Test of Will Read online

  Some blokes boast they have the prettiest girlfriend or the fastest car, but after all these years I reckon I had claims on owning the best chunk of lumber in the NSW Far West. After I joined the Rugby Union XI to get a better go at bowling, the captain gave me the chance to bat higher up in the order and I was pleased to discover that when I connected with the ball, the bat lived up to the manufacturer’s promise of sending the ball long and far—and I loved both the feeling and sound of the ball hitting the meat of the blade and soaring towards the boundary. I scored quite a few 50s and 60s that season and the first scoring shot was often a six straight down the ground. The reality is, there was never any science to my batting, it was simply a matter of winding up and waiting for the ball to bounce on the synthetic pitch and getting lucky when I connected with the ball on the rise, because I whacked the bejeezus out of it.

  GOING THE BLUFF

  When I joined the Sutherland Cricket Club in the Sydney grade competition, I had this crazy thought that I could perhaps start afresh as a batsman if I could convince the officials there that I was a dab hand with the willow. Now that I think about it that was a gutsy (maybe silly) call, because two of the officials I was trying to sell myself to as a ‘gun’ were the former opener John Dyson and wicketkeeper Steve Rixon, who’d played a combined total of 43 Tests between them and knew a bit about who could bat and who couldn’t. However, I didn’t allow the fear of being caught out to hold me back. When they asked where I batted, I replied ‘I open’, and I could almost hear them thinking what a stroke of luck it was that they had a kid on their books who could open both the batting and the bowling—but, I’ll give them this much, they were smart. They realised the standard in Narromine couldn’t have been too crash hot, so they decided rather than open I’d start in the Second XI at No. 7 and they’d watch to see how I went. Well, I did well to contain my smile to think I’d bluffed them, but the problem with cricket is you get found out sooner or later. I pushed on, oblivious to common sense pleading for me not to set myself up for a mighty fall.

  In the first innings I took strike at No. 7—and I smile when I think of how the guys at Backwater and in the Rugby Union XI must have reacted when they heard on the bush wire that I was batting at No. 7 on the finely manicured turf wickets in Sydney—and I was bowled first ball. Surprisingly, after I trudged back to the boys, I was patted on the back and told ‘bad luck, could’ve happened to anyone’ and I nodded quietly in agreement that, yes, it was a good ball. In my second knock I was bowled for another first-ball duck, but I noticed on that occasion there weren’t as many of my teammates commiserating about the misfortune of being brought undone by a ball that would’ve dismissed even the best of the team’s best. I’ll give the selectors at Sutherland this much—they were patient with me. I was given a third chance at No. 7, but when I was bowled for my third consecutive golden duck, I realised my goose was cooked when the captain walked over and said that in all future matches I’d bat at No. 11 until I proved I was worthy of anything higher. Sadly, I couldn’t argue, I’d been found out and I didn’t have a leg to stand on.

  WRATH OF THE WINDIES

  I knew if I was ever going to cop any unwelcome punishment when I batted, it was going to be during the 1995 Test series against the West Indies, which was played in their backyard. I’d decided—at the urging of Steve Waugh and my skipper Mark Taylor—it was time to give the West Indian pacemen a taste of their own fare when they came in to bat. While I never bowled with the intention to hurt them, there were plenty of people who thought it was sheer madness for someone who couldn’t even hold a bat to go out of his way to aggravate them—it was, they thought, the equivalent of a miniature poodle baiting a Doberman. I had no problem in bowling what the Windies refer to as ‘chin music’ to their pace brigade of Courtney Walsh, Curtly Ambrose and the Benjamin brothers Winston and Kenny, because I thought they needed to be unsettled. Also, my mission to take the fight to them was meant to be. After all, when I was a kid, that was what I’d committed myself to doing for Australia if my dream to have a crack at the Windies was ever realised—and 1995 was my chance. It only took a few deliveries when I was on strike for me to realise that none of them liked to dance to the short and sharp stuff I’d served back to them in the opening Test in Barbados. I can vividly recall Walsh, someone I regard as one of the truly great bowlers, trying hard to give the impression it didn’t bother him because he’d laugh, shrug his shoulders and try to look cool and collected after having yet another bouncer whistle past his chin. However, his eyes betrayed him. I could see he didn’t much enjoy being on the receiving end of what he’d subjected batsmen to regardless of their competence, and that inspired me to keep going.

