’ He ordered the drink and added, ‘Well done out there today. You taking me on – that’s what you’ve got to do every day. When you are out there, you have to fight for everything. Don’t give an inch.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’ve