Test of Will Read online

  I don’t know if this is a battle the farmer can win, and while I’m glad the government’s Agricultural Competitiveness White Paper is addressing some issues in the outback, the populations in regional Australia are so small their voice is easily drowned out. Indeed, people should appreciate when they’re eating their dinner or snacking on an apple at morning tea, that there are farmers just a few hundred kilometres away from them who have formed blockades around the gates of their properties to stop the CSG companies from just rolling in and taking over. A farmer only owns the first few inches of dirt on their property and anyone can buy the mining rights to that same property. It’s a rule that has always been in place—and one that is being exploited today—and I don’t think it’s fair.

  It’s in the government’s interest to invest in farming because there are analysts who maintain there will come a day when the vegetables grown in the backyard will be even more valuable than the car in the garage. Their message has certainly reached the rest of the world, because Indonesia, China, Qatar and the United States are among many countries buying up large chunks of Australian land to ensure they can feed their populations come the day when they struggle to meet demand with their locally grown produce. By buying properties here they’re potentially cutting Australia out of the future economic benefits of controlling the production and processing elements required to take the food from paddock to plate. The government calls it foreign investment, but many say what’s actually happening in the outback could be considered a takeover. There are a lot of North American and British superannuation companies buying up land for their investors out where I have my farm. They view it as a sure bet for the future, and I don’t understand why Australian companies aren’t flying the flag. While the ramifications of the mess that’s unravelling in the Australian outback—CSG mining, free trade agreements, suicides, crippling debt, foreign ownership, a cringe-worthy ‘she’ll be right’ approach—won’t impact my generation, I know it will definitely hurt my kids and grandchildren. That concerns me, because I’d like to think people, especially those elected into office, would want to leave their nation in a better place than when they entered office.

  The one positive is it’s not too late to change the path we’re treading as a nation. Farming is a great lifestyle, and I remember the time when Dale and I had to look after the farm while our father was driving road trains as the hardest work I’ve ever done but also rewarding. We have some brilliant young farmers, they have great passion, they’re well educated in modern farming technology and they know how to apply the technology effectively. I have no doubt they can take the agricultural sector forward. However, I’d like to see it made a bit easier for them. If the government is not prepared to offer farmers subsidies like many of our trading partners do, maybe we could at least provide significant interest-free loans that would allow for people to set up a farm minus the stress that’s currently killing many. It’s a worthwhile investment, and I’m afraid that if we don’t bite the bullet and do something to address the many problems people on the land are facing now, Australia will definitely pay for it in the future.

  If you, or someone you know, are having problems and need help, I urge you to call Lifeline on 13 11 14 or beyondblue on 1300 22 4636.

  7

  A IS FOR ATTITUDE

  Attitude is a little thing that makes a big difference.

  —Winston Churchill, former British prime minister

  I believe cricket is 70 per cent mental; that figure might even be higher, but the one thing I am certain of is that skill alone will take a player only so far. Attitude is what allows a player to progress from being the teenage cricket star who eventually dominates his team’s annual presentation night to become a player who conquers the tough road towards the elite level.

  Attitude is the element in your character that pushes you to attend training on a Friday night when you’d much rather be at a party or out on the town with your friends; it’s what forces you to climb out of bed in the middle of winter to go on an early morning run while your rivals are snug in bed and sleeping; and, as a fast bowler, attitude is the inner-voice that demands you to steam in under a scorching sun and bowl yet another over against a batsman who may as well be a brick wall. Even when it’d be so much easier to chuck in the towel and lie down in the shade under a tree.

