My Family's Keeper

by Brad Haddin

  We were away at Bendigo, up against Victoria. In the previous two games Merv had bowled smartly and economically, but before this one he said to me, ‘You’ll see the real Merv Hughes today and if you young blokes are ever going to fire I want it to be this game.’ The Bushrangers’ well-seasoned team included big-hitting Brad Hodge; bowler Damien Fleming, halfway through his impressive international career; and dead-set legend Dean Jones, whose aggressive, high-energy approach had pretty much changed the way everyone played the one-day game. Deano, as he was known, was almost four years past the end of his international career, but, as I discovered, he hadn’t softened at all.

  They won the toss and sent us in to bat. Mike Veletta, captaining the Comets, was still experimenting with the batting order and he’d put me at number five. We were 3 for 28 when I went out to partner Peter Solway. As I approached the wicket, Dean Jones, who was fielding at mid-on, walked up to me. I’d gone into the game determined to watch him closely, wanting to absorb whatever I could of his uncompromising way of playing.

  As he got closer, I ran through the possibilities of what he might be about to say to me. This was the bloke who in 1986 (with a bit of sharp encouragement from his captain, AB) had dug so deep to produce a crucial 210 in the killing heat of Madras (Chennai as it’s called now) that when it was over he collapsed and had to be taken to hospital and given intravenous fluid. (Funnily enough, Mike Veletta had been the other big contender for the spot Deano got in that Madras game, and they didn’t know who was going to be chosen right up until the last minute.) Maybe, knowing I was a young bloke coming up through the ranks, Deano was going to say something to make me feel a bit more at ease. Guess again. What came out of his mouth was, ‘You don’t deserve to be on the same field as me,’ and then he turned on his heel and walked away. Jeez, I thought to myself, that’s different.

  I was definitely taken aback, but only for a moment — the game wasn’t going to wait for me. I thought about the conversations I’d had with Dad about more senior players’ attempts at intimidation and what it signified. Why would Dean Jones, the Dean Jones, waste his time coming up and doing that? Were they worried about the result or something? Righto then, I said to myself, let’s give them reason to worry. Bring it on.

  The attempts to throw me off my game continued, with bowler Brad Williams spitting and snorting and Damien Fleming giving it his best too. I found it funny. The more relaxed I got, the more annoyed they got, and the more annoyed they got, the more I enjoyed it. Sol and I were having a great time out there. I ended up hitting 89 off 91 balls and he got 73; we learned afterwards that our 174 off 182 balls had set a domestic one-day record for a fourth-wicket partnership.

  When it was their turn to bat, I saw what Merv had been talking about: he took the handbrake off and we all got a true look at why he’d been such a class performer for Australia for so long. The Victorian team had thought they’d had us beaten back when our third wicket had fallen. Instead, they fell 15 runs short of our 250 total and we claimed a history-making victory for the Comets. The whole side was ecstatic. We felt like the ACT had really been accepted as a legitimate competitor. For me, being awarded Player of the Match was the icing on the cake.

  I didn’t say anything to Dean Jones coming off the field. I didn’t have to; the results spoke for themselves. And I never held it against him — why would I, when it spurred me to unleash my own competitive edge so effectively? (I do, however, enjoy reminding him of that game, and I get the opportunity to do so because he coaches Islamabad United, the Pakistan Super League Twenty20 team for which I’ve played in recent years. The first time I mentioned it over a beer I said, ‘Do you remember saying that to me?’ He replied, ‘I don’t remember it specifically, but I would have done. Yeah, it’s exactly what I would have said. You’re probably saying the same things now to young players.’ I had to laugh. I said, ‘No, Deano, not as harsh as that.’ ‘Oh well,’ he said, ‘at least you remembered it.’)

