Last in the Tin Bath

by David Lloyd

  For a while, I worked for Croft Roplasto, a Preston-based double glazing company with an outlet in Moss Side. This was rather ironic, I felt, as rumour had it there were few windows intact in Moss Side, certainly not with glass in them anyway, and I cannot recall seeing any evidence to the contrary. This, like another job I later undertook with the Wilson’s Brewery in Newton Heath, was effectively one of selling, and it was clear to me from the start that I was never a salesman. That came to its end when the workforce called their bosses’ bluff one time too many with strike action and the place shut down.

  For me, it was a bit of a relief because the job I was engaged for involved going around the pubs and clubs persuading them to take Wilson’s and Webster’s drinks. They were trying to use my sporting background as an attraction for new customers. But ‘Hello, I’m David Lloyd, of Lancashire and England’ didn’t always work, and as well as feeling an embarrassment at trying to sell myself in this way, I also lacked the capacity to cope with the social demands.

  At every stop-off you would be offered a drink – that went with the territory and because there were no real drink-drive laws at the time, I could see this becoming a problem. Being offered drinks by establishments non-stop all day from 11 o’clock in the morning struck a fear into me that I could become an alcoholic if not careful.

  This was a really hairy time for me because, after two decades at Old Trafford, I had left cricket, or full-time cricket at least, and yet I kept finding myself returning at the slightest opportunity. If I had an hour spare and I was close enough, I would just bob in and think nothing of sticking my head into the dressing room or sitting suited and booted on its balcony. As soon as you have retired, there is a harsh lesson in store: you no longer have a right to be there. Once you’ve left, you’ve left, simple as that, and it’s no longer your domain. Once yours, it now belongs to others.

  No one ever said anything on these drop-ins because they didn’t have to, looks were sufficient to confirm it. When an ex-player pops in, it triggers a silence that speaks for itself. You are left under no illusions that you have outstayed your welcome and need to back off. That’s not necessarily easy to take, and I was neither the first nor last to find it difficult. But I can totally understand why so many ex-players have a hard time adapting once their playing careers are over. Being part of a team environment offers a great lifestyle – all your mates, all the scrapes, the laughs, the despair you have been through together. For a while you’ve shared everything, then suddenly you’re out on your own in the outside world, and it can contain some grim reality.

  There are no guarantees of anything, and there are dozens of cases of ex-cricketers who have been unable to cope once it’s all over. Thankfully, the Professional Cricketers’ Association, an organisation of which I am president, are well on top of this these days and anyone who does fall into difficulties, or gets themselves into trouble, tends to be helped out a bit. Supporting your old pals is always a start, and the mainstay of our 1970s team get together now and again for a well-received catch up.

  My refuge came in speaking at those dinners, which offered pretty lucrative rates of pay, and continuing to play cricket at weekends for Accrington. Going back to my roots proved a real saviour. I threw everything into my return to Thorneyholme Road, helping to spruce up the clubhouse and raise money to improve other facilities. Some people walk away from the first-class game and never pick a bat up again, but I knew I wanted to play league cricket. Being back as a player at Accrington for six years – initially as the club’s professional, combining it with Minor Counties duty for Cumberland – just felt right. By that stage in life, my eldest lad Graham was coming through the club’s junior ranks, so it was nice that I could be up there with him.

  When you leave a dressing room for the final time, no one is showing you to your office, helping you into your chair at your new desk and asking you if you would like your morning cup of tea. I simply found another one and became pretty hands on in drumming up interest around the town.

  There were other links developed with cricket at this time. For one, I got myself onto the reserve list for umpiring. That meant I was effectively on trial for a while in a bid for a second career. I was learning the trade as I went along, and over the years when I officiated, three of which were on the full list, I thoroughly enjoyed it. I might not have known it from the start, but the reconnection with Accrington and keeping my hand in with umpiring in the first-class arena was leading me towards a stint in coaching.