  As a kid who was dismissed as never being good enough to be selected for junior talent squads, or given little—if any—hope by many people of going very far in cricket, I worked hard for everything I gained. The thought that people couldn’t see that special quality in me as readily as they did in my teammates wasn’t easy. While it hurt, I never allowed it to stop me from doing everything I thought I needed to do to try and make the grade. I was gutted the day I missed out on selection in the Country Colts’ under-21s team when I played for Narromine in the annual Colts carnival. It cut deeply because I was that kid who, after spending a day at school and slaving my backside off on the farm would still pick up one of the scuffed cricket balls lying about behind Dad’s machinery shed, mark my run-up and bowl at the battered old 44-gallon drum I used as a wicket. Not being picked went against everything I was taught to believe, which was that hard work and sacrifice was rewarded. But that line of thought was challenged every time a representative team was announced and I was left to deal with that awful sense of being overlooked. My attitude at the time was, rather than toss it in, I simply told myself ‘Your time will come’, and I truly believed it.

  When Penrith sent a talent scout over the Blue Mountains and into the Narromine wheat belt, I was told that after he watched me perform he described the trip to his committee as a waste of time and petrol. In his opinion I was destined to be nothing more than just another good bush-basher. Hearing that as a 17-year-old, albeit second-hand, didn’t do much for my confidence. If you allowed it, such a comment could rattle your self-belief—and attitude. In hindsight, I’m extremely grateful that I was born with the ‘madness’ Dennis Lillee says all fast bowlers require. I think that madness to not give in when the odds seemed stacked against me—and that’s the reality of the paceman’s lot, the odds can be against you—stemmed from my DNA, because my bloodline includes pioneers, farmers, soldiers and athletes. My brother Dale has that madness not to give in as a farmer. He and his family battle all the age-old adversaries people on the land are subjected to—drought, flood, bushfire and frost—with a steely determination and belief that, come hell or high water, they’ll make good.

  I honestly have no idea what I’d be doing now if my attitude had abandoned me in those crucial late-teenage years, when you can either follow your ambition or be like everyone else and put fun ahead of goals. Maybe I’d still be working in the bank, where I worked when I left school, or out on the farm. I will say that these days I remember that bumpy stretch of ground behind Dad’s machinery shed as my field of dreams. I remember how, as the sun sank below the horizon, I’d pretend the great West Indies ‘Master Blaster’ Viv Richards was on strike and, with a shoe half-full of soil from the paddock, I’d run in after visualising Aussie skipper Allan Border tossing me the six-stitcher with orders to make the breakthrough Australia was desperate for.

  Even in those sessions behind the machinery shed, I never lacked attitude’s greatest ally—a healthy dose of self-belief. I think we’re all born with self-belief, but it takes success to build it up to a stage where you back yourself in any situation. Throughout my international career I wanted to bowl every second over, because I believed that regardless of the circumstance, regardless of who the batsman was or even the condition of the pitch, I could take wickets—I just needed the ball in my hand. I noticed there were (and still are) some bowlers who didn’t handle a setback that could’ve been as minor as, say, bowling a poor delivery. It seemed as though one bad ball was enough for them to self-destruct, and their body language appeared to suggest, ‘If I can bowl one bad ball, I can bowl more’. I was one of those bowlers, and there are a lot of us, who thought
, ‘I know I can bowl a good ball and I’ll do everything I can to repeat it with every ball’. And that was how I played my entire career—I believed I was good enough to be there. There were times when I bowled 17-over spells, as I did in Barbados in 1999, but I never thought twice about it even if I was tired. I never once said to my captain, ‘No more’ or ‘I’ve had enough, I can’t bowl anymore’. Some might say that wasn’t the smartest way to operate, but I viewed it as a sign that I was projecting a positive attitude and a commitment that I was ready to give my all for the team.