  Our next match was three weeks later, back home in Canberra, against NSW. It would be nice to be able to report that we were able to continue our winning ways, but with a team that included Australian captain Mark Taylor as well as leg-spinner Stuart ‘Magilla’ MacGill, keeper Phil Emery and all-rounder Shane Lee and his brother Brett, the Blues had it all over us. There was no chance of Peter Solway and me replicating our previous success: Magilla caught and bowled Peter for 34 and snagged me for just six. It’s always better to win than to lose, but losing against a side as powerful as that was a real learning experience, showing me what some of the best in the business looked like up close. I remember thinking I’d never seen a ball turn as much as MacGill’s or witnessed such an effective wrong ’un. I itched to have the chance to be on the NSW team keeping for him.

  We only had two more games, and we lost both, but again they gave me exposure to a lot of notable players — some established, some on the rise. They included Mike Hussey, Adam Gilchrist, Ryan Campbell, Damien Martyn, Tom Moody and Simon Katich, all part of the talent-packed WA side, and Matthew Hayden, Andrew Symonds and Stuart Law, playing for Queensland, who beat NSW to claim the Cup. We were never in danger of getting into the finals but we’d performed a lot better than anyone expected us to, so much so that we finished sixth overall. And who was below us, at the bottom of the ladder? Victoria. It worked for me.

  During that first Cup season with the Comets, in addition to everything I learned about the game, I found out a lot about how to handle things off the field as well, mostly from big Merv. Any cricket fan who’d watched him play knew what a character he was, and he was exactly the same in person: larger than life, the ultimate larrikin. He loved to go out and celebrate a win but was equally happy to go to the Kingston Hotel for steak, beers and a bit of fun after training or any other old time. His passion for the game was incredible and he was terrific company. We had some great, great nights at the Kingo.

  Merv was instantly recognisable and would draw attention wherever we went. This was pre-selfies, but strangers were constantly coming up to him asking for his autograph or just wanting to talk to him. Other people might have got irritated with it after a while, but he handled himself amazingly well, keeping everything friendly and good-natured and easy. Of course, now and then there were idiots who wanted to have a go at him; these were often blokes who were worse for wear after too many drinks and thought they’d set him straight on his greatest cricketing mistakes. But Merv never rose to the bait. He didn’t let it get to him; he just brushed it off or ignored it. He was a great example in that regard.

  He was also a great role model the morning after the night before. He was a thirsty man when he was out, but despite his happy-go-lucky persona and the fact that his serious playing days were behind him, he would always turn up to training ready to go. He didn’t make a big deal of it; in fact, just the opposite: he took it for granted that that’s what you did. He provided the perfect example of the professionalism required of a top-level athlete.

  There was, however, one area where his choices were questionable: post-game attire. He’d been around change rooms all his life and if he ever had any physical modesty it was long gone. He was quite happy to wander around in a towel far too small to cover that great hairy carcass. On one memorable occasion at Manuka Oval, Dad and my cousin Peter came across to the change room for a beer after a game and Merv strolled out looking like Bigfoot in a scrap of material that left little to the imagination. Peter reckons his eyeballs were so badly scarred he’s never been the same since.

  When I wasn’t playing with the Comets, I continued to play for ANU’s first-grade team, as did Peter Solway, Stuart Karppinen and Hall O’Meagher. We had a great season, culminating in making it to the three-day 1997–98 Grand Final against a Queanbeyan team that included Higgsy. The ill-feeling between the teams was stronger than ever, making our Premiership victory all the sweeter. It was the perfect way to wrap up what had been an incredibly formative and rewarding five years with ANU — an experienc
e that laid the foundation for everything that followed.

  At the end of the Mercantile Mutual Cup tournament, Karpps and I were selected for a notional ‘Best of the Competition’ team and I was honoured to be chosen as Recruit of the Year against some very stiff competition. (I was also very happy to see Sol named the Comets’ Player of the Year.) Cricket ACT officials urged me to stay on for another summer with the Comets. I thanked them but I knew that if I was going to get my shot at the big league it was time to make the move to Sydney so I could be well settled into a new club in time for the 1998–99 season.

  I’d attracted plenty of attention from people whose business it was to keep an eye on upcoming talent, putting me in the fortunate position of having my choice of Sydney cricket clubs. Dad and I met with a number of them and they presented some attractive offers, including a university club that offered enrolment to study with a scholarship to cover fees, accommodation on campus and even a part-time job. It was a generous package, but my view remained that I couldn’t study and have a full-tilt go at a sporting career at the same time. Among the offers from the other contenders, it wasn’t enticements that interested me. My question was always, ‘How will you help make me a better cricketer?’

