Test of Will

by Glenn McGrath

  First published in 2015

  Copyright © Glenn McGrath 2015

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Email: info@allenandunwin.com

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available

  from the National Library of Australia

  www.trove.nla.gov.au

  ISBN 978 1 76011 280 6

  eISBN 978 1 92526 841 6

  Cover design: Squirt Creative

  Front cover photo: Mark Calleja / Newspix

  To Sara, James, Holly and Madison

  CONTENTS

  1 THE CONTROLLABLES

  2 SARA

  3 PARENTHOOD

  4 PINK FIT

  5 FOUNDATION OF HOPE AND DEVOTION

  6 SELLING THE FARM

  7 A IS FOR ATTITUDE

  8 EATING PRESSURE

  9 THE PACEMAN’S AGE-OLD PROBLEM

  10 IN THE CRITIC’S CHAIR

  11 LEARNING TO COACH

  12 GAMESMANSHIP NOT SLEDGING

  13 ALL BLACKS IN BAGGY GREEN CAPS

  14 THE PIGEON’S TEST SQUAD

  15 SPORT INSPIRES

  16 THE WORLD’S BOWLING SCENE

  17 THE LITTLE MASTER

  18 DR JEKYLL AND PRINCE LARA

  19 TAKING STRIKE

  20 TEN MAGIC MOMENTS

  21 MY MENTORS

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  1

  THE CONTROLLABLES

  In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: it goes on.

  —Robert Frost, poet

  Whenever I was asked during my cricket career for the secret to my success, I had a standard answer that rolled off my tongue. I would always say that I ‘controlled the controllables’. For the main I found it was an easy mantra to live by, especially on those occasions when I had a six-stitcher in my right hand and a batsman 22 yards down the pitch, giving some cheek and taking guard.

  I’d learnt from years of practice in the nets that if I cocked my wrist and bowled the ball a certain way it’d hit a spot on the pitch that would cramp the batsman and strangle his flow of runs. I found if you bowled a persistent line and length, eventually it would be cricket’s equivalent of water torture for some batsmen and no matter how good they were they’d eventually crack and succumb to the pressure by playing a rash shot. I could also grip the ball’s seam in a particular way to fish for a nick off the edge of his bat; or if my attempts to up-end his stumps with a yorker didn’t succeed, I always had a plan where I could tempt him to hook to a fieldsman who was strategically placed out in the deep.

  Everything I did on the cricket field was aimed at controlling all I could; that allowed me not to stress about those things that were out of my hands. And that’s a lot of things in cricket. For instance, if a catch was skied to a fieldsman, no matter how much I wanted him to take it, I knew there was nothing I could do to control whether or not he dropped the ball. Or if someone misfielded, there was absolutely nothing I could do about that. I never worried about the selectors not picking me, I didn’t play my career looking over my shoulder and worrying about the ‘next big thing’, because I realised if I did my job and took wickets then I was doing everything that was required of me. If Australia’s batting line-up was in the midst of a collapse, there was little point in me, the No. 11, sitting in the dressing room and stressing out or cursing the batsmen for getting out. That’s cricket, and in cricket blokes get dismissed. All I ever worried about was how I would stand up to the test when the time came. I’d get kitted up in my pads and other protective equipment, and I’d practise in the dressing room getting behind the ball. Rather than dwelling on the negatives that could take root in my mind if I allowed them, I’d repeatedly tell myself that, come hell or high water, I wouldn’t throw my wicket away. That was what I realised I could control in that particular situation. I couldn’t control what the bowler was going to do when I faced him; I couldn’t control what my batting partner might do or even what he might think about me as a batsman, but I could control my thoughts and my actions. I have no doubt that realising early in my career that all that mattered was what I did or how I handled a situation enabled me to escape a lot of the angst that can choke cricketers if they allow it.

