1. “Slowly flows the Don into our national psyche,” 15/11/90
2. “Watching cricket? No way, I’m studying it,” 13/1/92
3. “There’s still plenty of the bright-faced boy in our Don,” 30/5/96
4. “Don Bradman’s living legacy,” 1-2/6/96
5. “Despite himself, our cricket victories are Taylor-made,” 31/3/97
6. “Taylor slays the knockers with pride,” 12/6/97
7. “Hail, Tubby — role model for the modern man,” 15/8/97

1.
Frank Devine, “Slowly flows the Don into our national psyche,”
The Australian, November 15, 1990, p. 13.

The spine tingled last night during ABC TV’s interview/documentary, Bradman, at the sight of a 22-year-old Don Bradman re-creating his backyard cricket practice technique for the newsreel cameras of 60 years ago.

Again and again he swing a cricket stump and whacked a golf ball against a corrugated-iron water tank standing in the yard of his parents’ house at Bowral, NSW, his feet dancing like those of a racehorse as he positioned himself for the chaotic rebound then whacked the ball against the tank once more. As a schoolboy, the young Bradman had played this game hour after hour, developing incomparable quickness and co-ordination of eyesight and muscle.

Australians have been perversely reluctant to recognise that in Bradman, the country boy hitting a golf ball against a tank, we have a mythic image as potent in establishing national identity and pride as the picture Americans carry around in their imaginations of young George Washington owning up to chopping down the cherry tree, or the British legend of Sir Francis Drake finishing his game of bowls before sailing out to confront the Spaniards.

Thank goodness (as the unfailingly well-spoken Sir Donald would probably say) Bradman has lived for 82 years so far and has thus given us plenty of time to assess him in our slow, grudging way. We may at last be getting a hold on the extent of our indebtedness to him as this century’s greatest Australian.

More than anybody, Bradman widened the horizons of aspiration for individual Australians. From humble beginnings in the bush, he achieved international fame by doing better, in one particular activity, than that which our imagination could encompass. The fact that the activity was cricket is peripheral to Bradman’s importance. His life makes plausible a belief that anything is possible for an Australian. That is what national heroes do.

Bradman was given the hero’s essential blessing of perfect historical timing. When he first blazed his way joyfully across the cricket fields of England in 1930, poor Australia — barely recovered from the awful sadness of its losses in World War I — was immersed in an economic depression so destructive that to some it seemed to signify the finish of successful European settlement.

“People now,” a dignified but genial Bradman said on television last night, “would find it hard to know how bad things were …”

A high proportion of any hope and happiness that was to be had during that long ago Australian winter came from an image of a slight 21-year-old man setting record after record at cricket, scoring triple-centuries at a speed never before approached, making 974 runs in five Tests, a feat never equalled.

It was no wonder than an element of hysteria was mixed with the adulation heaped on Bradman. In such hard times, he would have seemed virtually all the country had.

Last night’s TV program also shone light on an aspect of the hero that most of us have overlooked — how enormously attractive he must have been to women.

Richard Mulvaney, curator of the fine Bradman Museum which opened least year in Bowral, had told me at least half his 40,000 visitors during the past 12 months were women, but I attributed this to the generous tradition of husband (and possible father) humouring.

That was before old newsreel film shown during the TV interview revealed how stunningly, film-starringly beautiful Jessie Menzies was as a girl (and doubtless, as Lady Bradman and cherished wife of 58 years, still is). A man who could win such a prize would, indeed, have been a sex symbol, his glamour diminished not at all by his untouchability.

Bradman recalled on television that he and Jessie had both walked across the Bowral cricket oval to school: about the age of 10 or 12, he had decided to marry her.

“I didn’t tell her at the time,” he said. “I was too shy. But eventually I got around to asking her, and began the best partnership of my life.”

This laconic, elegant portrayal of romantic love made me realise why a newspaper headline writer of 1930 had thought it worth noting as the Don departed England: “Bradman still fancy free.”

There was more to him than troubadouring. When the robust and ruddy-faced 82-year-old legend spoke last night of the responsibility of providing a home and security for a new wife, it was as if he had it on his mind as something to deal with in the next few days of 1990. Memory of the anguish suffered by his hard-working father, a carpenter, during intermittent unemployment clearly stays with the Don.

“I didn’t have qualifications,” he recalled, “I wasn’t an accountant or a solicitor. I hadn’t been to university. I had nothing to fall back on.”

So, although the last thing Bradman wanted was to have a career based insecurely and intellectually stultifyingly on his cricket, he accepted employment with a triumvirate — a sporting goods firm, a newspaper and a radio station — and he and Jessie set themselves up during the hard year of 1932 in a rented half-house at McMahons Point, Sydney.

“We even had a swimming pool,” he said on the ABC. “Down the hill, in the harbour.”

How could women be indifferent to such a man — so loving and dependable, the ideal someone to watch over me?

