Test of Will
Page 6
While I steadily progressed through the grade ranks, I struggled to make ends meet. The reason I stayed at the caravan park was because the $90 a week for the plot was cheap by Sydney standards, but it was still a big chunk out of my meagre budget. I couldn’t afford to eat properly, and I’d often have a packet of instant noodles or a chocolate bar for dinner—a far cry from what I was used to eating at the farm, where we wanted for nothing, and ate not just three meals a day, but morning and afternoon tea as well. I never told my mother about constantly feeling hungry, or even of the loneliness I experienced, because her marriage to my dad had broken up, and I knew Mum had enough problems of her own without being burdened with mine. That first 13 months in Sydney was my test. It was the period where I believe I was asked by the universe, How much did I want to chase my dream? I was being asked whether I was mentally strong enough to stick it out, and how much I was prepared to sacrifice. That time in the caravan—and believe me there were times when it was like self-inflicted solitary confinement—toughened me and gave me an edge. While my skill level was okay (I had good control and could land the ball on a good length), I knew if it was to be compared to that of other players, the difference would’ve been chalk and cheese. However, I had the attitude from those first few days that nothing was going to deny me. I had self-belief that I would be good enough, and I also knew how to deliver my game plan, just as I did that night of the Country Cup match against Parkes. My aim as a cricketer who had relocated from the bush to Sydney was to take wickets, because I knew wickets—and not whining about how hard life was—was what the club’s selectors and officials would judge me on. So, I had a plan, I had self-belief and I had the attitude that nothing was going to stop me, even if that meant my evening’s entertainment after a meal of instant noodles or a chocolate bar was bowling ball after ball after ball at a single stump in those nets across the road.
8
EATING PRESSURE
Pressure is a Messerschmitt up your arse …
— Keith Miller, Australian cricket great and World War II fighter pilot
I haven’t worked out whether I was blessed or just plain lucky to have played my entire career unaware of the politics in cricket. My naivety meant I never worried about losing my place in the team. I never stressed about the selections nor did I ever fret that the selectors wouldn’t consider me. I played with the belief that I was good enough to be in the Australian team, and I had that belief on the first day I was picked to represent Australia even though I was selected after only six first-class games for New South Wales. My goal from day one of my international career was to bowl the perfect game every match, and to take wickets from No. 1 to 11. I figured if I did what was expected of me—to take those wickets and contribute positively to the team’s performance—then I had no reason to ever second-guess myself or to worry about anything other than how I’d perform.
Throughout my career, and everyday life, my philosophy of ‘control the controllables’ means I’m not distracted by events that I can’t directly influence. I accepted as a player that it was pointless for me to worry about the weather, the condition of the pitch, how a batsman had prepared for a series, or what may have been written about me that morning in a newspaper column. At the end of the day I realised there was nothing I could do to control any of those things. However, what I could control was how I prepared, how I focused and how I delivered the ball, and eight years after I retired it remains my opinion that to worry about anything outside of my control—as much as I may wish to be able to change it—is a waste of my energies.
Controlling the controllables also allowed me to (usually) keep my emotions in check and not get lost in the battle with the batsman. There were days when it didn’t go so well, but they were caused by the frustration I may have felt at the way I was bowling. I had my share of critics, who said my behaviour was poor at times. On those occasions I wished I could have been more like the Swiss tennis player Roger Federer, because I admired how he kept his emotions in check regardless of what may’ve been going on in his head. While I didn’t have the ice-cool water that runs through Federer’s veins, the last thing I ever wanted to do was get so fired-up or frustrated with myself that I strayed from my game plan. So, my approach was to set myself high goals; but outside of how I bowled, or fielded, or even batted, I accepted what else happened in the match was out of my hands. That didn’t mean I wasn’t absorbed in the contest, because I was always ready to seize the initiative or take action when a situation called for me to do or say something.
I’m often asked for my thoughts on the mental side of cricket, including how to deal with pressure. What I’ve realised from my corporate speaking experiences is that people in business are always looking for an edge. I provide them with insights on how I coped with my lot as a fast bowler, because while there’s an old saying that a ‘fast bowler’s brains are in his boots’, it’s complete rubbish. The fast bowler has to be a thinker; he also needs the discipline to bowl to a plan; he must be smart enough to change tack if it isn’t working; and he also needs to make mental notes about what he observes in the batsman’s style and technique, and to store that away for use at a later date. The fast bowler also needs to push through the fatigue and exhaustion associated with the job, and he has to keep his head up when he suffers the inevitable setbacks of a dropped catch, an umpire making a wrong decision, or the age-old curse: sloppy fielding.