  An important element of controlling the controllable as a professional sportsperson—and it’s not just applicable to cricket, the controllable concept can be applied to anything—was to leave nothing to chance during my preparation for a game. I ensured I ate well; I trained hard; I rested. I worked hard to fine-tune whatever was required to improve my bowling action—I’d stretch; I would treat my niggles; I would swim laps of the pool before leaving the team’s hotel for the ground; and I would study the opposing batsmen’s strengths and weaknesses in video sessions and come up with bowling plans. I also made a point of thoroughly understanding what my role in the team’s match plan was. On those days when things didn’t go well out in the middle—and yes, there were those stinking hot days when it felt as though I was up to my knees in quicksand—controlling the controllables simply meant keeping my emotions in check so I could focus on the job that’s required of a fast bowler, and that’s taking wickets!

  All in all it was a pretty good philosophy to follow, and for the main it’s served me well throughout my life. When I was a young boy growing up on my family’s farm, Lagoona, just outside of Narromine, it wouldn’t have occurred to me to describe my approach to life as ‘controlling the controllables’, but even then the process was a good friend to me when my father Kevin was forced to seek extra income by driving road trains between Dubbo and the Top End. My younger brother Dale and I were left to look after the farm, and now, as a 45-year-old, when I look back on that period of my life I realise it could easily have been a situation that overwhelmed me. After all, I was still a kid of 16 and Dale was 14. We were responsible for tending the crops and looking after the livestock, and without me even noticing it I got through each day by focusing on those controllables. Of course I missed my dad’s guidance, but I accepted it was pointless to moan about his absences, when he was behind the wheel of a massive truck carting cattle to and from Darwin. So I woke early each morning, and I prepared for the day by having a decent breakfast. We’d plough the land, we’d harvest the crops or do whatever it was that particular day demanded. After that, my focus was set on the next job … and the one after that … and that …

  Even as a cricketer I controlled when it was time for me to step down. I’m proud I went out on my own terms. Not too many players do. My farewell Test at the Sydney Cricket Ground, my home ground as a New South Welshman, finished remarkably.

  I can only recall bits and pieces of what was an emotion-charged five days. But I do remember a journalist asking me during a television interview, if I could take anything from the Test, what would it be? I answered that I’d walk away feeling very pleased if I took a wicket with my last ball. Well, perhaps the universe was listening—as it does from time to time—because that’s what happened. I captured Jimmy Anderson’s wicket when Michael Hu
ssey caught him off my last ball, a slower one. I remember feeling happy when I saw the ball lobbing towards Michael Hussey because if I’d learnt one thing about him in all the years we’d played alongside one another, it was that he had a safe pair of hands. I remember the excitement that charged through my body as I stood on the middle of the pitch with my arms raised high in the air and feeling as if life, well, life as a cricketer, could not get better than that moment. Life was good. When I reflect on that happy day in 2007 and I remember how my late wife Jane gave me the thumbs up from her place in the crowd after I took Anderson’s wicket, and then, how I walked around the SCG with our children, James by my side and Holly in my arms, it still makes me smile …

  What I learnt when I retired from cricket was that controlling my destiny, and that of the people I love, wasn’t as easy as it had been as a member of the Australian cricket team, being called upon by Mark Taylor, Steve Waugh or Ricky Ponting to get that breakthrough wicket. Jane … well, she lost her battle with cancer not long after I left cricket. I had decided to give it away because we felt it was time for me to be at home. While neither of us ever wasted the time we had—or the energy we needed—by worrying about the ‘what-ifs’ and ‘whys’ of our situation, we definitely did everything possible to try and beat Jane’s disease. While Jane had tremendous courage to fight, and God knows she fought hard, it wasn’t enough at the end, and her passing was the beginning of a terribly sad time.

  What I had to try to do, and at times it was impossible, was to control that sadness, because while I was grieving I was also the father of our two young children, and it was my job to ensure they lived as happy and healthy a life as possible.