Of course, doing the right thing has been the dominant theme of the Don’s life in all its facets. At first he was gauche and awkward about it. When he insisted that some of the credit for his success in England in 1930 belonged to the team-mates who “supported me”, he meant well but annoyed team-mates who saw themselves in leading rather than supporting roles.

There was an innocence about the young Bradman that makes totally credible his recollection of being amazed and shocked by the English use of bodyline bowling as a way of damping his brilliance. Rare newsreel footage shown last night of the bodyline assault demonstrates how ugly and mean-spirited the English behaviour was.

“Our skipper Bill Woodfull would never have used such tactics in any circumstances,” the Don said on ABC TV. Nor, it goes almost without saying, would have Bradman. His ethical values and sense of duty have never wobbled.

At 40, Bradman was most reluctant to lead the Australian cricketers on a tour of England in 1948. Among other inhibitions, he was trying to establish himself in Adelaide as a stockbroker in his own right, his stockbroking former employer having gone broke. But he appreciated the pleasure his presence would bring to the people of post-war, austerity Britain.

On that tour, he recalled, he prepared his speeches with special care “so they would be worthy of the occasion.”

No occasion comes to mind for which Bradman has not been worthy. In his last Test match innings, having been cheered to the wicket at The Oval in London, he was bowled second ball for a duck. Another four runs would have given him a Test batting average of 100. Somebody may average 100 one day, but only for Bradman will scoring nothing in his last innings be so amazing and so gracefully fitting.

Romantics have it that the Don’s vision was blurred by tears. All he would say on TV last night was that he might have survived the fatal delivery if “I had played more carefully”. On his long walk back from the wicket to the pavilion full of people standing to applaud him, the newsreel film shows Bradman brushing his batting glove across his face. As a legend, he has to put up with admirers believing that at least then the tears came.

The old gentleman was a dignifiedly reticent as ever when asked to name the high point of his career. He didn’t want to talk at all about his personal life. So he named a century he scored against England in difficult circumstances in 1948.

Then he grinned and added: “There are many exhilarating moments you think about in the middle of the night when you can’t sleep.” That’s the way it should be for old heroes.

***
2.
Frank Devine, “Watching cricket? No way, I’m studying it,”
The Australian, January 13, 1992, p. 9.

A usually friendly face appears at the doorway, “Still watching the cricket?” The tone is coldish.

Well, naturally I’m watching the cricket. What else would one be doing during Australia’s greatest cricketing summer — featuring a Test series, an international triangular contest of one-day matches and the World Cup?

Australian wives and other members of the female profession should realise they are not the only ones getting divided attention this year.

According to Sunil Gavaskar, about 100 million Indians watch the cricket telecasts from Australia.

Are Indian wives whingeing? Unquestionably. And if 100 million whingers are having no effect on the ratings, what chance do four million have? It’s kismet, honeybunch.

In any case, it is a mistake to consider us mere hedonists welded to the small screen by Tendulkar’s off-driving and Dean Jones’s fielding, and the melodrama of winning and losing. For the most part we are intellectuals looking for a parable of our times in the success of our cricketers. In case you never guessed it.

To climb from the pits to predominance the cricketers have employed quality control, competitiveness and incentive in a free-market context. Dedicated and principled leadership has been a help as well.

The quality of modern cricket is awesome. Don Bradman himself is said to have conceded recently that he would not have hit such big scores so fast if he had played today. Modern tactics and fielding skills would ration the number of balls he received and convert many of his boundaries to twos and threes.

Colin Bland, the great South African cover fieldsman, was considered such a phenomenon in his time that he used to entertain spectators before matches with displays of picking up and throwing. Neil Harvey in the covers and Bobby Simpson in the slips made people gasp at their maestro fielding. But most Australian Test crickets now field as well as Bland, Harvey and Simpson.

When Tom Moody threw out Brian Lara from 70m away at the Melbourne Cricket Ground a few nights ago, Richie Benaud marvelled that any batsman could be so foolish as to test the arm of Moody, “of all people”, by trying for a second run. To me, even trying for one run seems reckless when this Clark Kent of athletes is in the neighbourhood of a struck ball.

In the ambling days of pre-1975 cricket, Moody would have thrown out whole sides. So would Jones and Mark Waugh, whose defensive fielding on the fourth day of the Sydney Test against India last week was as brilliant and exciting as the scything batting of Tendulkar and Shastri.

What is more, fielding in cricket is still short of the standard of major league baseball. But cricket will match this as other countries chase Australian standards, and Australian kids take for granted that skilful running, throwing and catching will be as important as batting and bowling in lifting them to first grade, first class or international cricket.

Possibly a system is needed for recording fielding achievements. Baseball, whose fans also cherish statistical records, has a system based on errors assessed by expert referees. Maybe cricket could count runs saved as well as errors in compiling fielding averages.

Still on quality: for generations, coaching for correctness imprisoned batsmen. One of the reasons the self-taught Bradman dominated his era was that he instinctively, invariably and uniquely moved his feet to the position that made it most comfortable for him, personally, to hit the ball.