  So, I could’ve taken the setback of missing out on a team, or being considered a player who simply made up the numbers, as a reason to quit. Think about it: who wants to spend their entire Saturday fielding at fine leg? If there is anything a young cricketer or a person with a dream that has a few obstacles in their way can take from my career, it’s that you sometimes need to look for reasons to soldier on. More often than not I found that the motivation surrounds you. I realised early, from my life in the bush, that even in the worst of times a farmer has no chance of harvesting a crop if he doesn’t plant seed. Yes, I know it sounds simplistic, but there’s an unmistakable truth to it. That day I missed selection for the Country Colts squad, I embraced that philosophy of fighting on. I realised if I didn’t continue to practise, I’d have no hope of proving everyone wrong, including Shane Horsborough, the captain of the first team I played for who believed a fishing pole had more talent than me. Hours after being told I’d missed the cut, I didn’t follow everyone else to the pub; I was instead back behind the machinery shed and steaming in more determinedly than ever, because I realised if I stopped believing in myself I had no chance. My attitude was such that I wasn’t going to allow a setback—as devastating as it seemed at the time—to dampen my desire to make it.

  I maintain that success boils down to a few tangibles:

  • a strong desire

  • a willingness to sacrifice along the way

  • mental strength.

  Over the years I’ve seen plenty of cricketers who were blessed with incredible talent—they made everything look so disgustingly easy on the field—yet they failed to live up to expectations. In some ways I think those guys were cursed because anything to do with cricket came so easily to them, and seeing as though they never had to work too hard they lacked the mental capability to handle the tough times. Sometimes it isn’t what’s happening on the field that affects a player’s form or their confidence; it could be other influences, such as relationships or alcohol, especially when they reach a certain age. I’ve seen plenty of blokes go off the rails around the 18–21 age bracket because their goals take second place to their mad pursuit of the so-called good life. You’ll hear officials at any club in the cricketing world talk about ‘so-and-so’, who was always the best player in his age group and seemed destined to make the grade, but for whatever reason ‘something’ went terribly wrong.

  I don’t think I’m speaking out of school to say Ricky Ponting experienced some problems adjusting when he was a young player caught in the limelight that goes hand-in-hand with being viewed by the cricket-mad public as an athlete/ celebrity. I spent time with Rick in the Australian Cricket Academy when he was a teenage prodigy. I remember freaking him out the day he walked into my room as I commando-rolled over my bed and with the precision of an assassin threw a knife military-style into the guts of a box of cereal that I’d positioned on my dressing table. I think I may have said something to him like, ‘That’s how we do it in the bush!’ Rick was universally viewed as the ‘next big thing’ in cricket, but he was also seen by some as a bit of a hothead. While I liked him—I was impressed by his shocked reaction to my knife-throwing prowess—there were some who wondered if that perceived flaw could trip him up.

  In 1999, as a 24-year-old, Rick went to the Bourbon and Beefsteak hotel in Sydney’s notorious Kings Cross on his own after playing in a one-dayer against England. After a few drinks he became involved in a typical bar-room argument. It ended after he was punched in the face by a 130-kilogram bouncer, which left Rick with a badly blackened eye. He was photographed looking worse for wear by the paparazzi, and questions were asked about whether he had the attitude that was required to be a future Test captain. The first I learned about the drama was when he turned up for a team photograph and he didn’t want to remove his sunglasses. Rick was suspended for three games as a result of his night on the tiles, but he was at least smart enough to realise he needed to curb his ways. He made a public apology for his actions, he worked hard, and his efforts in the nets, out on the training ground, on the field and in the public arena—as well as his determination to prove he was serious about gaining redemption—allowed for him to eventually regain the trust of the sport’s hierarchy and that of the general public. His attitude was—so I thought—that of someone who realised he’d stuffed up and deeply regretted it. He was able to put his career back on course and fulfil his destiny to lead the Australian team and oversee the great rebuild of the Baggy Green after seven senior players retired from the national team in the space of two seasons.

