Though the series was won, though the third and final Test was petering out for a tame draw after tea on the last day, Lawrence had embarked upon his fateful run-up towards New Zealand captain Martin Crowe as though this one delivery would decide the destiny of the World Cup. Whether he had taken nine for 20 or none for 150, he always knew but one way to bowl. ``The run-up had a disconcerting chicane in it,'' remembers Simon Hughes, ``there was a lot of puffing and blowing, a grimace or two, a huge leap and some serious pace to follow.''
It was that ``huge leap'' which felled him; as Lawrence's left leg thumped into the turf like a pile-driver - taking the full force of three times his body weight (the equivalent of 54 stones plus) - his knee simply burst apart. ``Everyone heard the crack all round the ground,'' explained Crowe at the time. ``I have never seen anyone suffer pain like that.''
``Feb 10, 1992,'' says Lawrence with a wry smile. ``My fifth anniversary. Ironic that England are back in Wellington at this precise moment, isn't it?'' He has just returned from the dentist's chair where he endured the removal of an abscess, an operation he describes as ``a piece of cake'' in comparison to the pain he had to live through during the 35-minute ambulance ride to hospital.
``It was just as if someone had shot me in the knee. I can remember the pain - all too vividly - but there's no way I can describe it to you. The words don't exist, it's something you would have to feel and I wouldn't wish that on anyone. When they split open my trousers you could see the bone had severed in two. I consider myself quite a tough chap, and I hate showing pain. But I showed it that day, believe me.''
In that instant, Lawrence's life was forever changed. Hailed as the new demon bowler of English cricket since taking five for 102 - including the priceless wicket of Viv Richards - in the fifth Test against the West Indies at the Oval the previous summer, he was approaching the peak of his powers at the age of 28. ``I couldn't have been happier. I was recognised as England's strike bowler, I was enjoying a certain level of fame and my girlfriend at the time was expecting our son. Snap! Suddenly I'm lying on the ground, my knee's on fire and I'm wondering if I'll ever play cricket again.''
The surgeon who screwed the shattered joint together with a pin made all the right noises when Lawrence informed him he intended bowling for Gloucestershire again by August. ``He said all sorts of encouraging things, but you could tell he thought I was struggling.'' The doctor's private prognosis appeared fully vindicated when the kneecap snapped in half a second time during a work-out in the gym 18 months later, necessitating further surgery.
Even so, Lawrence refused to accept the apparent inevitability of retirement, joining Sydney league club Randwick where he took wickets in three successive games for the third XI before going ``walkabout'' in Australia to decide his future. ``I wanted to be alone, so I took the bus up to Darwin and spent a fortnight backpacking along the northern coast. I was sad - and very, very lonely - but I had to have time and space to think. Eventually, I phoned Randwick, then my parents, then Gloucester . . . I was finished.
``Was I bitter? No. The dream had always been to play for my country - once. Even if you only get to play once, no-one can ever take that away from you. I'd played seven times. Seven times more than most people. I like to think I could have gone on to more glory but unfortunately I was robbed at the post.
``Having said that, who knows? Maybe it's not over yet. On Feb 10, 1997, I'll be back in the nets - I won't be moping over the cricket reports from Wellington. I'm on my way back. I'll be fit for the start of the season on April 18 when I rejoin Gloucestershire and anything can happen. My body's had five years' rest, I'm fitter, I'm stronger, and I know in my heart this time that I can still do a good job.''
FOR although Lawrence derives immense satisfaction from his ownership of Boom, a sleek New York-style bar/restaurant in Bristol, cricket continues to wield an irresistible fascination. As the son of Jamaican immigrants (Joe and Hilda) he was the first bowler to bring a dash of Caribbean to the England pace attack `` . . . most guys would tell you I used to enjoy hitting people when I bowled'' - after rejecting a possible career as a heavyweight boxer.
``I took up cricket when I was 13. I was a boxing fanatic, unfortunately. I played cricket at school, tennis ball on the concrete yard, that sort of thing, but I spent most of my time in the ring. My father wanted us to become Muhammad Alis. My brother turned pro but I decided very quickly and very smartly that trying to deck them with a cricket ball was much more enjoyable than people trying to deck me with their fists.
``I remember going down to the Oval with my father to see the West Indies play when I was about 12 and seeing this guy walking towards me. I thought he was coming out to field by me but he turned around and ran in to bowl. It was Michael Holding and he was an unbelievable sight. He flowed, he made it look so easy, so effortless. I think he took eight wickets that day and I fell in love with cricket.''
The skills developed in the ring - using the threat of violence to intimidate an opponent - made him something of a sensation. ``That's the way I am. I was a hostile, aggressive bowler. Very rarely I would smile, I just got stuck in. I used to enjoy the battle between me and the batter. It's a team sport, but cricket is very much one-on-one. Anyone will tell you how I used to enjoy someone who would come in and try and take me on, your Ian Bothams, Graham Gooches, Robin Smiths. Your Chris Tavares, guys who would come in and not play a shot for two hours, didn't get me going. The contest between world-class batter and fast bowler is basically a question of who has got the more bottle to keep going. When you're getting smashed all over the ground you've got to keep coming and coming and coming. That's what I missed most and that's why I'm coming back.''
LAWRENCE'S untamed wildness brought him criticism from an early age. ``I joined Gloucester City when I was 13 and although the coach Brian Worrall had faith in me, a lot of people thought I was just another tearaway black kid without the dedication or ambition to make it to the top. Was I a tearaway? No doubt about it, I was a tearaway until I was about 17 or 18.
``I was living in the St Paul's area of Bristol which was full of illegal drinking clubs and that kind of thing.'' On the second occasion Gloucestershire were required to bail him out of a police cell, the county issued him an ultimatum; cricket or carousing.
``For 99 per cent, it's a tough old world. I was lucky. I had cricket. The second time I got in trouble with the police was the turning point. I looked around St Paul's - and remember this was just after the riots in '81 - and realised I'd be a fool to throw it all away. I could become just another teenager with a dream. And that's all it would have been for the rest of my life - a dream. But I said no, I'm not satisfied with a dream. Make it a reality.''
The reality was a highly successful county and international career until the day the pain came. So why start all over at the age of 33, why risk further injury when you have a thriving business and the company of a boisterous five-year-old son (the wondrously-named Buster)? ``Because I still have my dreams. My wildest ambition? To play in the fifth Test at the Oval and take the wicket which wins the Ashes. Nothing's impossible if you be- lieve in it enough.
``I'll never be pain-free, but I'm very, very confident. The last time I came back I didn't really feel it in my heart. At the moment it's a dream but as I said earlier, you've got to get out there and do it or it stays a dream. And if my knee goes again?
``It's not the end of the world. I'll still have played for England, I'll still have my bar and I'll still have a boy called Buster. If I don't play cricket again it ain't going to be the end of the world.
``When you discover you've got cancer or your kid's got leukaemia, that's when life gets serious.''