The Don faded to the leg side to smash deliveries through the off, pulled others past mid-on from well outside his off-stump. English persons deplored his lack of classic style.

Now all the best batsmen skip to the hitting position that suits them. Tendulkar and Viv Richards are unstylish?

Batting has acquired three dimensions. The conditioning of Test cricketers who were not Keith Miller made them think that hitting a ball in the air was a mortal sin. In the past 15 years the spectacular lofted cover drive and high slash over the slips have become standard in the repertoire of the best players.

Thanks to one-day games, hitting sixes is an ingredient of strategy rather than an indulgence of weirdos. With four runs an over a respectable scoring rate, you earn, in effect, 16 free deliveries if you manage to hit two sixes in an over. It is not by chance that Geoff Marsh, basically an anchorman, has become an effective six-hitter.

The quality of bowling has also improved significantly in the past 15 years. Once bowlers were, generally, either killers (Dennis Lillee) or stoppers (Ken Mackay, Derek Underwood). Now they are expected to be both every day, prepared to bowl for hours if necessary into a batsman’s “zone of uncertainty” and give him no hittable ball that is not part of grand strategy.

To my mind, Peter Taylor, a gutsy journeyman by today’s reckoning, is, for example, as good a bowler as Jim Laker, a superstar in his time. Taylor has more variation, if less spin, than Laker and a nervy alertness the Englishman lacked.

Laker’s neat, mechanical action seemed aim at just getting him through the day when the omens were unfavourable. Taylor’s ballet-like dance to the wicket gives him three moments of perfect balance, including a last-moment one, from which to study the batsman and alter the length, direction and pace of each delivery in response to tell-tale movements of feet or eyes.

Taylor needs to be alert for every ball he bowls because cricket is far more competitive than it used to be. The basic contest of bowler and fieldsmen against batsman, and home team against opponent, has intensified exponentially in the past 15 years. But the most razor-edged competition is between individuals for a place at the top.

Craig McDermott epitomises a true professional’s response to this competitive pressure. An overnight success at 20, he was pretty much washed up at 24. Good batsmen were untroubled by the deliveries he speared down the leg side because his porky body provided insufficient shoulder and hip pivot to direct it anywhere else.

As all cricket followers know, McDermott devoted two purgatorial years of ironman training to acquire a physique appropriate to his profession, and made it back to stardom because of his limitless stamina and deadly, hip-swivelling outswingers.

But all our top cricketers are striving in the McDermott mould, running, weight-lifting, swimming, endlessly practising technique and scrutinising videotapes of themselves and their rivals — not excluding opponents — for shortfalls on perfection. Watch the galvanised reaction of the players when Bob Simpson, the national coach, reaches for his baseball glove to put them through pre-match fielding practice and you understand what true competition is.

Competition for places isn’t even haphazard any more. The country is systematically scoured for talent to be developed at the national cricket academy in Adelaide, where equality of outcome never enters anybody’s mind.

Why do our present-day cricketers compete so hard? Because there is incentive, a chance to become rich and famous.

It is 15 years since Kerry Packer signed most of our leading players away from a Cricket Control Board monopoly. The cricketers leapt at Packer’s average offer of $25,000 a year. Now, though they are secretive about it, earnings from all sources for the dozen or so top performers are said to range from around $150,000 to $500,000.

Competition and incentive have also made watching cricket more enjoyable. Twenty years ago the Sydney Cricket Ground outside the members’ enclosure was a slum, the vaunted Hill a pigsty. Now all corners of the ground are habitable, and most parts downright comfortable.

Buy the cassette of the famous tied Test against the West Indies if you want to know what the ABC’s monopoly telecasts of cricket were like — but only if you have a taste for still-lifes on video. Where was StumpCam when we really needed it?

So give me a break, love. I’m not just watching cricket, I am learning what Australia can do when it acts like a clever country.

***
3.
Frank Devine, “There’s still plenty of the bright-faced boy in our Don,”
The Australian, May 30, 1996, p. 3.

The legend continues.

Ray Martin’s lovely interview on Channel Nine last night caught Sir Donald Bradman at the peak of his powers when you consider them in the context of 87 years of struggle and unmatched achievement.

The flashing and original mind, which played as large a part as any other attribute in shaping The Don’s phenomenal cricket career, seemed undimmed by the years.

His humour, memory and decisiveness dominated the discussion.

He must always have had this charisma, needing only the now fashionable world to catch up with him.

His face was youthfully smooth and rubicund, the rumpled skin around his neck alone hinting at great age. His slightly high-pitched, unhesitant voice sounded little different from that of his early manhood, when he faced newsreel cameras in a much stiffer and more self-conscious manner than he did the TV cameras last night.

Best of all, the smile that had cricket writers referring to him as “the bright-faced boy” in 1930 illuminated the small screen in 1996.

Here was a man — a truly great man — who has had the time and character to construct a life of integrity and accomplishment and look back on it with justified satisfaction.

The secret of his success?