  My interest in sports shops, stoked by working odd days in Bob Cooke’s Manchester store over the years, meant I put my name to one of my own in Accrington. David Lloyd Sports became a rival to the other sports shop in the town, Gibson’s, where Mum and Dad took me for my first bat a quarter of a century earlier, and Mr Gibson was pretty peeved about that. The big seller in our shop was darts and all its accessories. We were innovative because we had a dartboard up in the shop and encouraged blokes from the Working Men’s Club to pop in for a game. We would sell dye tungstens in all different weights, with a variety of flights – unicorns, rainbows, skull and crossbones, the lot.

  Immersing myself in Accrington life once more, as I had done as a boy, suited me just fine. I was never any good at courting. In fact, I’ve only ever had four girlfriends – which is unusual, I suppose, given my incredible charm. I can name each one of them: Eileen Stanton, Christine Marshall, then my first wife Susan Wallwork were all from the Methodist Church. Then, there is Diana, my second wife, the only out-of-towner of the quartet.

  Typically, I always wanted to get back to Accrington. All four of my children were born there and only through marriage to Diana in 1999 has the connection with Accrington dissipated, as time has been shared between Cheadle Hulme, Cheshire and Coxwold, North Yorkshire. Even then, because all my immediate family remain in Accrington, it means I make regular trips there when I’m not overseas.

  It’s a bit like the majority of town centres these days in that it’s run down and could do with some reviving. But just move slightly away from Accrington town centre and there are some absolutely beautiful places. The scenery and architecture are simply stunning.

  Accrington always used to be a pretty tight-knit community and the cricket club reflected that. You have to remember that as well as me, the town produced Bob Ratcliffe and Graeme Fowler. There were lots of other cricketers from our small enclave of Lancashire who made it into the Old Trafford dressing room. Bernard Reidy was from Enfield, Jack Simmons came from Great Harwood and then there was Russ Cuddihy, who is still involved in coaching around the area, and Alan Worsick, a truly fantastic player who broke records at both Rawtenstall and Accrington. Eddie Robinson, a top-quality spinner, was one of the best cricketers I played with at any standard and never got further than the Lancashire League.

  When I returned in the 1980s, there were some great characters to catch up with, and some naturally talked a better game than they played. Take the semi-final of the Worsley Cup in 1989 when we were drawn away at Todmorden, whose overseas professional at the time was the Sri Lankan all-rounder Ravi Ratnayeke, a handy cricketer but hardly one to put the wind up us. So we remained unperturbed about facing him at Centre Vale.

  However, Ratnayeke was absent when we turned up and the sight of a beanpole West Indian strolling across the ground caused a stir. It turned out to be none other than Ian Bishop, world cricket’s new fast-bowling sensation who had made his Test debut within the previous twelve months. With Ratnayeke injured, Todmorden had hired Bishop from Derbyshire for the day – a very handy piece of transfer business indeed.

  Our opening pair of Nick Marsh and Andrew Barker, elder brother of Warwickshire’s left-arm swing bowler Keith Barker, resisted manfully to keep Bishop at bay during his new-ball spell. Todmorden did not separate them until we had 63 on the board, in fact, and that put our wicketkeeper Billy Rawstron on the verge of going in. Now Billy had been confident enough to declare in the privacy of our own dressing room that, in h
is estimable opinion, this new pace sensation was not as quick as others were making out. He even shunned the idea of wearing a helmet despite others, including myself, trying to persuade him otherwise. Furthermore, if Bishop bounced him he would, he confirmed, be taking on the hook shot.

  Of course, this was just asking for trouble and at 71 for two, Billy’s predictions were about to be put to the test. Bishop hurtled down said bouncer and it struck Billy flush in the mouth, causing the batsman to career into his stumps as a result. Not that Billy was backing down after being brought round with a whiff of some smelling salts.

  ‘I can’t be out like that,’ he declared. ‘I’d completed my shot.’

  ‘Billy, you hadn’t even started it. Now let’s go and see a man about some teeth,’ I told him, as he was escorted from the field.

