My first impression of Simmo was, to be brutally honest, that he was a very arrogant bloke. At the under-19 carnival in Melbourne there was a common room for all the players. Simmo would walk in and kick guys off the pool table. ‘You’re out of here, we’re doing this.’ The way he batted only reaffirmed this: he was so athletic and strong and brilliant, with a true arrogance about his demeanour towards bowlers, I hated the guy.
During that under-19s tour, I got to know him better, and will say that he is the funniest guy I’ve ever played with and one of the most gifted cricketers. One of the exciting things about Simmo was, he was so confident he would respond to the crowds. In the second youth Test, at Thiruvananthapuram, we were looking down the barrel after chasing balls all day hit wherever he wanted them by a young VVS Laxman. It felt like the ground was right out in the bush, with straw huts for dressing rooms, but there were, as always in India, hundreds of people watching. We were 3/65 on a pitch which, to this day, was the biggest turner I have ever played on. You had to land the ball on the edge of the pitch for it to have any chance of hitting the stumps. The spinners were Sanghvi and Hrishikesh Kanitkar, who also went on to play for India. It was almost turning backwards, it was going so far.
Coming from non-spinning Perth, it was a great education, both to play on it and to watch how Simmo dealt with it. I was up the other end scratching to survive. When he came in, he had two tactics, depending on the delivery. If it looked dangerous, he kicked it away. He knew it was turning so far, he didn’t stand much risk of being out lbw. All other balls, he tried to slog out of the ground.
He began connecting with a few, and the crowd loved it. They began to chant. ‘Sixer! Sixer!’ once that happened, Simmo decided he only needed one tactic. He started trying to hit every ball for six. He played a phenomenal innings. He wanted to please the few hundred who were there, and they fell in love with him. We put on 70 together, of which I scraped out about 20. We lost our last 6 wickets for 8 runs. In between, Simmo plundered 163 runs out of 210 scored while he was in.
Later in life, when we played for Australia together, my fondness for Simmo grew more. He was unbelievably competitive, always energetic and ready for action, and, once he’d decided you were part of his team, he would do anything for you. I quite often said to him over an emotional beer after a game, ‘I wouldn’t say this to more than a handful of people but I’d be happy to dive on a grenade for you, mate.’ That’s how much I loved him.
And he was quite hilarious, the things he came out with. Once we were in Perth walking down the Hay Street Mall and a lady was selling raffle tickets.
Simmo said, ‘What’s the first prize?’
She said, ‘$1000 cash.’
‘okay, I’ll be in that.’
And he bought some tickets. As we walked away, he stopped. He went back to the lady and said, ‘What date is it drawn?’
‘on the thirty-first of the month.’
‘Right,’ Simmo said. ‘Well, I’ll be expecting a call on the thirty-second.’
He was a constant source of humour in every team he played with.
We had a pretty successful tour. A senior Australian team hadn’t been to India in eight years, and youth tours were a way of paving the ground for a resumption of more regular cricket relations. I was the back-up leg-spinner, which I really enjoyed. I doubted my ability a bit, but worked very hard on my consistency, working with Brad Birrell, an off-spinner from South Australia, with the aim of bowling six balls in a row on the spot – like Stuart MacGill could. I still tended to bowl one or two loose balls an over, and there was nothing to keep you on your mettle like bowling to VVS Laxman on Indian wickets.
We drew the first Test and lost the second, and came to the third Test in Mumbai having to win to square the series. It was during the lead-up to that match that I’d eaten the prawns and got sick, but I was okay to play and we chased down a big target in the last innings. Robbie Baker and Simmo played brilliant innings, and Corey Richards and I made some runs as well, while Jerry Cassell scored runs and also took vital wickets. On the last day, we were under a lot of pressure to score the runs in time – 311 was the target, in four hours. We got there with 4 wickets down, and celebrated like we’d won the World Cup. Coming home, I reflected on India itself. The truth was, I had found it confronting off the field, though the cricket was always enjoyable. The foreignness of the country was a big culture shock for a boy from the beach in Perth. I hoped I would get back there one day. I could never have guessed how big a part of my life India would become, and how strongly my affection for the country and its people would grow.