Well, Bradman is a complex man, so his secrets are many. But it was clear from last night’s interview that he is not lacking in competitiveness.

In their garden in Adelaide, Martin asked first Don and then Lady Bradman what they thought of each other after 64 years of marriage.

“I think she’s the most wonderful person in the world,” Don replied.

“I think he is wonderful, too,” said the former Jessie Menzies.

“Here. Just a minute,” Don protested. “Ah, but that’s not as good as the most wonderful person in the world.”

All of the bright-faced boy was there. The record-eater, as well.

***
4.
Frank Devine, “Don Bradman’s living legend,”
The Weekend Australian, June 1-2, 1996, p. 25.

So that is what Don Bradman is like — a dignified but lively, warm and humorous old man, among the fortunate ones clearly born to be grandfathers. A grandson-like Ray Martin and the intervening televison cameras smoothed away the Don’s lifelong shyness, sometimes mistaken for and sometimes the cause of aloofness and occasional dourness.

It was not an actor’s performance. The 1.6 million Australians who watched Martin’s interview with Bradman on Channel Nine on Wednesday saw the phenomenal cricketer and almost mythical Australian hero as he always was or, at least, was always going to become as he rode out the tempests of celebrity and constructed a life of accomplishment and integrity.

What our grandparents saw nearly 70 years ago, when Bradman came up from Bowral and conquered the world is much harder to describe. Cricket tends to attract florid expression. One is tempted to compare the young Don with Robin Hood, giving solace and hope to the common-folk in dark times, or Daniel Boone, emerging from the backwoods to astonish the larger world with feats of marksmanship and bushcraft, or even with Peter Pan, a bright-faced boy who remains forever young for those who saw him when he actually was.

The trouble is that analogy doesn’t work with Don Bradman. He is unique. Comparisons have been made with Babe Ruth, but history separates them. The drinking, gambling, womanising, swaggering Ruth was a man of the reckless Great Gatsby 1930s. Bradman’s brilliance and virtue shone through the Orwellian gloom of the 30s.

It is fair to say that Bradman’s times made him, but he also significantly influenced the era of his magnificence. He was far more than an entertainer who cheered people up during the Great Depression.

They were however awful times when he shone most brilliantly.

During the fourth Test at Manchester in 1930, in which Bradman made only 14 of his unprecedented 974 runs for the series, Alice Brill, aged 23, died in Melbourne of starvation. Her husband had been out of work for six months. Their baby had died four months previously. Alice’s husband finally brought her to a hospital but by then it was too late to do anything for her. The couple was described as “having no means of any kind”.

Thousands less desperately unable to cope than Alice Brill and her husband also struggled daily for enough to eat in Australia. The P & O line tightened security at Australian ports to prevent people stowing away to escape privation. Country trains maintained speed on curving sections of track where they usually slowed down so the desperate unemployed could not jump on and hitch a ride to cities whose streets were already haunted by beggars.

During the 1930 Test series in England, during which Bradman, aged 21, devastated an almost indolently confident English team, Australia also received a visit from Sir Otto Neimeyer, emissary of the Bank of England. His task was to advise Australians against even thinking about welshing on their huge foreign debt, most of it owed to England.

It was, of course, sound advice but with the pinched appearance of a cartoon accountant and a coldly authoritarian manner, Neimeyer was not necessarily the most suitable person to deliver it. Summoning federal ministers, State ministers and Treasurers to a meeting, Neimeyer told them that Australia’s borrowings were being used to prop up a standard of living the country had not earned and which it could not longer sustain. Australians would have to tighten their belts and pull themselves together.

These harsh economic homilies seem to have deepened the mood of dejection in a country not entirely healed of its World War I grief and beginning to sense the universality of the hardship the Depression was to being.

Meanwhile …

At the heart of the empire greater than Rome’s there was a double century from the bright-faced boy from Bowral the first time he took strike on an English ground. A thousand runs before the end of May, which no foreigner and only four Englishmen had ever managed. Then the Tests, which even Australians expected the English to win after their demolition of Australia in the previous series: 131 that almost saved a match, 254 that won the next, a record 334 that would have won another if rain had not set it and 232 that gave Australia the Ashes 2-1. All these runs scored at a devastating pace no Test cricketer had (or has) been able to sustain for such big scores — except the 232, which took seven hours and 18 minutes of gritty application because England had started with a huge first innings and the Ashes depended on it.

What a hero! What solace for a discouraged country that there could be an Australian able to do something better than anybody ever had. Joy at giving the Poms a poke in the eye? There doesn’t seem to have been a lot of that in 1930. Australians were proud of being part of the empire and the thrill of Bradman’s achievements came from his being an Aussie and making it in the ultimate big time.

Moreover, he was not just an Aussie, but a mere kid — good-looking, smiling, perky but not up himself, wholesome and unassuming. Better still, he was a country kid and, better even than that, a country town kid rather than a country country kid.

I don’t think the Bradman legend would have achieved full dimension without the Bowral origins.