  But he was nothing if not brave, Billy, and despite his predicament he refused treatment until he had completed his duties with the gloves and we had secured our place in the final via a 51-run win.

  Another team-mate of that era was a lad called Neil Jones, who would chance his arm on any number of schemes to make a bob or two. One of them was with a company called Racal, one of the first suppliers of mobile phones. Remember the ones that looked like bricks but were twice as heavy? He was often late for games but would usually turn up with great levels of enthusiasm if he had shifted a phone that week. His deal with Racal meant he received something like 10p in commission every time a phone call was made on one of these devices, and in no time he and his brother Howard were raking it in. He ended up living in Darling Harbour, Sydney, with Nicole Kidman as a neighbour. Then there was Ian Birtwistle, who took nearly 1,000 Lancashire League wickets with his gentle swingers, a tally that belied his frailty – there was so little of him he wore supports on his wrists to help him lift up his bat.

  Characters like Billy, Jonesy and Birty have contributed to a compulsion to help the cricket club whenever I’ve been able to, by any means viable. So, at the age of sixty-one, following an extraordinary general meeting that was called to stop it going down the gurgler, I was persuaded to come back for a third playing stint with the club as part of a drive to keep it alive and garner other interest.

  There was no money to work with and it required several of us to put a financial stake forward to ensure that this cricketing nursery that has been home to dozens of Test cricketers over the generations – think Hedley Verity, Bobby Simpson, Wes Hall and Shane Warne for the depth of history – continued to offer the opportunity to follow in their footsteps.

  It was the intervention of Mr X – as he wished to be called at the time – with a five-figure donation that actually secured the club’s future in the short term. Peter Barratt, our late chairman, informed the rest of the crisis group of this sum being pledged and asked that I go down to the clubhouse as this mysterious figure wished to meet me.

  The chap in question turned out to be Ilyas Khan, a local man who made his fortune as a London financier. I didn’t know him from Adam, or so I thought. However, his willingness to help his hometown club dated back to the 1980s when I had devoted my own energies to its cause through its youth players. During that period, as I was putting my coaching skills to the test, I ran nets down at the local sports centre for budding cricketers. It cost £1 for any child who wanted to be involved, and regularly this little lad turned up and stood watching at the door. He never had his quid on him but I always shoved him in for a bat and a bowl. Now this little kid was sat opposite me all these years later, paying us back in spades.

  We discussed what we could do to attract more publicity and, with Graham still playing, it resolved my determination to accept the challenge thrown down to me. I got fit and declared myself available for selection. Dave Ormerod, the captain, gave me what amounted to a couple of trials, and after the green light at my second net I was selected for a comeback match against Haslingden, the team that pipped us to the Lancashire League title in 1989, my previous season with the club.

  It was a fairly dramatic entrance as I walked in with my lad Graham at the non-striker’s end and Steve ‘Dasher’ Dearden, at the end of his mark, on a hat-trick. A salvo of abuse from short leg greeted my arrival: ‘He was no f***ing good twenty-five years ago, he will be no f***ing good now.’

  ‘Well, you obviously know who I am. I’m afraid I have no idea who you are,’ was my retort.

  I was incredibly nervous, boxed clever by taking guard outside the crease and got right forward, negating the chance of being lbw. That first ball crashed into my pads – outside the line thankfully – and there was a good half hour of the Lloyds at the crease. Getting out caught at deep square leg provided great amusement for Graham.

  ‘After all those years you told me never to sweep,’ he chuckled, shaking his head.

  We lost that game by a dozen runs but had the last laugh the following season when on 13 September, its final Saturday, we stole the title from them. Cruising out in front for 95 per cent of the 2009 campaign, Haslingden fell apart on the home straight and it meant we had a chance to finish top if we beat Lowerhouse away. I know now how tail-enders feel, waiting for the moment to be the hero.