  Before Jane’s death I’d struggled with the transition from international sportsman to fitting in with what I’ve heard described as ‘everyday life’. Sometimes I wondered what the future held, and it worried me. While I had work—corporate speaking jobs, commitments with sponsors, and I was lucky enough to still have a profile I could use as leverage—I didn’t have a ‘regular’ job, so it felt as though I was forever juggling time at home and work engagements. I found that tough, because as a member of the Australian cricket team, I had known exactly what I had to do to achieve my goals. I was used to a structure that allowed me to be productive and successful. That structure meant that I woke up at a certain time; I ate breakfast at a scheduled time; I trained when I was told to; I had time set aside by team management for media or commercial commitments; I ate lunch with my teammates; I had appointments scheduled in advance for physiotherapy or other treatments; and afterwards I ate dinner and then either studied my opponents by watching them on DVD, or I switched off. Looking at it in a different light, I view the life of an Australian cricketer as one long and demanding schedule, but it was well mapped out and such is my nature I liked that it ran like clockwork and that there were never any shades of grey.

  Now I was away from that well-planned life, and while I wasn’t unemployed—I still had my major sponsors; the McGrath Foundation was going well; and my manager Warren Craig still had things for me to do—I didn’t have that regular job, so it felt as though I was going from here to there. Work, for instance, would be noted in my diary as: ‘[Wednesday week], attend a conference as a guest speaker from 3 pm to 6 pm’. I enjoyed that, but I found the change was tough going from having a very clear direction to basically none at all. And so much for controlling the controllables, because there were times throughout Jane’s illness when the uncertainty of what I would be doing for work meant that everything seemed so out of control and I’d ask myself, ‘What am I going to do?’

  There were times during that period when I felt a bit lost and as though I wasn’t achieving much: work-wise there wasn’t a single thing for me to pour all of my energies into, as I had in my cricket career. But I don’t live in the past and, in terms of cricket, I had moved on. I don’t miss playing at all, but eight years after that farewell game at the SCG there are still times when I can’t help but wonder if I’ve completely made the transition to ‘everyday life’.

  Those first few years were challenging after I bade farewell to a sport that I gave everything I had to offer. But I was very lucky because I had people I could rely on: my family and my friends. While my kids and I suffered the worst possible tragedy, I’m grateful that I didn’t have to worry about how we would survive. I had seen how my parents battled during the lean times on the farm, and I’m certain not having to worry about financial issues at least spared me from a nightmare. At that stage of my life, I guess what I learnt about controlling the controllables in a dark time was that I had two children and I needed to stay strong for them.

  Something else I realised during that period was that as much as there are times when you don’t want the sun to rise the next day, the reality is it does. Regardless of anything that might be happening around you and how terrible things seem, a fact of life is that life continues and you have to make the most of it. Everyone has battles and challenges to face, but what matters is how you pick yourself up and carry on.

  2

  SARA

  La vita e bella.

  —Italian translation of ‘life is beautiful’

  Sadly, the cancer that Jane had fought so hard against returned and, despite her strength and immense courage, she was unable to beat it. Her death is something I don’t wish to revisit but it was the beginning of a devastating time, a time when I never imagined I would meet anyone again.

  What I was to learn during that period was how wrong I was in the past to have been so quick to form an opinion about people I knew who became romantically involved with someone else after they’d lost their partner. Knowing what I know now I can’t help but cringe when I hear my old self ask: ‘How could they?’ ‘What are they thinking?’ ‘What about so-and-so?’ because, as I discovered, the reality is you can’t possibly know what will happen to you after the death of a loved one unless you’re thrust into that situation. You see, I met Sara and thankfully she challenged my thinking and ultimately changed everything for the better …