There is an unequivocal egalitarianism about country town beginnings. Even the most grisly farm lifestyle carries the land-owner stigma, and stigma it was to many Australians a few generations ago.

A country town boyhood is ideal, though. The gum trees, bare feet, swimming holes and spaciousness are there but no airs and graces.

Everybody was enthralled by young Bradman’s triumphal return to Australia in 1930, leaving the team (at his sporting goods employer’s request) at Fremantle and moving fast across the continent by train, plane and automobile, cheered by enormous crowds.

But many were gripped, as well, by the small drama of Bradman’s intensely shy and beloved mother, reluctant to be exposed to the crowds at Goulburn airport, waiting on the roadside near the Dapto Bridge, just outside Bowral, to greet her famous son.

The whole Bradman family fitted the country town mystique the nation wanted to surround them with: a father respected in the district as a good man and skilled carpenter, but quite often out of work because of the place and times, sisters who had “gone into service”, a robust, convivial elder brother who was a mechanic.

In addition, there was the beautiful girlfriend from the landed gentry, Jessie Menzies, who loved Bradman but had refused to become engaged before he went to England so the commitment would not restrict great opportunities for advancement she was sure he would find there.

His country town background helped make Bradman a truly national idol, too. When, in January 1930, he scored a world record 452 not out against Queensland, the flood of telegrams and postcards from the country — and the Black Stump bush — made it seem as if the atlas of Australia was speaking to him.

Bradman’s boy-from-Bowral persona undoubtedly ignited dreams and aspirations of many kinds among thousands of Australians — maybe, without getting too florid, even national dreams. If a kid from nowhere could work magic, what was there to stop a country on the outskirts of the empire?

I think Bradman’s homemade batting style was an inspiration, too. Even as a teenager he held fast against attempts by the most eminent cricketers to change it, and by doing so advanced the cause of doing it my way, Australian-style.

His sportsmanship and courtesy to opponents, never wavering, was as thrilling as anything about him. He hated losing, hated getting out — and never did it without grace.

Bodyline bowling scarred the Don to an extent that perhaps only he understands. But it moved Australians some important steps towards self-recognition and self-esteem. On flickery newsreel, the English tactics look grotesque, ridiculous. What is the point of bowling dangerously at batsmen’s bodies all the time with fields set so that they can neither defend nor attack? Winning, I guess, but ce n’est pas le cricket, as the French say.

Douglas Jardine, the English captain who devised and carried out bodyline, went to one of England’s most ghastly public schools, Winchester, during World War I when the school was at its ghastliest, hurrying students through so they could make it to the Western Front and such places. Dreadful food and plumbing, discipline verging on sadism and an attitude of superiority to non-Wykehamists were among the school’s hideous aspects.

A Winchester variation on rugby football involved players standing still while an opponent booted the ball at them from point blank range. To flinch was to bear the shame of it for life.

It was a bit different from the summer afternoons spent in Bowral by Don Bradman, wheedling his mother, “Come on, mum. Give us a bowl.” (Mrs Bradman was a steady left-hander by all accounts.)

Using his sharp brain, imagination and lightning footwork, Bradman did his best to crush bodyline. Winchester won, however, and England has had to bear the shame of it. Do we really want to be like them?, many Australians asked themselves. Not entirely, was a common response — and it has turned out to be all to the good for everybody.

The Don has never lost his great love of England, from which he has taken a sophistication and understanding of the world beyond anything he imagined as a boy in an Australian country town.

During the Ray Martin interview, he spoke of his final tour there in 1948 with a rare joyousness. For war-battered, austere England, the summer’s cricket was a continuous festival. For 40-year-old Bradman, still playing spectacularly, it was a gift-giving, a chance to say, “So long. Thanks for everything.”

Australia was then moving into a similar mode in its relations with Britain.

Although he convincingly denied ever having political ambitions, I think Bradman would have made a fine governor-general and I understand he declined an invitation to be South Australia’s governor.

Some people think it is disappointing that Bradman made no great public conquests after the age of 40. But he packed an epic into his first 40 years. Not Mawson, nor Florey, nor Melba, nor Dunlop — not even Ned Kelly or Errol Flynn — captured the Australian imagination the way Bradman has.

In part, that is because he got so many things so right for so long. The past 47 years, spent so privately in Adelaide, with family, in boardrooms and on golf courses, and in enjoyment of a 64-year marriage, contribute to a most shapely whole which, in its way, is an exemplary an achievement by a country town boy as those of the headlines days.

***
5.
Frank Devine, “Despite himself, our cricket victories are Taylor-made,”
The Australian, March 31, 1997, p. 13.

If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs … you’re captain material

Here is an argument for keeping Mark Taylor captain of the Australian cricket team:

When I lived with my family in Tokyo (olden days, the era is called) we had a friend who visited us every three months as captain of a ship carrying cargo from New Zealand. We welcomed him, not only because he brought with him as a gift scores of kilos of Australian sausages, just as the need for a sausage fix was becoming unbearable, but because he was an interesting man and merry companion.

