Not that I was an innocent kid. Ask my parents, and they’ll say how crazy I drove them. I was full of cheek. I remember getting into all sorts of trouble in a caravan park, on holidays, for ambushing Dad’s stepfather and turning a hose on him full-bore.
Having said that, I was blessed to have two pairs of doting grandparents. Nan Conder, Dad’s mother, never cared too much about cricket and wouldn’t know if I was playing; all she cared about was that I was happy and healthy and safe. My cousin Phillip and I were her favourites. We would go to Dad’s sister Aunty Anne’s house for Christmas lunch, and the only people Nan would peel prawns for were Phillip and me. Nan Conder and Dad’s stepfather, Jacky, lived a lot of their lives in caravan parks, which were like great playgrounds for us when we visited. I gave them cheek from time to time, but they were fantastic grandparents.
Mum’s parents, Pop and Nan Fox, were more cricket-focused. Nan Fox wouldn’t miss a game, even if it was because Pop would drag her along to everything. When we went to visit them at Bundeena, she cooked my favourite breakfast, bacon and eggs, and loved us to bits. This didn’t mean I was perfectly behaved for them either. On one occasion, Pop, who indulged and encouraged me every day, got very cranky at me. He’d bought me a pushbike, and I rode it at Bundeena. There were two steep hills near the house, and I got it into my head that having brakes on a bike slowed it down. I cut the brake cables and removed the pads. Thinking I would stop the bike, if I needed to, with my shoe on the back tyre, I hurtled down the hill. Pop went off his head.
As I became a teenager, my smart-arse behaviour got worse. With my mates all being older than me, I figured I could do whatever they did. If they back-chatted adults, I copied them. We all got into trouble once for riding an unlicensed motorbike through Miller Technical High School. If the others were up to pranks, lighting fires or throwing eggs at houses, I was in there with them. We would rip out letter boxes and try to sell them at the indoor centre. On an indoor cricket tour to the Gold Coast, Steve Phillips and I, who were too young to go out with the boys to the pub, went out and bought a carton of eggs and waited on the balcony for our teammates to come home. We bought a heap of fruit, too. When they staggered back, we lobbed our projectiles at them, and we weren’t bad throwers either.
But I wasn’t smart enough to get away with much. It was a small world, and everyone knew whose son I was. Every whisper of trouble always found its way back to Mum and Dad. One time, Leanne and I got into all sorts of strife after a visit to the local Mobil service station. When Dad came home late that afternoon, he found Leanne and me with Daniel and Melanie Kent working our way through a big picnic of lollies on the pavement in front of our garage. We claimed that we were just with Daniel and Melanie when the lollies had migrated out of the servo, but Dad wouldn’t have a bar of it. He dragged us all back to the Mobil to own up and repay the owner – who knew him, of course, and knew us. We never had any hope of getting away with it. Mum and Dad had two golden rules: Don’t lie, and don’t steal. Leanne and I maintained that we hadn’t broken either; Mum and Dad considered that we’d broken both.
There had to be limits, but I was the type of kid who often chose to learn my lessons the hard way. When I was about 15 or 16 years old and getting more of a taste of independence, going away on cricket trips and spending more and more time with older boys who had looser ways, I was turning into a real smart-arse. One night in a game at the indoor centre, Dad noticed that our throws were having a suspicious tendency to hit opposition players in the back instead of hitting the stumps. Knowing that we were pretty good throwers, Dad guessed that we were doing it on purpose. Thinking I was an 18- or 19-year-old, I back-chatted, and it ended up in an ugly confrontation between Dad and me.
I’d definitely gone too far. For the next two weeks we didn’t speak to each other, and the silence was agony. Dad wasn’t one of my ‘big brothers’; he was more important than that. The freeze between us brought home how much I loved Dad’s company, and he was silently teaching me a lesson. I could lark around and act the dickhead as much as I liked, but I had bigger things at stake. A future in cricket was not just a possibility now, but close to becoming a reality.