  I met Sara in Cape Town, South Africa, on 15 April 2009 while I was playing in the second edition of the Indian Premier League (IPL). As a result of the 26/11 terrorist attacks carried out by extremists in Mumbai, the organisers decided to relocate the tournament to South Africa; the Indian general elections were about to be held and they couldn’t guarantee the cricketers’ safety because their nation’s paramilitary forces were committed to the politicians and the polling stations. We were based in Cape Town for the start of the tournament, and one of my teammates, Paul Collingwood, had toured there the previous year as a member of the England team. During the tour, Kevin Pietersen had introduced the team to Mike Jefferies, an English movie producer who lived in an exclusive suburb called Clifton. Mike co-wrote and produced the movie Goal!, which told the story of a young, illegal immigrant who rose from poverty to become one of the world’s greatest footballers. Paul invited us to Mike’s home, a beautiful place which has the backdrop of Table Mountain and looks out over the Atlantic Ocean, for a birthday get-together for Mike’s girlfriend, Frieda. There is a lot of time spent in the hotel during a tournament like the IPL, and I was one of many of the boys who jumped at the offer to get out of the hotel.

  When we arrived at Mike’s home we bypassed a room with a Celine Dion concert playing on a big screen and headed straight for the bar area, which boasted a pool table. I was sitting at the bar when I saw a good-looking brunette wander across the room; she exchanged a few pleasantries with David Warner before she sat next to me at the bar. She introduced herself as Sara Leonardi and we began chatting. The subject turned to the inevitable question of ‘What do you do for a living?’, and when I replied that I played cricket, Sara’s response was memorable because with a confused look on her face she said, ‘Sorry … no … what do you do to pay the mortgage?’ I answered again with, ‘I play cricket’. She had no idea about cricket—she had lived in Italy, America and in Europe wh
ere it’s not dominating the airwaves yet—and I explained why we were in South Africa. When I told her about the IPL and Twenty20 cricket, I noticed that something about Twenty20 registered with her. It turned out she had been driving around Cape Town trying to work out why ‘they’ were talking up 2020 when it was only 2009.

  I found Sara to be pleasant company and during the course of our conversation she told me that she almost didn’t make it out that night because she felt exhausted and had wanted to stay home after a girlfriend visiting from the United States had flown home that day. She said the reason she’d ventured out was due to Frieda’s insistence that it wouldn’t be a party if Sara wasn’t there, and I couldn’t help but feel happy about Frieda’s power of persuasion. Sara had been living in Cape Town for a few years, studying interior design at a local university. I learnt she was born in Miami in December 1981, her father was Sicilian and her mother Italian, but she had been born in Venezuela. Her father owned and ran businesses in Miami, including nightclubs and restaurants. They went back to Sicily for their holidays. Sara grew up speaking Italian to her father, Spanish to her mother and had learned English when she went to school. She completed a degree at a university in Rome before moving back to Miami, then Prague, before dropping anchor in Cape Town. We had an amazing night, finishing it off with shots of whatever was left behind the bar and exchanging phone numbers.

  One night she invited me to her house and cooked dinner for me; she showed off her incredible culinary skills, a gift she inherited from spending time in the kitchen with her mother. Sara and I stayed in contact and we caught up a few more times before the tournament finished. It was a … confusing … time for me because after Jane passed away I never wanted to meet or fall in love with anyone, and I was adamant that I wouldn’t. However, I knew I had met someone very special, because Sara had energy and an attitude I had never seen before. She was confident, fun loving and had so many ideas, it seemed to me that she was someone who couldn’t wait to experience everything life had to offer. While she had an incredible effect on me, and I liked it, I did my best to suppress it. A month after the IPL finished I flew to the United Kingdom with James, Holly and my mother so the kids could spend some time with their grandparents. While there I received an email from Sara asking me if I would like to come and visit her in Sicily. Her mother was selling their family home and Sara had invited her friends from all around the world for a final get-together in the family casa. I was only a three-hour flight away and thought, Why not? I had a great time there with all of her friends. Sicily was so beautiful and the food was amazing, however there was a subplot to my time there—I found out afterwards that it was also a test to see if her friends liked me … apparently I got the thumbs up from all of them.