But no matter how much life was still left in a party we were never able to persuade him to stay overnight. He was determined always to sleep aboard his ship.

In other words, he never stopped being captain.

That is true also of Taylor, whether he is chewing gum thoughtfully at first slip or confronting microphones and television cameras with terrible diction but great equanimity.

A modern national cricket captain needs to be more than a setter of fields and manager of a bowling rotation. He is an auteur, a bit like a movie director, responsible for entertaining a hundred million or so viewers with exciting action involving attractive performers.

Taylor, by good fortune, is up to that but I don’t think the Australian tradition of choosing the 11 best players and appointing one of them captain is likely to turn up many George Millers or Bruce Beresfords.

The first-among-equals concept of captaincy has been visibly in decay since Rodney Hogg, by far the best fast bowler the Australian Cricket Board could find after Packer cricket hired away the stars, got away with putting himself on to bowl and taking himself off irrespective of the wishes of his captain, Graham Yallop. It increased in decrepitude when the contemptuous behaviour of Rod Marsh, Dennis Miller and other veterans helped drive Kim Hughes to tearful resignation.

Dogged and likable, Alan Border had the respect of his players but under his one-of-the-blokes captaincy, John McEnroeism burst forth. The Australians did not win often enough to become the team you love to hate — like the West Indies under the swaggering aggression of Viv Richards. But they became a sour, hoonish lot; a clannish, in-group answerable only to that group and a team whose successes it was hard to take much pleasure in.

It is one of Taylor’s achievements that he is able to live comfortably within the team and still view it dispassionately from outside.

Mind you, the unlovability of Australian cricketers of the recent past is not wholly to blame for attendances at the Tests in South Africa being so poor that television cameras self-consciously looked away from the emptiest grandstands (finding, happily, an excellent substitute for crowd scenes in the beauty of South African women). Nor are memories of ugly Australianism the reason why free-to-air television networks are so gingerly in accepting cricket broadcast rights the courts keep thrashing on them.

Cricket has simply never had so much competition. A couple of years ago in England, a wet day drove me to watching the snooker championship of the world on television. Next day, when the sun came out, I had to be dragged away from it. Snooker — yes, snooker! — is a very televisable game.

Only on the subcontinent could cricket at present be called a popular craze, and it is there — because of acts of churlishness that predate the forfeit of a World Cup match in Sri Lanka and finger-pointing at Salim Malik as a bookies’ tout — that Australian cricketers are most unpopular.

Because of the all the competition, no international cricket team can afford, for its own sake and the sake of the game’s survival in the mainstream of sports entertainment, to be loutish, mean-spirited or boring — even for a moment.

That’s why it needs the auteur captain who is never off-duty.

Taylor has a gift of calm command matched only, in my opinion, by Wasim Akram of Pakistan, among today’s captains.

It was a revelation to see Akram gaze pityingly at an outfielder who had thrown the ball in wildly during a one-day game in Australia this season and then tap his head significantly. There may have been an element of, “You are an idiot” in the studied gesture, but the central message was “Think!” The whole team got it and Pakistan’s fielding, which had grown slovenly, tightened up immediately.

An auteur captain generates excitement by his presence on the field.

When South Africa started the third day’s play of the recent Second Test at Port Elizabeth 184 runs ahead, with all its wickets intact, it was Taylor’s imperturbable purposefulness that created suspence where there was not much reason for any to exist. McGrath, Gillespie, Warne and Bevan cut the South Africans down in a morning but it is questionable if they could have managed it under a commander less focused on the moment.

In the Third Test, after Ian Healy was suspended for glowering and gesturing at the umpires and throwing his bat, Taylor made a commander’s comment that his vice-captain was an experienced player who knew what the rules were. There was no support for conduct that amounts, when you are losing, to whingeing, but no unctuous homilies to humiliate and anger a fellow grown-up either. This was top auteur choreography.

It would be nice if Taylor scored some runs. The selectors did him harm as a defensive left-handed batsman by breaking up his successful opening partnership with Michael Slater, a young Test veteran, right-hander and hard hitter. It concentrates the attention and builds the inventiveness of bowlers wonderfully when they don’t have to change fields every second ball and face no risk of being hit for 12 in an over.

If Taylor recovers his run-scoring productivity, well and good. But there is no alternative auteur captain in sight if he doesn’t.

The search for one should proceed with vigour. If he can bat and bowl like Akram, what a bonus!

***
6.
Frank Devine, “Taylor slays the knockers with pride,”
The Australian, June 12, 1997, p. 11.

Walk tall, aim high: our cricket captain is one helluva Gary Cooper

If I’m a man I must be brave
And I must face the deadly killer
Or lie a coward, a craven coward
Or lie a coward in my grave.

Bill Collins may not have known there was a Test match coming up (or know that one is just over) but his instincts served him well when he re-ran High Noon on Foxtel on the eve of Mark Taylor’s great match at Edgbaston.

