Once Kepler calmed down, he was brilliant. He had a great understanding of technique, and a fantastic feel for the mental side of the game. I learnt a lot, good and bad, from him, including better ways to communicate with people. Kepler struggled to communicate his message without that harsh tone. He was very emotional, and his first response to a crisis was to switch on the abuse. Once, we lost a game to Glamorgan after Michael Kasprowicz took some wickets. I was struggling a bit with my game. In the dressing room later, Kepler said to me, ‘We need to have a chat.’
I said, ‘It’s okay, let’s give the boys some time to settle down a bit, we’ve got a session tomorrow, let’s analyse the thing and discuss it when everyone’s got over this.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘We need to chat.’
He took me into his office and tore strips off me. ‘Your batting’s a disgrace! How do you expect to score runs batting like this? Your technique is rubbish.’
I was standing there copping this tirade. Eventually I said, ‘Yeah, you’re right. What do I need to do to sort it out? Let’s go and work on it.’
He took a step back and said, ‘oh. Okay.’ All the rage had disappeared. He listed a few things we should do about my stance and my positioning, and finally said, ‘Let’s work on it at training tomorrow.’ The storm had blown over.
In my opinion there’s a shelf-life for that form of leadership. It lost its punch as the season went on. The players lost their fear because they knew the bark was worse than the bite. As the season went on I gained more confidence, as a player and as a captain and dealing with different people and tough situations.
The thing about Kepler was, he saw batting as a permanent struggle, fighting for every single run, hanging in there, surviving and scrapping. That was the way he portrayed his career, and I could empathise with that. Self-doubt didn’t put me in such a siege mentality, but I was coming from a similar place. So there was always something to learn from Kepler. He taught me a lot about the art of wearing bowlers down, and the mental side of the game.
After the burglary, we’d settled down and married life was suiting us well. One of the great things about living in England was that Amy and I could take breaks away. Every year there would be one week to ten-day break, and we always tried to travel somewhere new: Rome one year, probably my favourite place, then Paris and the Champagne district, once to Majorca, and another time to Porto in Portugal, which we visited out of a ‘lucky dip’ sense of pure adventure. Another time we went to the Isle of Man, where Amy’s grandmother had been born. And to cap it off, during that 2003 trip we found out that Amy was pregnant.
Under Kepler, we ended up having the best of my three seasons at Northants. I wasn’t batting well until just after the Kepler spray and some minor adjustments to my technique, when I scored 264 against Gloucestershire, which really sent me on my way. I also made my third triple century, a 331 not out against Somerset, and we finished second in the division to win promotion back to the top level. We benefited from having a new South African import, the burly right-armer Andre Nel. Big Nelly was a champion to play with. On the field he carried on a lot, sledging and swearing and screaming, prompting umpires to step in and calm him down, but he put in 100 per cent day in, day out. We relied a lot on our spinners to take wickets but Nelly pounded away at the other end, giving the batsmen nothing, no matter whether he was bowling his first over or his fifty-first. He wasn’t your conventional seamer, with big legs, and a bustling action letting go from wide on the crease. What made him really tough was that even when he was wide on the crease he could take the ball away from the right-hander. Then there was his aggression, craving a contest, wanting to get into arguments with the batsmen.
He got pretty wild celebrating in the dressing room, and off the park, I didn’t want to know what he was up to. He’d often come to the cricket with bloodshot eyes and smelling a bit funny, but you could never question his effort and performance on the field, and that’s all I cared about.
I enjoyed the responsibility of captaincy at Northants, and after the dust had settled over Bob’s sacking, I felt that I did a reasonable job. During the season, I was planning to come back for a fourth year in 2004. But as the county season drew to a close I was starting feel as though I needed a break. I was exhausted. I had played cricket all year round for three years straight with the Australian summer followed by county cricket, and the thought of a winter off to have a break from playing and do some pre-season physical work seemed more appealing. So I decided not to re-sign with Northants.
It started with a very unfortunate incident that left me confused and upset.