  When it came to answering that question, one organisation stood out head and shoulders above the rest: Northern Districts Cricket Club. It had a great tradition, dating back to the 1920s, and had nurtured many good players, including Neil Harvey, Alan Davidson and, most famously, Mark Taylor. The club’s home ground was Waitara Oval (since renamed Mark Taylor Oval) and I knew from playing there against the New Zealand Under-19s that it was a good, flat wicket. Other young players heading there included my mates Dominic Thornely and Higgsy. They were both, like me, new to Sydney life and it was another plus that the club’s officials understood the kind of guidance we needed.

  The officials assured me of the keeper role in first grade and were happy with my request to bat at number four. All of that was important, but the real deciding factor for me was the presence of Neil ‘Harpo’ Marks, who had been with the club from boyhood, had gone on to play Sheffield Shield, later served as mentor to Tubby Taylor, and, by the time I joined, was a selector for NSW. It’s the job of a selector to get around to a wide range of clubs and see a whole lot of different players, and they absolutely do that. But it’s only common sense that they’re going to be most familiar with the players they see the most often, the ones from their own club. Northern Districts was the place for me.

  In theory I had experienced living away from home during my time at the Cricket Academy. In terms of being away from friends and family that was true, but it wasn’t really independent living — our meals and accommodation were all provided, we didn’t have to pay bills and we were told where to go and what to do. Living in Sydney was going to be very different, but the club put things in place to make the transition as easy as possible. They organised jobs for me on the sales staff of the Wetherill Park Sportscene shop and coaching at an indoor cricket centre on Friday nights, and arranged for me to board for a little while with one of the club’s stalwarts, management committee member Rocky Harris, whom I’d known in his role as team manager of the NSW Under-17s when I was playing in that age group.

  Playing at Waitara you always knew when Rocky had turned up because you’d smell his distinctive cigar smoke. He had a great love for the club and took huge enjoyment in seeing me and Dom Thornely hitting the ball around the ground. He always had a tip on the races to share, although I used to joke with him that the best way to slow a horse down was for Rocky to back it! He was one of the thousands of largely unsung heroes that keep cricket going in this country. He served on the Northern Districts’ committee for a total of 20 years, and whatever needed doing around the club he would do. He also umpired at first-class level and had even officiated in a One Day International. Rocky was 65 when he and his wife Hazel took me in but, far from fading into retirement, he had just the previous year started what turned out to be a 15-year stint as room attendant for visiting interstate and international teams at the SCG. (When he died, at the age of 80 in 2013, Richie Benaud said, ‘The Sydney Cricket Ground will never be the same without him.’)

  From Rocky’s I moved into a shared flat with Higgsy and Dom. I didn’t seek out Cricket NSW; I just kept my head down and focused on performing well at Northern Districts, aware of the leg-up that my experience with the Comets had given me over many of the other young hopefuls out there. Between my consistently good results and the fact that I was on Neil Marks’s radar, it didn’t take long for the NSW development team to approach me and offer me a place in the Colts Under-21s development squad. They put me on a rookie contract that paid a token amount, just $2000 a year, but, much more importantly, included the opportunity to train with the state team.

  The steps most people took towards playing for NSW were being chosen for the Colts, then moving up to the state’s Second XI, then finally being awarded the Baggy Blue cap that had been worn by everyone from Don Bradman and Bill O’Reilly to Mark and Steve Waugh, Michael Slater and Glenn McGrath, who were then among the stars of the team. My path was much shorter.

  The Blues’ wicketkeeper was Phil Emery, who had been in the position since 1988 and had captained the team to Sheffield Shield victory. Talented as he was, Phil had played only a single Test match and a single one-dayer for his country, for reasons that were all about timing: his career just happened to overlap almost exactly with Ian Healy’s. His chance to play for the national teams had come as a result of Heals injuring his thumb, but then it was over almost before it had begun. It was the classic keepers’ situation: with only one pair of gloves to fill, many gifted players miss out. But while Emmers would have loved to have played more, he appreciated the experiences he’d had and he wasn’t bitter. He loved the Blues and never, ever saw his spot in the state team as a consolation prize. That made a real impression on me.