Admitting to an addiction to westerns and to cricket probably reveals more about my inner life than I would usually be willing to divulge, but the combination brought me to such a transcendent level of being during the weekend that, frankly, I don’t give a damn.

I hope Collins is picking suitable Test-eve movies for the remaining five Ashes games.

Taylor’s matter-of-fact, untremulous walk to the wicket on Saturday for what may well have been his last moments in international cricket was a virtual replica of Gary Cooper’s lonely march down the dusty main street to confront the gunmen waiting for him at the railroad depot in Fred Zimmerman’s quite good movie with its famous and now eerily topical theme song.

I’m not afraid of death
But what will I do if you leave me?

A lot of Taylor’s admirers had forsaken him after his 18 months without a Test half-century. To my discredit I said on radio the day the Test began that “it would be wonderful” if Taylor got a score, instead of predicting he would make 129 in the second innings. Now I know how the townspeople felt, trying to live with themselves after they let Cooper’s Marshal Will Kane down so badly.

But I guess desertion was in the essence of both dramas, as was Taylor’s first innings failure in the cricketing one.

The deadly killer he faced was the end of self esteem, a painful form of death for a man of 32 with considerable heights to fall from.

Many were the ways for Taylor to lie a coward in his grave. Quitting while he was behind would have been the mildest form of checking out. Losing his cool, disputing umpires’ decisions, going into hiding to avoid reporters’ relentless questioning, blaming somebody else for his failures, raging against critics, developing psychosomatic ailments, whining — these would all have been actions touching on the craven, if understandable.

Instead, Taylor brought such openness and gallantry to his struggle that it affected even the kind of people who deride companions for nodding over their toast at breakfast after a hard night’s cricket watching. “How did Mark Taylor do?” they asked.

It was a temptation not to tell them. How, though, could one hold back the news on Sunday morning that he was 108 not out?

They couldn’t be denied that, but lacked the understanding to have pointed out to them the resemblance of Mark Taylor, unsmiling and defiant, holding his bat aloft after passing 100 — aiming it straight up, not vengefully at the press box or barrackers — and Cooper fingering his marshal’s badge after he knocked over the villains on his own.

Nor was it worth the trouble drawing the attention of the uncultured to the parallel between Taylor’s wife winning $500 with a $20 bet at 25-1 on Mark’s scoring a century, and Grace Kelly blowing away one of Cooper’s assailants with a shotgun.

Taylor has proved himself an even bigger man than Will Kane, who threw his badge at the feet of his deserters and rode away. Taylor continues in command of the cricket team he has transformed by his intelligence and the force and grace of his personality. Indeed, he never lost it, to judge from the exultation of his team-mates (eventually seen by me on ABC TV news; anyway, who needs the Nine Network’s whimsical glimpses when there is radio?) as he reached his century.

No Australian cricket captain since Richie Benaud has come with such timeliness to his hour of destiny. The game had ground to terminal tediousness when Benaud’s Australians took on the West Indians led by Frank Worrell, their first black and greatest captain, in the 1960-61 season. The previous summer Trevor Bailey had taken seven hours to score 68, and the average daily output of runs for that notorious Test had been just over 140.

But 1960-61 transformed everything, beginning in Brisbane with the first-ever tied Test and continuing through a ding-dong contest that Australia won, only just, 2-1.

In A Tale of Two Tests Benaud tells how Don Bradman addressed the Australian team before the start of the tied Test and “told us he felt this could be a wonderful year of cricket, [that this was the season in which] cricket would come back into its own. It all depended on the players.”

At tea on the last day, with Australia needing 123 runs to win and six wickets down, Bradman asked the new captain: “What are you going for, Richie — a win or a draw?” Benaud replied: “A win, of course.” Bradman said: “I’m very pleased to hear it.”

As well he might have been. At the end of the tour at least 100,000 people turned out in Melbourne to cheer the West Indies on their way to the airport. The two captains, gentlemen and sportsmen, had collaboratively created one of Australia’s most exhilarating summers.

When Taylor became captain of the Australian XI its players had descended into the worst kind of rugby league (or soccer) oafishness. Taylor first made them likable, and then winners — causing the English to slump into hang-dog listlessness.

Now both sides gleam with character. When Taylor got his century the English captain, Mike Atherton, unobtrusively gripped his hand in friendship.

Is this Benaud and Worrell revisited? Could this be one of the great cricket seasons?

I can’t be leavin’
I can’t be leavin’
Until I shoot Jack Miller dead.

I don’t know how many Jack Millers work in Fleet Street, where gloating over Australia’s First Test loss surpassed the wildest excesses of Count Dracula on his birthday, but if I were any of them I would be ready to leave town quickly before summer’s end.

***
7.
Frank Devine, “Hail, Tubby — role model for the modern man,”
The Australian, August 15, 1997, p. 17.

We don’t need a third umpire to prove that Mark Taylor should stay on as captain

What for Mark Taylor now his team has won the Ashes? Chairman of BHP? Not only is Taylor skillful at lifting the performance of colleagues (including nursing them through stress fractures), he has a technical and technological background, having qualified as a surveyor.