I’ve set out my thoughts on pressure and other matters of the mind, but I’ll offer a disclaimer before you read any further: The observations that follow aren’t from a psychologist, they’re instead the simple offerings of a retired opening bowler who learnt a few things whenever he had the ball in his hand and a batsman at the other end of the wicket determined to nail his next delivery.
EMBRACING RESPONSIBILITY AND PRESSURE
For those 14 years I was in the national team, I constantly craved responsibility, because the more responsibility that was piled on me, the better I played; the more pressure that was on me to get a breakthrough or bowl at the so-called ‘death’ or end of a game, the better I played. I enjoyed performing under pressure and, yes, I’ve heard all the clichés—including ‘Pressure produces diamonds’ and ‘Courage is grace under pressure’—and I can say from what I experienced, it’s all true. However, I think most people misinterpret pressure to also mean probable failure, because over the years I saw how it crippled some otherwise good players. I was fortunate that I realised early in my career the only person who could put pressure on me was … me. In a pressure situation, such as the opposition needing four runs to win off the last over, the bowler needs to realise he has very little control over the situation. What he can control is his approach, his attitude or the ball/delivery he bowls. The way he thinks at this moment is crucial, and he has two choices: he either believes he can come through, or opts to underestimate his ability to cope. It’s important to control what are called stress-creating thoughts. They’re negative, and in that bowler’s situation when he has to hold his nerve and starve the batsman of runs, the least helpful way to begin thinking is ‘This will go for four’; ‘If we lose, it’ll be all my fault’; ‘I’ll be hammered if we lose this’; ‘I hate these close finishes’, or perhaps the most damning of all, ‘Why me?’
I learnt to trust myself in tense situations because I knew what I needed to do, and I remembered that I’d trained for hundreds of hours for that one moment. I also realised the batsman was under just as much pressure, if not more, because everyone would have expected him to knock over the four runs required. While I was well aware the media, the fans and the selectors were all result-orientated, I always steadied myself for the job at hand by focusing on the process and not the product. Whereas people will describe how they were unable to watch the game on the television because they found it all too much to bear, I trained myself not to look at the game like that. I stripped back what I was about to do to its simplest form and focused solely on my next ball. I didn’t thin
k about what was at stake or what it could mean. Instead, I ran in, bowled the ball, and delivered it as well as I possibly could. After I did that, I got the ball and returned to my mark and focused on my next delivery. That done, I proceeded to do it all over again. If anything, it could be considered an example of living in the ‘now’, because all I ever thought about when I bowled was what I was doing, and not the result or the possible outcome. By adopting my approach to focus my entire being on that delivery, I accepted the result would take care of itself. It was an approach that, if it didn’t empower me, it certainly helped me.
PRESSURE IS A TRUTHFUL GUIDE
I treated a pressure-packed situation as a great opportunity to see how good I really was, because it’s a fact that most people can function well when things are calm. I remember when we were preparing to play India in the final of the 2003 World Cup in South Africa and we had our final training session at the Wanderers Stadium in Johannesburg. There was a lot of energy in the Australian squad; plenty of laughter and good spirit. As a group we were soaking up the experience and living in the moment. India trained straight after us, and what we immediately noticed was that they were at the opposite pole. They were tense, rigid, and they didn’t look all that comfortable. There was no laughter, no obvious signs of enjoyment, and I think if someone had dropped a pin in the stadium during their session, it would’ve sounded like a bomb detonating. As their opponents, their manner told us that we held the upper hand before a ball was even bowled, and I was happy about that. I also accepted that India had plenty to deal with, including a population of a billion people who are fanatical about cricket and who demand success. It was obvious to me and all our boys that the Indian squad was feeling the weight of expectation that day, and they carried it into the final. I thought they allowed the pressure to suck the joy out of what should’ve been a career highlight and a wonderful experience. The history book will tell you who handled the stress best because Australia won that World Cup by 125 runs. I think the simple moral of the story is that you need to learn to control pressure and not allow it to control you.