My relationship with my family was everything. Dad had drawn a line in the sand to say, ‘Carry on the way you’re going and you’ll give everything away.’ After that incident, my attitude changed completely. I knuckled down at cricket training and took life more seriously. It certainly didn’t cure the smart-arse in me forever, but it showed me at an impressionable age that if I thought I could skate along with the big boys and be one of the pack in Liverpool, that was where I would remain for my life.
It was a turning point. For my whole boyhood, to stay in that area was all that I dreamed of. To be the cheeky youngster following his mates in a circle bounded by home, school, Green Valley, Elizabeth Drive, Mr Ko’s Chinese, Schell Park and the indoor centre – to be honest, there was a part of me that couldn’t think of anything better. But there was another part of me that was getting a first glimpse of a bigger world, and my entry pass into that world was the game of cricket.
I had three posters on my bedroom wall: Michael Slater, Brian Lara and a 355 Ferrari. I dreamed of batting like Michael Slater, meeting Brian Lara, and owning that 355. Were they just fantasies, or things that I could actually make real? There was this little bubble I loved, and there was the world of my dreams. Maybe I could step out of the one into the other. If I could, I could do it through cricket. I was at a crossroads. Dad saw it, Mum saw it, and it took that big bust-up with Dad for me to see it too. I loved the world I was in. But cricket was beckoning me to a bigger world.
3
THE PUP
‘No, Michael.’
‘Please, Mum?’
‘Not until you’ve done your homework.’
‘Mum?’
‘Homework first, and then you can go.’
‘Mum, how come you always bribe me with cricket?’
‘Because it’s the only way I can get you to do your work, Michael.’
I don’t know how many times we’ve had this conversation. I’ve raced home from school with one thing on my mind. My mum and dad are the best parents in the world. Every day is Christmas. They own an indoor sports centre, and I’m getting there now.
It even motivates me to finish that homework as quickly as possible. Maybe I rush it a little. Who cares? As soon as I’m done, I hop on my pushbike and ride the couple of kilometres to the centre. Dad is always there working, but I don’t need him to look after me. I love hanging around the place. There’s often someone practising or wanting to play something: cricket, soccer, shoot some hoops. If there’s nobody to play with, I’ll take ten indoor cricket balls, seamed with leather over a cork interior, and practise throwing at the stumps.
I could stay here all night, but have to fit in with Dad’s timetable. From the time I arrive, I train by myself, with a friend, or with Leanne. Then the indoor competitions start: games are at 6.15 pm, 7.45 pm and 9.15 pm. I’ll umpire, or help out, or, best of all, get called in to fill a gap for one of the teams. For the 6.15 and 7.45 sessions, I’m hanging out for someone to not turn up so that I can get a game. I am a batsman and a fast bowler – left-armers, very fast in my opinion! – and can swing the responsive indoor ball. All of the sports played there are super-competitive, which is my introduction to the thrills of tough sporting combat. I live for these games, and would stay for the 9.15 pm game as well, but Mum has drawn the line there and I have to go home. I sleep with my cricket bat in my arms. I do not want it out of my sight. I don’t even like going to school without it.
Dad is not quite as strict as Mum about getting my homework done. He’s quietly pleased that I’m so enthusiastic about the indoor centre. When I’m old enough, he lets me earn some pocket money by umpiring or working behind the counter. I love going to work with him. He’s there for ten hours a day, vacuuming the playing surface, stitching nets together and doing maintenance, keeping the place running until
the cricket competitions start in the evening. He makes sure the games start on time, and acts as policeman if there’s any serious trouble. Usually, the players know better than to act up when he’s watching. Even though he’s cleared a lot of the worst trouble-makers out, he can’t stop every competitive eruption. It’s eye-opening to see some of the punch-ups that he has to step into to break up, but I’m proud of my dad when he shows his authority. People respect him.
My earliest memories of cricket are of going to watch him at his matches. As a very young boy, I was annoying the other men when he was on the field. It was ‘Throw me the ball! Throw me the ball!’ non-stop.
After taking his break from second grade at Western Suburbs to build our house, Dad played some more for Wests until he broke his jaw when he volunteered to open the batting at Petersham Oval in near-darkness. He stepped down to park cricket in the Southern Districts competition. Everyone at the Players club said Dad was the best batsman in the district comp.
