CRICKET’S GREAT SHOWMAN
Exclusive extracts from his brilliant new book
THERE have always been two people jostling for control of my life, two totally opposite characters. The first one is super-confident, bulletproof, a showman and an extrovert. He tries to make people laugh, messes about, gets into trouble, shrugs it off.
The other character is withdrawn and reflective. He is certainly more complex and uncertain, often unsure why he puts himself into such weird and demanding situations. Trouble is: they’re both me. There’s ‘ Fred’, the man who everyone knows, or at least they think they know. Fred is the allrounder who charged i n and whacked a few sixes. It is Fred who fell off a pedalo after a night out in the Caribbean and got banned from the England team. Fred who always found it hard to say no — to a new challenge, to another drink, to pushing the limits.
Then there is Andrew. The kid who never quite fitted in, who has always been on the outside of groups, wondering what people think of him. Andrew, who is an introvert who dislikes competitiveness — especially his own. He hates hearing anyone tell him he’s great at anything. He just wishes no one was looking at him.
Perhaps it comes from my young life that was a bit like Billy Elliot’s — only I didn’t dance, I played cricket. I never really felt I belonged, there was always a sense of apartness. At school I was the cricketer. Then, as I played in senior teams, I was the only child in the room. I was always unsure what people thought of me, what people would say about me when I wasn’t around. That bothered me for a long time. Some people would find that all pretty boring. Fred certainly would!
For a while, Fred really took over. But it got tiring — the pretence, the hard-man act, the whole extrovert persona. I guess the mask became the man. It was exhausting being that person.
It’s also true that though Fred got me into a lot of trouble, he also got me where I am today. Looking back, subconsciously, I must have engineered some of the crises, like I wanted to find the very bottom of the scale. Like I wanted to walk along the edge.
I know I’ve always pushed my luck. But there is a strange kind of logic to the chances I’ve taken. I’ve always enjoyed the rebuilding phase, working my way back from being as low as I could sink. I’ve thrived on people writing me off. Because if you write me off, I’ll shut you up.
As a cricketer, I played on bravado and character. My personality was bound up with how I played the game. When I bowled I tried to play on my size a bit and on the fact that I apparently never got tired, even though I usually was. Even when I batted, taking on the hook shot when there were two men back for the hook — yes, that was all bravado, too. I wanted to project this carefree persona, to give the impression that I didn’t care. All very Fred.
The reality was different. I was a secret trainer. Until my knees went, I used to do hill running up in Bolton, totally away from the team environment. But I never told anybody. I guess I was the opposite of a teacher’s pet. I wanted everyone to think I was more of a maverick than I actually was.
I was bluffing myself as well as other people. It was all part of moving from one personality to the other. I’d have my breakfast in the team hotel with my wife and family. Then I’d kiss my daughter Holly goodbye, walk out of the hotel and start being Fred.
It was tiring and it took its toll. But there may have been some method to the madness. And I won’t lie: I had a lot of fun.
Like the open-top bus ride after the Ashes win in 2005. I was struggling. I do have flashbacks. We got on the bus and they gave us champagne and it was like, ‘Why are you giving us champagne? We’ve had enough.’ And then where’s the best place to send a bunch of drunken blokes? To a garden party at 10 Downing Street, of course.
ASa kid I liked Through the Keyhole, so here was a great chance to have a nose around. I found my way to the Cabinet Room. I thought I knew which seat the Prime Minister sits in, so I took that one, then I put my feet on the table. I had a bottle of beer in my hand and I started hosting my own meeting. I was the only man in the room, but I began talking to the Home Secretary and the Chancellor.
Then a security guard abruptly called the meeting to a close by kicking me out and marching me back to join the rest of the group.
It wasn’t all fun. I struggled to maintain a steady weight throughout my early career. Aged 20, I was living on my own in Manchester and I had the pizza man on speed dial. On the field I was getting loads of abuse from the crowd about being fat. Then I’d go into the supermarket thinking everyone was watching me.
I had all the usual excuses, of course. Big-boned? Think about it. Have you ever seen a fat skeleton?
My methods for losing weight were as dangerous as carrying it. I made myself sick. If I ate something that I thought I shouldn’t have, I would make myself throw up. Then it began creeping in more and more. Only much later did I tell my wife, Rachael, and just the act of telling someone made it so much better.
I was like a kid in a candy store. Couldn’t resist the goodies. I’d celebrate anything. And I’d celebrate it with anyone. I look back at myself then and think, ‘What a ****.’ But at the time, I was having the time of my life, a fat lad having a laugh.