  I was itching to have a bat as we set off in pursuit of a 174-run target and pleaded with ‘Dibber’ Ormerod to get me in with every falling wicket. At No. 9 I felt too low, but after we lost momentum in mid-innings, got my chance with nine required. It was getting tense and at the other end was Paul Carroll, who had been swinging like a sixties suburban key party for the past couple of years. Nerves were eased when he nailed one into the car park, causing me to consider giving him a mid-pitch glove punch. A momentary lapse of concentration, I can assure you, and I refocused my energies into chopping one away for four. To hit the winning runs was dead special. I had served my purpose of getting Accrington Cricket Club back up and running, and the final stroke in the fiftieth season after my debut had sealed the title.

  Half a dozen years later, thanks to Ilyas and a small band of other committed souls, the club has much better practice facilities. His money stabilised us for a while but more was required, and so we successfully applied for a grant from Chance to Shine. I made up the rest. People will ask why I did this, and there are certainly lots of other things in life I would like to spend my money on, but I felt an obligation to help out. This was the club that started me off, and for that I owe them a great deal.

  Like other northern clubs, we took out a brewery loan twenty-odd years ago, and allowing the interest to build has hit us hard. Our arrears now total around £80,000 and need paying off. What we have tried to do is get people to loan the club £1,000 each, but getting that kind of financial commitment has been very difficult.

  I feel the same obligation to Accrington Stanley and go up weekly if I can. Whenever you stroll into the offices at the Crown Ground, there are always three or four people working their nuts off, putting their heart and soul into their jobs, and yet the club, like its cricket equivalent, is still in dire straits. I proposed a similar thing for Accrington Stanley during the 2014-15 season when for the umpteenth time its very existence was seriously jeopardised. Surely, I thought, there were 250 people worldwide who would donate a grand to have their name on a Wall of Honour outside the ground? Unfortunately, I have to report that on the evidence of the initial uptake, there are not.

  For all the enjoyment they give me, I have to try to make others feel the same way. When Ilyas Khan footed a £308,000 unpaid tax bill to keep the club afloat, I became more involved with promoting its cause, mainly by supporting Peter Marsden, the new chairman, as a non-executive director. From my perspective, all I’m doing is publicising the club on social media at every opportunity. I see myself as a bit of an ambassador: a relatively easy job for me because I’m a supporter, a spectator with passion, and it’s a real thrill to watch them play.

  On Twitter, I keep the name of Stanley to the fore by tweeting about them around every match. One of the disappointments that we cannot seem to overcome is that when
we were in the Conference we were getting crowds of 3,000 and yet within ten years, having got to our promised land of the Football League, we are down to 1,200 or so. We have no idea what’s gone wrong, but obviously we need better facilities to go with our fantastic playing surface, the pride and joy of a local hero made good. Martyn ‘Buzzer’ Cook, the groundsman, is a recovering alcoholic who was brave enough to speak up about his problem and given the job to help him rehabilitate. It’s great to see a local man like him thriving in his job, and the grass is definitely greener now for everyone.

  John Coleman, the manager, and his assistants Jimmy Bell and Mick Newell, a Premier League winner with Blackburn no less, are three more of the good guys. Others work at the club without pay. Some of my frustration is for them. I just cannot understand why the people of Accrington have not shared our pride in having one of the ninety-two Football League clubs. If you see the lads who stand behind the goals, the Stanley Ultras, they are banging drums and singing their hearts out. I just wish we could bottle that passion and soak the rest of the town. There is a supporters’ club of 180 people trying to raise £25,000 to better the facilities for the players. At the moment they change in portakabins – something that didn’t go down well when future England manager Roy Hodgson visited with Fulham in the FA Cup in January 2010. His Premier League prima donnas changed in the team hotel before arrival, claiming there wasn’t enough space to do so in our dressing rooms.

  In order to keep functioning we need people through the turnstiles, and the reality is that means double our crowd as 2,000 is our break-even figure. We have almost been robbing Peter to pay Paul for a decade. We are the smallest club in the top four divisions and that leaves us vulnerable. The battle is to remain in that fourth tier, although my ambitious nature means I would like to see us push for League One.