When I’m old enough to play juniors for Woodlands Park, the moment my Saturday morning game is finished I rush off to watch Dad in the afternoon. They might want me to score, run out drinks or gloves, or best of all field, even if it’s running from fine leg to fine leg.
Cricket’s on both sides of the family. Mum, while she’s pro-schoolwork, is definitely not anti-sport. Her father Ray Fox, my Pop, is cricket mad. When I’m one year old, Pop pulls out a fence paling and shapes it into a bat – my first. Mum says I’m the son he never had. When we go to his place at Bundeena, a bushy village on the south side of Port Hacking south of Sydney, we play Classic Catches bouncing tennis balls off the rocks, or Pop takes me to the school nets next door. He wants to play cricket every time I see him, and I love every minute. He tells anyone who will listen that I am going to be better than Don Bradman, and luckily I’m too young to be embarrassed by that. Being such a mad St George rugby league fan, Pop is constantly singing their victory song, ‘When the Saints Go Marching In’. That song becomes a seed he plants inside me that will sprout at the best moments through my career.
In summertime, it’s all cricket. You can’t imagine a kid being so in love with something as I am with this game. On Saturday mornings, I am up at 5 am, waiting for the sun to rise. When I see the first golden light on a blue sky, I’m yelping about and getting into my whites. No rain! We’re playing today! Even when it looks gloomy or the leaves on the trees are drooping with raindrops, I feel confident that it’s going to clear up. I’m an optimist. Every cricket day gives me the same feeling as Christmas. Saturday morning is like tearing off the wrapping to get a new bat or pads or gloves. I’m not a hard kid to please. Just let me play cricket all day.
Since that first year at Woodlands Park under-10s, when I made 17 runs all season, I’ve grown stronger and closer in size to the other boys. With more and more afternoons at the indoor centre to hone my skills, I’ve started to score some decent runs. I generally know that, if I stay in, our team will most likely win, so I’ve worked out how to be patient, how to control games and manage them so that we can get the job done.
One afternoon, a Western Suburbs grade batsman comes into the centre with a query for Dad. Neil D’Costa is a good player who has been doing some coaching in the district. Neil is full of energy and enthusiasm, a non-stop talker. Living nearby, he is always up for a hit and is a bottomless source of ideas and general cricket smarts. Dad knew Neil’s father, who coached at the Fairfield club, and has known Neil for years.
‘Are you okay if I do some one-on-one cricket coaching with kids here?’ Neil asks Dad. ‘How much will you charge for me to hire a net?’
Dad sees me lurking, as ever, in the background, like a puppy dog waiting for someone to throw him a ball. Who’s this guy with all the fancy gear? What’s in it for me?
‘Tell you what,’ Dad says to Neil. ‘Instead of paying a hire fee, do you want to coach my son as well? He’s only a youngster, but he loves his cricket.’
From there, Neil becomes the most influential of my big brothers. Every Wednesday, I am at the centre ready for practice. Because I am so small and have little power, Neil grooves my technique, especially my defence. Dad also keeps coaching me, and he and Neil complement each other. They never disagree on the science of batting. But I am not just a batsman, I consider myself a serious fast bowler. When I am 11, Neil breaks the news. ‘Mate, you’re never going to be big enough to be a real fast bowler, so let’s start working on spin.’ I start on left-arm wrist-spinners before switching to orthodox. I love bowling, because it keeps me in the game when I’m not batting or chasing every ball in the field.
The next year, Dad takes a year off from playing A-grade at the Players club and drops down to B-grade to play a year of district cricket with me. I remember my first senior game like it was yesterday. I get to bat in a long partnership with Dad. In the time I squeeze out 39 runs, mostly singles, he has smashed 150. It is the happiest day of my life so far. When I eventually retire from international cricket, nearly 25 years later, what I miss most is those days – that feeling I had being on a suburban pitch with my dad.
I am not the kid who goes out every match and takes 10 wickets before scoring a hundred runs. Dad plays a big part in that. He coaches at Woodlands Park, and when he is coaching my team, he retires me if I make 50 so as to give other kids a go. If I open the bowling and grab some wickets, he will take me off. He believes cricket is a team sport, about giving everyone else a turn, and this is years before participation rules become formalised in the junior game.