Arriving home in early 1994, my motivation for cricket was at an all-time high. I’d played for an Australian team and was pushing to get into the West Australian squad. I had to negotiate university, but that felt like a mere detail.
During that year, I was called up into the West Australian senior squad. I looked at it as a time of gathering experience among the men, and had no expectation that I would play a game. It was intimidating enough joining a squad containing names such as Tom Moody, Damien Martyn, Brendon Julian, Geoff Marsh and Bruce Reid. These were my heroes. The only time I’d been on the same field as them was as one of the kids who came onto the WACA to play Kanga Cricket during the breaks in their games, and now here I was, hoping not to make a fool of myself as a member of their training squad.
I needn’t have worried about whether they would see me as their equal. They quickly made it clear that there would be no illusions about thinking I was on the same level as them. It was a tough, old-school environment, and the senior players made sure you knew your place and did what they told you. If you dropped a catch at practice, you would cop a bit of stick. If you put one foot out of line, they were onto you. I’m not sure if the other states were like that, but to me it seemed particularly harsh, and after many sessions I would go home and sit on my bed and wonder what I was doing. Having played in nurturing team environments at Wanneroo and in the representative under-age teams, I was confused more than anything. Were they trying to help me, or cut me down and exclude me? If it was tough love, it was different from any kind of team psychology I’d experienced or even heard of. If it was the jealousy of senior men against up-and-comers, why would they bother? What threat was I to them?
Amid one rugged training session after the other, it helped to have one friendly face. The week before state practices had started, I went on a spinners’ and wicketkeepers’ camp at the Australian Cricket Academy in Adelaide, and among the keepers was Adam Gilchrist. Gilly was en route from Sydney to Perth, where he was moving to try to establish himself as a first-class gloveman. In his home state, his path had been blocked by Phil Emery, the New South Wales captain and a former Test wicketkeeper. Gilly and I roomed together in Adelaide, and he asked me a lot of questions about the people and politics in Perth. Of course, I knew nothing. Gilly was four years older than me and much more worldly. Every night, he went out for a few beers and I’d be tucked into bed early. The next morning he’d be going off at me for farting too loudly in my sleep.
When he came to Perth, I tried to help him settle in. We socialised away from the squad and had dinner or went out together. He was a very sympathetic person, and we were able to share our different troubles. For me, it was getting a hard time at the hands of the senior players, whereas for Gilly, it seemed like the whole of the state hated him. He was picked for the first Mercantile Mutual Cup one-day game, at the WACA against Victoria (who wore shorts), and I was really excited for him. He seemed really nervous and withdrawn.
I asked him what was the matter.
He said, ‘I’ve just taken the place of a West Australian legend. They won’t forgive me.’ Tim Zoehrer, the long-term wicketkeeper, had been entrenched in the team alongside his clubmates Tom Moody, Jo Angel and Brendon Julian. The senior guys, to everyone’s relief, had quickly warmed to Gilly, but he was worried about the general public, who felt that Tim had been pushed out by the administrators.
In that one-day game, the locals abused Gilly and waved ‘Bring Back Zoehrer’ banners. I really felt for him, it was a tough initiation. But he performed so well and behaved so cheerfully, the public soon grew to like him as much as the players did. He went out into the community and the media and was always positive, energetic and enthusiastic. Soon they forgot about Tim Zoehrer and Gilly was the flavour of the team.
I didn’t expect to play a game that season. The openers, Geoff Marsh and Mike Veletta, were internationals. Behind them were Mark Lavender and Rob Kelly. Western Australia were well stocked with top-order batsmen. But Swampy Marsh, after doing the whole pre-season, suddenly announced that he didn’t have the desire to play anymore. I thought that was strange, considering all the hard work he’d put in. Then, in the opening first-class fixture of the season, against the touring English team, Veletta got injured. Still, I expected Rob Kelly to be put in with Lavender.