  Mark Taylor welcomed my aggression. He figured it sent the message to the West Indies that on this particular occasion Australia would be competing in front of the eight ball for a change, and I like to think the team lifted with that. Obviously I knew there’d be retribution—of course I realised that—but I also knew from watching the Windies pace attack on the television during my childhood that it didn’t matter how anyone bowled to them, you could’ve underarmed a ball to them back in the day and they’d still want to stick it to you. I was committed to rattling them, however there were plenty of people who feared for my safety and I was to learn upon my return to Narromine that my poor grandma, Vera, was petrified the Windies were going to leave me battered and bruised as part of their square up. I never dwelled on that, because I realised if I allowed the thought of what I might receive preoccupy my mind it would have been terrifying! However, I vowed to myself that come what may, when I was called upon to bat I’d keep my nerve. Rodney Hogg, the former Australian bowler who is now an accomplished after-dinner speaker, tells a great story of when he played against the West Indies in the eighties. Thinking he was about to be hit by a Michael Holding beamer, Hogg half-turned his back, but it was actually a slower delivery, which hit his pads and he heard the ball brush off them and rattle his stumps. After he was dismissed, the first thing ‘Hoggy’ said he did when he reached the safety of the dressing room was phone his wife and ask her to erase the videotape of the game because he didn’t want his son to grow up thinking his father was a coward. I was prepared to wear a few bruises to save myself from such an indignity. I’d heard stories, too, of how Merv Hughes, who scored 72 in a Test against the West Indies in 1989, would go missing when he thought Allan Border may have been considering him to bat as a nightwatchman. That was never me (although, I guess that was never going to happen). However, I know some of my teammates, Steve Waugh was among them, thought there was a lot of bravado in the way I walked to the crease, but hand on heart I can honestly say my only fear whenever I took strike during that series—and every series that followed—was of being embarrassed by my struggles with the bat. During the early days of that tour I quite foolishly tried to prove to the West Indies that I wasn’t scared of them by not wearing extra armour, such as an armguard or a chest pad. Upon reflection that was a silly, ego-driven reaction. I think it may have been Tubby Taylor or perhaps our coach, Bobby Simpson, who pointed out that I’d be of no value to the team if I was sidelined with busted ribs or a broken arm. It was a valid point, so from that moment on I strapped on as much gear as I possibly could when it was my turn to bat.

  Nevertheless, I gained an enormous amount of inspiration from watching blokes such as Steve refuse to back down from the pace and intimidation Ambrose and Walsh rained down upon him. I tried to emulate his … well, if not his actions with the bat, then at least his defiant body language, when it was my turn to face the music. When I was sent out to bat in the Fourth Test of that series—and I was yet again welcomed with calls from the members of their pace attack urging whoever had the ball in hand to ‘kill him’—Steve was on 197, and his body showed just how much he’d suffered for each of those runs. His wrist was bruised, the elbow of his right arm was red and throbbing like an ambulance siren after he was struck there, a couple of his fingers were s
mashed by a short-pitched delivery, and other parts of his body were tenderised after being peppered by the Windies’ brothers-in-harm, who I think were hell-bent on proving that particular day why they were called a pace battery.

  I had only one intention as I marched from the pavilion towards the crease, and that was that I wouldn’t let my mate down when he was so close to a double century. I would not get out to a soft dismissal; I would not throw my wicket away; I would instead dig in, stand my ground and not back away from the ball. It was all rip-roaring stuff and while I was summoning as much courage and determination as I possibly could from deep within me, I was to learn later that the ever-pragmatic Steve was already consoling himself, as he stood up the other end of the pitch, that 197 not out in Jamaica wasn’t a bad knock!