For the past two Australian summers, I had been taking some supplementary coaching from Neil ‘Noddy’ Holder. We got on quite well and I liked his methods. We had a great couple of years together, and I thought he was an excellent coach. He wanted to set up a business with Matthew Nicholson, my Warriors teammate, to bring out English county players and train them in the Australian summer, set them up with a Perth club and give them a full grounding in our style of cricket.
During that period, the English former player and coach Paul Terry already had a similar program up and running. Unbeknown to me, Paul brokered a deal with Northants to send some young players to Perth. When these guys eventually told me, I said they’d like the program, Paul was good, and they’d have a good time in Perth. I also suggested they contact Noddy Holder, recommending him as a good coach. I didn’t think any more of it.
Soon after I got home, I was having a session with Noddy when I mentioned these guys coming over and asking if he’d mind if they came and had a hit with him. He said nothing. Instead he stormed out of the nets, got into his car and drove off. I stood there in shock. Had I said something wrong? I tried ringing him. He didn’t answer. I tried to find him at the Scarborough cricket club. I felt terrible, but also bewildered. Finally I went to his house and knocked at his door, and he came out. We went into his backyard and I said, ‘I don’t know what I’ve done wrong. What did I say?’
Noddy said, ‘I’m really disappointed in you. You had the chance to endorse my program and my business, and you obviously don’t rate me as a bloke or a coach because you didn’t endorse me, you endorsed Paul Terry instead.’
I explained that I hadn’t known anything about it. Paul Terry had come to Northants and brokered the deal without my knowledge. It was weeks before I first heard about it, when the guys came and told me they were going.
Noddy didn’t accept that, and our relationship ended there. He wouldn’t coach me anymore. I tried to explain it, but nothing I said was going in.
The rupture hit me quite hard. I’ve always hated confrontation, and had hardly ever had any kind of falling-out with anyone. Noddy obviously told Matt Nicholson his side of the story, and that soured our relationship too. Our net sessions became heated as Nicko tried to hit me on the head every ball. One session, after about six bouncers in a row, I said, ‘Have you got a problem with me?’
He said, ‘You know what the f--ing problem is,’ and turned around and went back to try to knock my head off again.
The whole episode affected me badly. What hurt me the most was that I knew I’d done nothing wrong, but these guys wouldn’t believe me. I’d have been happy to accept responsibility, but the worst of it was that they wouldn’t take my word.
I’d had my best season with Northants, averaging 89, and had done enough since I’d been dropped to fight my way back into the West Australian team. Mental strength was the key. In my personal trough, I’d been playing against Queensland, who had me on toast mentally. After getting out, I sat in the dressing room for ages, upset at myself for letting them get to me again. I was wondering how I could harden myself to sledging, and started writing to one of the toughest players in the world: Steve Waugh.
I wrote about how Queensland had cut down my scoring options, by bowling tight and blocking my favourite areas, and then tightened the noose by chirping non-stop. ‘I really wanted to do well an
d I wanted to be tough and enjoy the challenge,’ I wrote, ‘but deep down I had this fear of failure or doubt in my mind. How can I approach similar situations? What can I do to prepare myself and believe that I can do it and become a more mentally tough player?’
They say that the journey is more important than the destination, and in this case the journey – the process of sitting down and opening up my thoughts to the Australian captain – actually did the trick. I ended up not sending the letter. But by penning all the things that were affecting me, I was devising plans to cope with them. Deal with your own game, bat for time, wear them down and you’ll come out on top. I was answering the questions as I was writing them.
My 2003–04 summer was solid rather than spectacular, but I felt I was rebuilding myself as a harder-edged player. Unlike the previous two seasons, I was playing as Mike Hussey, not a wannabe Matthew Hayden. As always seems to be the case, when I stopped trying so hard to attract the selectors’ eyes, they started looking at me more closely, and towards the end of the summer I received an unexpected reward.