I went to the WACA to watch the last day of that match against England. I could see Rob talking angrily with the coach and selectors. Rob eventually walked over to me and said, ‘I’m really angry I didn’t get the chance, but it’s not your fault, I’m angry with the selectors, not you. So good luck and do well.’ That was a really nice thing to say. And that was how I learnt I’d been selected to play for Western Australia.
I was told to go to the cricket manager’s office to get my baggy gold cap and jumpers and playing shirts. I walked back to my car. There was a parking ticket on my windscreen but I didn’t care at all. I got in and started driving. As soon as I was on the road, I began screaming at the top of my voice. No words, just a primal scream of sheer excitement. I couldn’t wait to get home to tell Mum, Dad and Dave. I was playing for Western Australia. This was everything I’d dared to hope for in cricket, and it was happening!
Once we were in Hobart, there was one person who was more amped up than me. My roommate was my old mate Brad Hogg, which was quite an experience. He woke up at four o’clock in the morning to bowl balls at the wall, put his pads and gloves and box and thigh pad on – with nothing else – and play shots in front of the mirror. Even by Hoggy’s standards, this was extreme. I thought, Gee, this Sheffield Shield must be serious stuff. But then, Hoggy was a one-off.
Fortunately, for the state of my nerves, we lost the toss and bowled first at Bellerive. Unfortunately, for the sake of the team, Ricky Ponting batted for a day and a half. The temperature was four or five degrees Celsius and there was snow on Mount Wellington. None of that had any effect on the boy genius.
It was the first time I’d seen Ricky. We had been due to play him in the previous year’s under-19 carnival, but he was suspended from our game for smashing down his stumps when he got out in an earlier game. Then, he hadn’t come on the tour to India because he was called up to play Sheffield Shield.
I had no trouble, and plenty of time, to see why he had been promoted at his age. We had a very good attack, with Bruce Reid, Brendon Julian, Sean Cary, Tom Moody and the left-arm spinner Jamie Stewart. Ricky made it look easy, cutting and pulling and driving with absolute ease, and we never looked like getting him out.
By the end of it, when Tasmania declared on the second day and gave us a bat, I was too exhausted to be nervous. I’d never fielded for that long or chased so many balls.
I waddled out with Mark Lavender, my legs stiff. The new ball was taken by Chris Matthews, another in a long line of man-mountains I’d got used to trying to knock me over. Matthews was a burly and aggressive left-armer. Originally from Perth, he had played three Tests for Australia in the 1980s, with unfortunate results when he lost control of the ball. But even though he was coming to the end of his career, he had a superb first-class record, with nearly 400 wickets. The guys had warned me that he was going to sledge me, but said not to worry, his bark was worse than his bite.
When I was finally facing him, he didn’t say much, which was a surprise. What was more challenging was that he tried everything: outswingers, inswingers, bouncers, slower balls, bowling wide on the crease and in close, a bit of everything in every over.
I got a straight drive away for my first runs, which I was overjoyed about. I thought, I’ve made first-class runs! No-one can take that away from me! But then, when I’d got to 16, I was out to David Millns, an English bowler. Chris Matthews was fielding at a fine short leg. I hit a pull shot quite well, but Matthews put out his hand and it just stuck.
It was only when I sat next to Tom Moody in the dressing room that it hit me that I was out. I was hiding my disappointment as Tom was padding up. Then he went out and scored 272. Damien Martyn made a hundred, Gilly, in his first Sheffield Shield game for the state, got a shocking decision to be given out for a duck, and we got the two points.
That was it for my season as a Sheffield Shield player, and for all I knew, that was my first-class career. My disappointment at only making 16 didn’t last long. I was thrilled to have my baggy gold cap. That was my ambition, and I’d achieved it.
I was twelfth man for the next three games after Hobart. I took this job very seriously, and tried to run the drinks and gear to the players on the field and help out with all the odd jobs in the most professional way. Unfortunately, in the atmosphere of that team, my intensity set me up as a target.
During the match against Victoria at the WACA, Tom Moody was in the dressing room. Seeing me buzzing about, the diligent young twelfth man looking for work, he called me over.
‘Huss, I’ve been struggling with a back injury. I’ve got these two pills I have to take.’