  I can vividly recall one of the many things I realised that day—based on the speed in which the ball dangerously zipped past my nose in a blur of red—was that I hadn’t made myself too popular with our hosts. But I’m proud to say that despite the bombardment, I stuck to my guns and helped to ‘nurse’ Steve along the way to becoming only the fourth Australian, behind Neil Harvey, Bob Simpson and Bill Lawry, to score 200 in the Caribbean. When he was dismissed for his 200, caught Lara bowled Kenny Benjamin, he left me stranded on three. By the end of the tour my scores when tabled together could’ve been confused for the postcode in a suburb of Mumbai because they read 4, 0, 0, 0*, 3*. However, we became the first Australian team since 1973 to win the trophy in the West Indies’ backyard, and I worked just as hard to make each of those seven runs (at an average of 2.33) as I did for each of the 17 wickets I took during the series.

  COACH WAUGH

  As I said, Steve ‘Tugger’ Waugh is a logical bloke—pragmatic was the word I used—and I guess it was because he realised there could be more occasions when we’d be forced to face the music together, caused by such things as a batting collapse, that he decided to appoint himself as my batting coach. He said my biggest problem was I looked like a batsman until I had to play a shot. He was adamant it was simply a matter of getting the basics right—I was told the same about dancing—and the first thing we attacked was my defensive technique. To help get my arms working in unison, he’d use the phrase ‘rock the baby’ to illustrate how to play a straight bat. Every time I dropped my left arm he’d yell ‘You dropped the baby’. Steve stuck with me for a lot longer than most other coaches would have, but eventually even he’d had enough and found more important things to do, such as sorting out his sock drawer. His parting words of advice were to go to the bat manufacturers and hit them up for money in return for promising I wouldn’t use their bats, but I think such an approach could have been interpreted in court as blackmail.

  However, I’d like to think that Tugger would admit after all of these years that his efforts weren’t in vain, because I did improve over the years. My crowning moment towards the end of my career was when I mastered the slog sweep and hung in long enough on quite a few occasions to help a few of my teammates—Steve included—get to their hundreds. And, I’m pleased to say his exercise aimed at getting my arms moving in unison certainly paid off when James and Holly were born because, mate, I never dropped the baby …

  HEARTBREAK AT THE SCG

  One of the most disappointing efforts of my career remains the Second Test against South Africa at the SCG during the 1994–95 summer, when all that stood between a gritty Australian victory and devastating defeat was their bowler Fanie de Villiers, a few lousy runs and … yours truly. When I was sent out I planned to dig in, but when the moment came the best I offered was flimsy opposition with a little defensive push straight back to de Villiers. What cut deeply as I made the long walk back to the dressing room was that while I could always accept being dismissed by a good ball, I had fallen to a regulation delivery on that particular occasion; caught and bowled for one run after Australia was set what seemed an easy enough target of 117 to win.

  We collapsed, and while my teammates tried to console me in the aftermath of it by saying such things as ‘It shouldn’t have been left up to you’, I vividly recall the way I felt as I walked past the Members. It was sickening. I felt as though I’d let Australia down. I thought it was a disaster at the time, but as I’ve grown older and witnessed genuine tragedy, I realise that the disappointment I felt that afternoon was far from the end of the world.

  STRUCK BY THE BUZZARD

  I returned from the 1996 World Cup unscathed but I was rocked by a delivery I copped in grade cricket for Sutherland upon our return.

  I’m asked if I ever feared for my safety and the answer is no, never. I’ve told the tale before that the only time I was given a chance to bat higher in the order for the Backwater XI was because none of the others were overly keen to face a pace demon from the Trangie Cricket Club. I got out cheaply, dismissed by a good ball, but the point is that I wasn’t worried about facing up to a fast bowler. I always trusted my reflexes to keep me out of harm’s way. I watched the ball and, while I copped a few on the gloves and one or two on the body, I think the reason I never got too badly hurt was because I didn’t play hook or pull shots all that often (if ever). I took heed of the screen character Dirty Harry’s advice that ‘A man’s got to know his limitations’—and I knew them. I found that on the occasions when I was struck by the ball it didn’t hurt straight away. I figured the adrenaline of the moment masked the pain, but I always felt it later on.