Add to these qualifications Taylor’s forthrightness, even-handed good humour in dealing with ideological opponents, and a whinge-free personality, and you also have the ideal man to take charge at the ABC.

Personally I hope we can count on him for another year or two as Australian cricket captain, where his high visibility makes him, among other useful roles, an exemplar for boys and young men made confused and downcast by radical feminism.

When Australia won the series against England on Monday morning some Australian players engaged in the disconcerting phallic symbolism of the spurting champagne bottle.

Taylor embraced his wife and tenderly kissed his two small sons. It is hard to think of a more resplendent demonstration of masculinity.

Given the vicissitudes of this present tour of England — the near-constant rain, pitch-rigging by the English, injuries, his own prolonged inability to score any runs and the stumbling, end-over-end loss of the one-day series and the first Test — it is astonishing that the worst thing it was ever possible to say about Taylor is that he couldn’t bat. Even that is probably wrong.

His century in the second innings of the first Test, scored when, for the first couple of hours, the end of his career might have been one ball away, and his accomplished 67 and 45 in the important (to winning the series) fifth Test, have given him a series total of 260 runs. He will probably push on to 300 or so during the sixth Test, with an average in the 30s — usually considered journeyman adequate. None of Taylor’s runs have been easy ones. Twice he went in first on pitches deliberately made spiteful for the benefit of English opening bowlers. Taylor says he has been batting well in the past few weeks. I accept his opinion as judicious and well-informed.

Neil Harvey’s assertion that Australia has been playing England with 10 men shows that his prolonged effort to become a grumpy old man (an honourable masculine estate) has been successful. Taylor’s three good innings and his slip catching make him a reasonable Test selection. In any case, his desperate early batting problems were, dramatically, the making of the series.

Then there is his captaincy. He has shaped his victorious cricketers into an ensemble. Five batsmen have made centuries so far. Four bowlers took five wickets in an innings. No fieldsman is a likely catch dropper or wild thrower. Every bowler tries hard to bat and nobody felt the pain of being hopeless more than Glenn McGrath. Ian Healy’s intensity is epic. He will make a terrific grumpy old man.

Ensemble playing is the director’s creation. In rugby, Sean Fitzpatrick’s escaped-gorilla command style (authentically masculine, if a shade traditional) is the reason why three All Blacks seem always on hand at points of crisis when opponents have every reason to expect only one.

Taylor’s ostensibly laid-back manner is no less assertive. His evening and morning strategy seminars — What have we done? What must we now do? — bind his players into a juggernaut that rolls over loose collections of 11 individuals. The English shoulder-droop seldom afflicts Taylor’s men because they always play with a purpose.

When Steve Waugh was out in the second Australian innings of the fifth Test and Australia five down for (possibly) not enough, Ricky Ponting and Healy eviscerated the Brits by continuing the tearaway batting pace Taylor had ordained as strategically desirable for that morning’s play.

Taylor has been decisive, as usual, because he has no fear of shouldering the blame for mistakes. He has won the toss five times in a row and has made the right choice of whether to bat or bowl four times. On two of the occasions Taylor chose to bat he was fully conscious of putting himself in the cannon’s path as a struggling opening on a ratbag pitch.

He is also decisive because he knows that losing is the inseparable companion of winning. Not for Taylor the glib triumphalism of a Sydney newspaper that boasted of Australia’s success, on the weekend of the fifth Test win, at swimming, athletics, basketball, baseball, women’s soccer, tennis, rowing, surfing, sailing and possibly knitting. It was reminiscent of the embarrassing excesses that accompanied Australia’s winning a million medals against great powers such as Nauru in the last Commonwealth Games.

Real men know that the struggle is always on and you’ve got to take it as it comes.

Naturally, Taylor offered neither complaint nor alibi while in the batting horrors. When there was uncertainty about a catch he gave in the fifth Test, Taylor settled it (at day’s end, of course; he is not a mug): “That was okay. I touched it.”

Only after the fourth Test at Edgbaston, when the English brandished their wickedness by calling the chairman of selectors back from his holiday in Spain for consultation about the sort of pitch he wanted, did Taylor take umbrage at his opponents’ turf trickery. He did not grumble or wail but with firm dignity lodged a formal protest.

To Mike Atherton, the English captain, Taylor was unvaryingly cordial and unpatronisingly sympathetic. He never failed to congratulate English players who did well. Fleet Street’s poisoned darts glanced off him.

Taylor, I think, has done for cricket what the ducally masculine Jack Nicklaus did in setting standards for golfers and Andre Agassi, the real man as boulevardier, did in repairing the damage done to tennis by screeching brats.

Shane Warne, it is said, will inspire a new generation of leg-spinners. Good-oh. But Taylor’s example may create a new generation of Australian men’s men — for which men will not be the only ones to offer thanks.