‘No worries,’ I said, ever eager. ‘Do you want me to get you some water or Powerade to wash them down?’
‘No,’ he said, straight-faced. ‘They’re suppositories.’
I gave him a blank look. Sup-what? I didn’t have the slightest idea what he was talking about.
‘Suppositories,’ he went on, patiently. ‘It means you – you – need to stick them up my bum.’
‘Er, I don’t know,’ I stammered. ‘You’re joking, right?’
At that moment – they must have had it all set up – Justin Langer, who was sitting on Tom’s other side, joined in. ‘Come on, Huss! You’re the twelfth man! You have to help your teammate out!’
Then it was the turn of Daryl Foster, the coach. ‘Huss, you heard him, you’re the twelfth man! Do as you’re told!’
Innocent and fearful as I was, I was easy prey for them. I still thought they were serious. Big Tom grabbed me by the wrist, said, ‘Come on, let’s go,’ and started dragging me towards the toilets. Beside myself, I was about to start screaming when they all burst out laughing. They all enjoyed it. I was extremely relieved that I didn’t have to go through with the deed. They were tough on the youngsters and I had to grow up quickly being around these guys. Thankfully my experience of joining the Australian team would be a lot smoother.
After playing out the season with Wanneroo and the West Australian Colts, I was invited at the start of 1995 to go to Adelaide for a year at the Academy. It meant deferring my uni course, which was no hardship. The bigger question was whether it would be good for my cricket.
That may seem a no-brainer, but in Perth the Academy had a bit of a stigma as a pretty boys’ club. It was said that they all had it laid on a bit easy. I had a really good training program at home, with Ian, Dad and the WA squad, and had convinced myself that I couldn’t get much more from going to the academy.
All this was before the offer came. When it did, I changed my mind! I jumped at the chance, and looked forward to what I hoped would be one of the best years of my life. With my ongoing battles against self-doubt, it was a fillip just to be invited, to think that the head coach, the legendary Rod Marsh, might even have heard of me. So I went to Adelaide full of excitement. Cricket, cricket, nothing but cricket. What could be better?
I headed across in April, and was assigned a part-time job to fit in around my training. It was a good part of the Academy’s policy to keep the guys busy with work. I fell on my feet with
the cushiest job imaginable. Other guys had to work for sponsor companies, or had jobs at the Adelaide oval, but all I had to do was clean the gym and drive the team bus to drop everyone at their jobs. Each morning I dropped them off, went back and tidied up the gym, and then had a sleep, played table tennis or watched movies until the training session in the afternoon.
My roommate was Clinton Peake, a bit of a child prodigy who’d made a triple-century in an Australian under-19 game. I also got on well with Peter Roach, the Victorian wicketkeeper who had been on the tour to India with me. We loved watching our footy. I was also mates with Corey Richards, Matthew Mott and Clinton Perren, who all became good first-class cricketers. We had a friendly group, solid but not the most talented – which Rod made sure we knew.
It seemed that the main lesson Rod wanted to pound into us was that we were nowhere near as good as the guys who had been there the previous year. It’s true that it was an extremely talented intake, including Brett Lee, Ian Harvey, Andrew Symonds and Ryan Campbell, all aggressive and confident players. Rod kept going on about how good they were, how much fun they were to watch, and how much better than us they were. Rod loved flair and aggression. I couldn’t help suspecting that like he didn’t like me or rate me because I could never be that kind of player. Years later, as a selector, he told me he respected the way I played, and I realised he did quite like me as a player. But at the time, I struggled with the usual feelings of inferiority.
My one compensation for my lack of natural talent, real or perceived, was my work ethic. Maybe I overcompensated. In the first couple of months at the Academy, I felt we weren’t training as hard as I had at home. Each month we were scheduled to have one-on-one meetings with Rod. After two months, I swallowed down my fear of him and said, ‘Rod, I’m sorry but I don’t think we’re working hard enough. I train harder at WA.’
That didn’t go down well. For the next month he pulverised us. I wasn’t exactly popular with the boys.
Underneath the Southern Cross Page 5