Batting for Australia A, with India’s wicketkeeper Deep Dasgupta behind me during a three-day match in Hobart, on 19 December 2003. (Photo by William West/AFP/Getty Images)
The Australian team were coming to the end of a very competitive Test and one-day summer hosting India. Their schedule had them coming over to Perth on 1 February 2004 for one game. In a match in Melbourne, Michael Bevan hurt himself, and the selectors chose me to replace him.
I was over the moon, of course, even if it was completely against type that I would play for Australia as a one-day cricketer. I was such a grinding batsman, I saw four- or five-day cricket as my natural element. But in the Western Australian team, I’d carved out a Bevan-style niche in the middle order. I owe a lot to Bevo, because he more or less invented that template, and I modelled my one-day game on his.
In the two or three nights leading up to the game, I didn’t sleep more than a few hours. Amy was now near full term with the pregnancy, and I can’t have been easy to live with. I played my innings – an unbeaten century for Australia – dozens of times in my head. I was beside myself, as I guess every player is when he gets the call-up.
Fortunately, the Australian one-day dressing room was filled with a lot of guys I knew well. Gilly was captain, and in Andrew Symonds, Simon Katich, Jason Gillespie, Brett Lee and Damien Martyn, I could look around and see a lot of familiar and friendly faces. It relaxed me to be among what I considered friends, guys I knew from junior cricket or Australia A games.
Out on the ground, David Boon presented me with my cap. He’d been one of my heroes as a kid, and I’d had the privilege of playing against him in my early Sheffield Shield career. The presentation was simple. He said, ‘You deserve to play for Australia, you’ve earned your chance, good luck and give it your best shot. You join a select group, you’re number 150, congratulations.’
I was hoping we wouldn’t bat first on what looked like a lively pitch, and my prayers were answered when Sourav Ganguly won the toss. The crowd was brilliant. Even in the warm-up lap people were cheering for me. Perth people are very parochial, and I was chuffed. Brett Lee rifled out their top order, but their tail-enders were fighting back when Gilly had a bizarre idea. I had caught Rahul Dravid in the gully, which settled me down, and then, I don’t know why, but Gilly had a feeling that on debut I might be the guy – with the ball. I couldn’t believe he wanted me to bowl my modest medium-pacers, and was more nervous than if I’d been batting. As I ran in, my hands were so sweaty I thought, I don’t know if I’m going to be able to hang onto the ball, let alone get it somewhere on the pitch.
In the end, nothing terrible happened during my three overs, and we got India out for 203. I was listed to bat at number seven, so I was hoping the boys would do the job and I wouldn’t be required. But the Indian bowlers were getting a fair bit of help from the pitch too, and Matthew Hayden, Michael Clarke and Damien Martyn were soon out. I was petrified, to be honest. I could see myself coming in under enormous pressure, needing to get Australia home. But thankfully, Gilly and Andrew Symonds belted the Indians to all quarters and the scoring rate went through the roof, which helped me relax. We had the game in our grasp.
Then, with about 40 runs required, suddenly they both got out. Kato was in ahead of me – a good place to have your best man by your side. I certainly felt the pressure. We could easily fall in a heap and embarrass ourselves. As I walked out, I couldn’t hear very much. Later that night, Amy said, ‘How loud was that roar when you went out to bat! It’s the loudest roar I’ve heard in my life!’ But I couldn’t hear anything.
I don’t remember my first runs. My first four was a nick past slip. Over the next half-hour, Kato batted really well and I knocked it around for 17, and we won without losing another wicket. As we walked off, I said to Simon, ‘Isn’t this amazing, playing for Australia? We’ve come a long way from being kids in Wannerooversus-Midland-Guildford matches.’
There were no celebrations that night, as the boys would have to get an early flight back east for the one-day finals the next morning, which I wasn’t going to be part of as Michael Bevan would be available. I went out for dinner with Amy in Subiaco. I was pumped to have played for Australia, and to have been in the middle when we won the match, but it turned out to be one of the worst restaurant experiences ever. We ordered early, and after an hour it hadn’t come. I’m not one to complain, but Amy, 38 weeks pregnant, was flagging, so I said to the waiter, ‘Excuse me. Any chance of our meal coming?’