  His understudy in the squad was a keeper named Craig Glassock, who had been on the scene since 1994 and was considered next in line whenever Phil decided it was time to step down. Respectfully, as the new kid on the block, I approached Craig at my very first training session and asked if I could catch some balls with him. He said, ‘No, I’m going to catch over here.’ Ah, right then. Well I couldn’t just stand around like a shag on a rock, so I took myself over to Phil Emery and asked if he needed some catches. He did, and that was the beginning of an invaluable 12 months that basically formed the next stage of my apprenticeship.

  I didn’t do much catching myself with him — I was there to throw and hit endless balls to help him in his preparation. But by doing that I got an outstanding education. We built a good relationship and he answered countless questions. A lot of it was technical. He would tell me to hit balls to him in certain ways to certain spots. When we took a break I’d ask him why he’d made those choices, what he was working on. I’d also draw on his huge match experience, asking him, ‘What happens when it kicks out of the rough, or when it’s keeping low? Where do you stand?’ He’d come back from playing a Shield game and we’d talk specifics about the wicket: ‘Perth bounces a lot these days, so what you need to do is . . .’ or ‘The SCG turns big on the last day so the things to remember are . . .’ I absorbed it all and stored it away in my mental encyclopedia.

  Emmers also taught me a huge amount about the mental side of the game and about earning the right to play. He spoke a lot about what playing for NSW meant, about the proud tradition encapsulated in the Baggy Blue and what it signified to play for the most successful side in the world at the state/province/county level. I understood. The cap demanded success of those who wore it; they were the best in the game and as a kid coming through the ranks you had to earn the right to be around them.

  The 1998–99 Colts squad was full of talented guys who had come from all around the state, including Nathan Bracken, Phil Jaques, Dom Thornely and Greg Mail. We were all hungry to succeed and we worked well together. Our coach was Tr
evor Bayliss. Originally from Goulburn, just up the highway from Queanbeyan, TB was another person with a deep love for NSW. He’d played eight seasons there, including 1989–90 when he hit 992 runs at an average of 55.11 an innings and was voted Player of the Year by his teammates. He and I began building a relationship during my time in the Colts and TB became a key part of my career and is someone whose opinion I still value greatly.

  Very early in the season we pulled off a juicy win against the NSW Second XI. These were the guys who were, in theory, all lined up ready to step into the top team. They were meant to be better than us and so people seemed to expect us to feel intimidated going into the game, but we didn’t at all. In fact, our view was they were just marking our places for us. As far back as I can remember I’ve known that if you walk into any kind of sporting contest assuming it’s hopeless because you’re outclassed, you’ll prove yourself right. No-one’s going to hand you a victory; you have to take it. And that’s just what we did. We went out there and knocked them off and felt good about it.

  Frustratingly, the NSW selectors didn’t give us much indication that what we were doing was of interest. We certainly didn’t expect to just walk into the Shield team, but there were other opportunities they might have considered us for, including the List-A team that played in the Mercantile Mutual Cup. Near the end of 1998, the Comets called me up and asked if I would reconsider my decision not to play a second summer with them. They’d been having a very mixed time of it, including a reasonable loss to NSW, a very solid victory over Tasmania and a nine-wicket thrashing by Queensland. Going into the season, the selectors had hired a big-hitting English batsman with designs on a Test career, Chris Adams, to give them some extra fire power. It hadn’t worked out. Adams’s heart was never in it — he later admitted that within a few days of landing in Australia he regretted signing the deal. He only played three games before getting back on a plane and going home. The Comets had a hole to fill and the governing body had just changed the rules so that Canberra players who had moved to other states were still eligible to play for the ACT, as long as they hadn’t yet represented their new state. I fitted the bill, which is why they were now calling me.