On Saturday mornings, Mum generally takes Leanne to her sport and Dad takes me to mine, but that’s not to say Mum isn’t keen on cricket. Whenever time permits, she comes along to watch my games. She remembers to sign me up for my club registration, makes sure my gear is in order and gets me to practices. Dad teaches me so much about the game, but I would never get on the field in the first place if it wasn’t for Mum’s tireless support and hard work.
Dad has an unshakeable sense of ethics in cricket. Although there are no rights and wrongs in how to bat, he believes firmly that there are rights and wrongs in how to treat kids. Sometimes that means things will go my way, sometimes not.
It’s in a 40-overs-a-side under-13s game at Smithfield that I make my first hundred. When I come off, feeling pretty pleased with myself, Dad says, ‘You’ll be 12th man next week.’
I’m indignant. ‘What? Nobody gets dropped after scoring a hundred!’
‘Well, you are.’
I think I can call his bluff. ‘Well, I’m not coming to the next game.’
‘That’s okay. If you are not ready in your gear at 7 am next Saturday, you have played your last game for the year.’
He’s not bluffing. I am, and he’s called me. Next Saturday, I’m awake at 5 am as usual, in my whites, hoping for a game, but I will be 12th man because of Dad’s belief that everyone should have a go.
Dad will even step in when he is not the coach, if he thinks there’s something unfair going on. One day, it’s a rep trial against a struggling Canterbury team, and my partner and I have made a big stand. I’m about 80 and my partner has scored a century when Dad steps in, telling the coach that we should be retired. He can’t see any point in any batsman, be it his son or anyone else, piling up runs while other kids don’t get a bat.
Dad hates getting involved in cricket politics; he’s almost allergic to it. When he and Pop come to my games, they sit away from the other parents, because they don’t even want to hear the chatter. But Dad’s sense of fairness sometimes overrides everything else. He never wants to step in on my side, but if the injustice is great enough, he will.
I am only eight years old when we have our first taste of cricket politics. Dad takes me to sign up for an under-10s trial at Smithfield and sends me to the club secretary, Sue. She tells me, ‘Preference will be given to the older boys.’ I promptly burst into tears. When I mope back to Dad and he asks what’s wrong, I say, ‘The lady said I was too young.’
Dad goes to her and says, ‘Why not just let him try out and see how he goes?’ She sends him on his way. Dad is prepared to accept that, until the coach comes running over.
‘Michael, pad up and come and have a hit.’
I’m still wiping the tears from my eyes when I get my gear on. I have a bat and make the team. Dad doesn’t think I should get any sympathy from crying, and he isn’t one to step up and complain whenever I am upset. The opposite, in fact: he never seeks favourable treatment for me. But this time, he just thought it was unfair to not give a kid a chance.
Another time his sense of justice overrides his distaste for cricket politics is when I don’t get chosen in an under-13s rep team. A meeting is called, but the coach maintains that my form isn’t good enough. Dad is willing to accept that (even if I’m not!), but as we’re walking away, the under-15s rep coach, Gary Stasson, comes over and says, ‘I can’t see why he’s not in the under-13s, but we’d love to have him in the under-15s.’
Dad won’t have that. It’s nothing to do with me. His problem, he tells Gary, is that ‘You’ve already picked the under-15s. It wouldn’t be right for someone who’s been picked to miss out now because of Michael coming in.’
Gary has an answer. ‘Les, how about I get approval from the other players and parents?’
‘Well, only if it’s 100 per cent. If it’s not, Michael won’t play.’
It turns out that all the under-15s and their parents want me to play, so that’s how I get a rep game that year.
Values mean everything to Dad, and that’s the way he and Mum bring me up: values like honesty and fairness and treating people as they come. He and Mum don’t play favourites between Leanne and me. As I grow up and begin to achieve promising things in cricket, there is never a sense in the family that I’m the golden child and get preferential treatment. The most lenient they’ll get is that, say, in the middle of a cricket match, I won’t get into serious trouble (they’ll save that until later). Otherwise, I’m to be treated no differently from my sister.
My Story Page 3