  The worst hit I took was a ball that got me square on the helmet, delivered by my old NSW teammate Brad ‘Buzzard’ McNamara during a Sydney grade cricket semi-final at Bankstown Oval in the 1995–96 season, and it rattled me. I was sent in a bit higher up the order for Sutherland—I always maintained batting at No. 11 for Australia meant I should bat at No. 6 in grade, but that never washed with my skipper—and I was cruising on five or six runs when I watched our No. 11, Stuart Clark, who in the years to follow would open the bowling for Australia, make the long march out to the centre. Stuart told me we only needed five runs to win and secure our place in the grand final, and with that I managed to hit the next ball over the top. However, any hope of it racing to the boundary was ruined by the long grass in the outfield and when we realised it wasn’t going to make it, we stretched out and ran a quick three. As a result I found myself on strike for the first ball of the next over and I watched as Buzzard steamed in, his legs pumping like pistons. He attempted to bowl a yorker but it went terribly wrong and ended up a beam ball, hurtling at pace towards my head. The only defensive action I could take at that last split second was to turn my head—it was instinctive and went against everything the textbook advises you to do—and when the ball crashed into my helmet the thud was dreadful and I was certain that in one way or another I’d been harmed by it. I ripped my helmet off, expecting to find I’d been injured but rather than a ringing in my ears I heard instead wild cheering from my teammates, because a no-ball was worth two runs in grade cricket and Brad was penalised for bowling a dangerous delivery above the waist on the full. It was enough to give us the victory and allowed Sutherland to push on and win the title.

  24 OF THE BEST

  I was becoming the pin-up boy for the Primary Club of Australia, a club that’s been about since 1974 and raises money for charity when Members who are dismissed for a golden duck make a donation. The club’s purpose is to allow anyone with a disability the chance to experience what they call the joy and exhilaration that comes from taking part in any form of physical activity, so it’s a worthy cause. However, I did manage to enjoy what I’d describe as my first real taste of batting success at Test level at the SCG Test during the 1996–97 series against my old sparring buddies, the Windies. I was motivated by one of my teammates—it was probably ‘coach’ Tugger—who cut out a newspaper article about my batting and pinned it to the spot where I prepared for the game, and let’s just say I wasn’t overly impressed. When the time came for me to bat, I was determined to do something. At lunch I was unconquered on 20 and it felt funny,
but good at the same time, to receive a standing ovation by the Members as I walked back towards the dressing room. Judging by their carry-on you’d have sworn I just made a ton. I lasted 57 minutes at the crease that innings and, as you would imagine, I savoured each minute.

  HELPING HUSSEY

  Australia was in dire straits when I joined Mike Hussey out in the middle during the MCG Boxing Day Test against South Africa in 2005. We were 9–248 and we needed to stay at the crease for as long as we could and to score as many runs as possible to set the visitors a ‘chase’. ‘Huss’ had devised a plan where he’d stay on strike for as long as he could, and it worked. I was up the other end when what had started for Mike as a shaky knock became an innings of flowing elegance after he reached 50. When he was on 97, ‘Huss’ did something I don’t think many batsmen would’ve done because they’d have been hell-bent on getting their hundred—he took the single. I well remember that, when he took the run, the South African keeper Mark Boucher yelled something like ‘What have you done?’, but I backed his faith, digging out one of the 56 balls I’d face during my two hours in the firing line. Huss batted for over four hours to score a gutsy 122, and we both entered the Australian record books for our 107-run 10-wicket stand. I scored 11 not out and I remember that while I felt exhausted out there, I also felt a sense of satisfaction in knowing the longer I was at the crease the more the South Africans would be frustrated.

  THE MILESTONE

  Mark Waugh had a long-running bet with Shane Warne that I would never score a first-class half-century, and when I hit 55 in English County cricket he found a reason not to honour it (although he ended up donating the sum to the McGrath Foundation). Rather than pin up in my cubicle articles about my batting to fire me up—like someone had done that day against the West Indies at the SCG in 1997—the boys had started to use the sight of me going out to bat as their sign to put their whites on; just as they did that November day in 2004 when I faced New Zealand at the Gabba …