  I was offered my shot to come to Sydney after I played for Dubbo against Parkes in a 1988 Tooheys Country Cup match when I was 18. By that stage my hard work and self-belief was rewarded, because I’d been picked in a few representative teams for Far West and Western Districts. The format for the Country Cup was simple. Tooheys, who was a sponsor of NSW cricket at the time, would send some first-class cricketers to the outback where they played in day-nighters to allow fans in the bush to see their heroes in action for just three dollars a head. At the same time it gave a number of bush cricketers the opportunity to learn a few new tricks from playing alongside them. I remember thinking it was a great thrill to be picked to play alongside the Australian Test team’s all-rounder Greg ‘Mo’ Matthews, future Test captain Mark Taylor and the state opener Steve Small. We played against the home team at Parkes’s Pioneer Oval, which included Doug Walters—the king of the SCG ‘Hill’—and Mark Waugh, who in a few short summers would be my teammate for New South Wales and Australia. I remember Mo taking me aside before the match and giving me a friendly tip to show Dougie the respect he deserved. Perhaps Mo sensed a mad streak in me, because he pointed out that Doug was 43 and his eyes weren’t as sharp as the day he hooked Bob Willis’s last delivery of the day for a six during the 1974–75 Ashes series to score his century. The truth is that while I listened to Greg talk about the honour of bowling to Doug, I had no intention of trying to rattle him, or even Mark Waugh for that matter, with a cheap shot. As kids from the outer yelled ‘Bruce Reid’ to me as I limbered up—because they saw a resemblance in my beanpole frame to the then Australian bowler’s—my plan was to simply bowl a good line and length, and see how that worked for me. Well, I nearly had Doug out—caught—but it was too hot a chance for our gully to take, and I was denied a hat-trick when Mark Taylor, one of the game’s greatest slips fieldsmen, fumbled a gift. In later years he’d blame the lights at Pioneer Oval, saying he needed a miner’s helmet to see the ball. I remember the lighting as being pretty good. While I finished with 3–33, Tubby’s fumble was one of four catches spilt off my bowling that night. But I made an impression on Doug because he phoned Steve Rixon, the former Australian wicketkeeper who coached Sutherland’s first-grade team in Sydney, to say he’d found a player Steve ought to take a look at. I was thrilled to receive a phone call from a Sutherland committee member named Kevin Humphries. I needed a challenge because I think I was drifting a bit in life, and I guess Sutherland gave me a purpose. I was earmarked for the third XI, which was fine because I knew I’d have to earn my stripes. But after I went on a pre-season tour to Nowra with the team, first-, second- and third-graders, I performed well enough to start off with them. Far from living the high life in the big smoke, I lived in a caravan at Ramsgate on the shores of Botany Bay, which was midway between Caringbah Oval where we trained and the bank branch where I worked in Hurstville. Just as importantly, it w
as cheap accommodation.

  Mum towed the caravan down to Sydney. It rained for every kilometre of the seven-hour journey from the gates at Lagoona to Grand Pines Tourist Park at Ramsgate Beach. She stayed to help me set everything up, but when she left the following day it struck me that I was alone for the first time in my life and that I’d need to fend for myself. It could have been scary if I allowed it to be. When I went back to the caravan, I surveyed what would be my home for the next 13 months. It was small and the only way I could stand upright was to stick my head through the vent in the ceiling. To shower, well, regardless of the hour or the weather, I needed to walk over to the ablution blocks a few hundred metres away. Not long after Mum started her long drive back to Narromine, my attitude kicked in and I welcomed the adventure. I realised it wasn’t a time for self-doubt or fear or worrying about the cell-on-wheels I’d be living in or even the anticipated loneliness. Oh, the loneliness. While I made some good mates at Sutherland, my first year in Sydney was a pretty lonely time. I’d often go on long walks to the city—15 kilometres away—on a weekend just to break the monotony. However, my most vivid memory of that first day in the big smoke was ten minutes after Mum’s car left, when I hammered a single cricket stump into the pitch at the cricket nets in the reserve across the road, and bowled the first few balls of my quest to make Sutherland’s first-grade team. My attitude that day reinforced that I wasn’t in Sydney for fun; I was a man on a mission.