He said, ‘You want your dessert?’
I said, ‘We haven’t had our mains.’
The waiter went white, ran to the kitchen, and said he’d forgotten our order. When the dinners came, we wolfed them down and got out as quickly as we could. So much for the special celebrity treatment as an Australian player!
Amy was going to be induced, so we were able to pick out the date. We chose 9 February – wedged between my trips to Hobart and to Brisbane for the next two Shield matches.
The big day arrived and we were in the hospital, with things progressing very slowly. I said, ‘I might whip out for some lunch and come back in a while.’ I was pretty relaxed, thinking we had plenty of time. I was standing in line at a Subway store, and my phone rang.
‘You’d better get back here,’ Amy said. ‘- It’s happening now!’
I tore back in my car, the one time you’re allowed to go 100kmh in a 60kmh zone. When I got there, Amy was doubled over in pain, pushing. Suddenly the baby’s heart rate dropped dramatically. The nurses seemed panicky and said they needed to get the baby out, and then rushed Amy off for an emergency Caesarean. I stood in a helpless daze as injections were going in, beds were being moved, and Amy was panicking too. But the Caesarean went quickly and we had a beautiful baby girl, who we named Jasmin. Poor Amy had been through two births in one, more or less: the whole labour up to the end, and then the Caesarean.
With a full slate of Shield and domestic one-day matches coming up interstate, I missed most of Jasmin’s first three weeks. But cricket was our livelihood, and Amy was totally supportive. Amy’s always said, just as playing cricket for Australia is my dream, being a mother is her dream. She loves babies and was right in her element, and let me go away with full confidence in each other. Although, to be honest, I was hanging out for the end of the season and time at home, and my form tapered off. It had been an exhausting few months, and for once in my life, I was desperate to get away from cricket.
By the time Jasmin was born, I had played three straight years of twelve-month cricket. My plan had been to go back to Northants for another year, but the cumulative toll of professional cricket, and becoming a father, changed my view. I took some time off and really enjoyed being at home with Amy and Jasmin. I didn’t pick up a bat for months but got stuck into the physical work with the Warriors, which was great.
During that time, Gloucestershire got in touch to ask if I would join them for the second
half of their season. I saw it as a chance to get some cricket under my belt leading into the Australian summer, and Amy was happy to come over again. We set up in Bristol, but it was a challenge because our apartment wasn’t great and Jasmin was waking up through the night. When games were on, though, Amy quickly got up for Jasmin, making sure I didn’t wake up and got plenty of rest for the match. We were both pretty tired a lot of the time. It was a good experience for me having to change my routines and get used to not sleeping all night, a taste of things to come if we were going to have more children, as we hoped.
I was only there for seven first-class and nine one-day matches, and didn’t set the world on fire. But the highlight was playing in the final of the Cheltenham & Gloucester Trophy, a one-day competition, at Lord’s. I’d played at Lord’s several times for Northants, but never before a packed house in a final. The atmosphere was like an international game, with people flowing in from the neighbouring counties cheer on their team. We restricted Worcestershire to 236, and chased it down pretty easily. I only made 20 but to be part of a trophy win on a day like that was a highlight of my five seasons in county cricket.
Coming home, my pre-season preparation was perfect. Off the field, I was the happiest and most settled I’d ever felt. We were comfortable and content as a family, living in a beautiful house we’d renovated. I had worked out that I was going to play my way, not try to be like Hayden or Gilchrist or Ponting, and I was determined to bring home the determination to convert good starts into not just hundreds but double and triple centuries. Justin Langer told me that selectors take notice when you make massive hundreds. In the first game, I managed to do just that, scoring 210 against Tasmania at the WACA. It helped my confidence for the whole season, having started that way.
Underneath the Southern Cross Page 10