During the Sydney Olympics I was one of millions of Aussies who was left in awe of Cathy Freeman’s effort to win the gold medal in the 400-metre sprint; it was not only an amazing performance but it was a sporting achievement that unified the nation. I was fortunate to meet Cathy at a Sport Australia Hall of Fame dinner a few years ago. It enabled me to hear the answer to a question I’d wanted to ask her for many years: how did she perform when there was so much pressure and heavy expectation on her to win in front of a home crowd? Her response was perfect, and while it provided an insight into why she was a true champion, it also pleased me because I related to her answer. Cathy said she didn’t feel any pressure because she’d invested 20 years of her life to be ready for that one moment, and when it dawned she had no intention of allowing it to slip away. I thought that spoke volumes about her inner strength, her mettle. She was ready for the challenge. She was ranked the world’s No. 1 over that distance, and I guess the comfort that comes with being the world’s best is that if you run the best you possibly can, no one is going to get close to you. Fifteen years after the Sydney Olympics, history notes that Cathy Freeman fulfilled what many considered her destiny, and I rate it as perhaps the finest individual performance by an Australian athlete. It’s a great example of someone conquering the mountain called pressure and slaying the demon known as expectation.
BY FAILING TO PREPARE YOU ARE PREPARING TO FAIL
There is another saying that suggests ‘The harder you work the luckier you are in life’, but there should be a second line which states ‘The better prepared you are for any situation the better you’ll handle the expectation to come through’. It didn’t happen all that often, but I would feel angry with myself if I ever went onto the field thinking I could’ve prepared better than I had. That could’ve been the result of not spending enough time in the gymnasium or the nets, failing to get enough rest or not eating properly. That mindset would frustrate me because I’d feel as though I was behind the eight ball from the start and from there it became a matter of always trying to catch up. It was easier to alleviate myself of that negativity by doing everything I could to prepare off the field, so when it came to the business of playing I was only focused on what I needed to do. That allowed me to relax and react, rather than to be out there beating myself up for not being able to tick off each box that indicated I was ready to roll.
BAD DAYS DO HAPPEN
There is a danger that if you dwell on your ‘failure’ or the ‘disaster’ that happened to you during a match, a day that would be better forgotten can manifest into something of far greater significance than it should. Rather than berate myself—and yes, sometimes I couldn’t help but do that after a few of my efforts as a batsman—I learnt to resist the temptation to beat myself up. (Although the day I was dismissed against South Africa with just a few runs needed for victory, and I played a poor shot to be caught and bowled by Fanie de Villiers challenged that line of thinking because it was tough to get over.) In time I learnt to talk to myself about those kinds of things as I would want my coach to analyse my performance, or as I would talk to a teammate who sought a heart-to-heart to discuss how they were performing or about problems in their game. I found it was much more constructive in those situations to ask myself what I could have done differently. I learnt early in my career to identify the difference between a good and a bad game, and I put what I learnt into place fairly quickly.
My success came from knowing my game, knowing myself and being brutally honest with myself, because that’s what gave me a foundation to build upon. Some people just don’t like who they are, they don’t know their game very well, and I’m afraid their inner struggle is quite often reflected in their performances. Sometimes they’ll have a good game, some days they’ll perform poorly, and what’s characteristic about their career is that they’re all over the place. You need to be honest with yourself; you need to work for consistency; and as for offering excuses, well, my tip is don’t even try. Something that annoys me about the way of the world is that there’s a tendency for some people not to take responsibility for their actions, and when something bad happens they either look for a scapegoat to pin the blame on or they cling to an excuse like a drowning man clinging to flotsam. If something happens to me that I’m not pleased about, I try to work out why the situation occurred and what I could’ve done to prevent it. Often the answers you need to be able to move on call for a tough dose of honesty and acceptance.
Whenever we lost a match, I was never upset with another teammate, even if they didn’t perform well, because I couldn’t control how they played. I’d sit back and think, Okay, we lost this game. What more could I have done to help prevent this or how could I have done more to help the team out? By taking responsibility I was assuming ownership of the situation. When I see people do the wrong thing or offer lame excuses for a poor performance, or, even worse, hear them blame others, I just think to myself, Come on mate, take responsibility, because people will respect that.
THE PAST IS GONE
I think the fact that I’m a person who lives for the ‘now’ has been beneficial, and it’s something that has allowed me to push on. I’m certainly a firm believer that we should learn from the past—it’s critical for personal growth and for developing an understanding of the way things are in life—but I’ve never lived in the past. If we had a big win, that was great and I celebrated, but as for bad performances, or those times when I acted poorly on the field and was fined for acting like a pork chop, I realised there was nothing that could be done to change it. I also accepted long ago that I am not perfect and I never tried to be. I am who I am. However, I definitely kept my mind open to learn from each moment. If I bowled a poor delivery and it was hit for a four, I felt really annoyed at myself, but I knew to just let it go. It was the same with losses: you can’t rewrite history, regardless of how much you might want to or how many times
you revisit that match in your mind. Sometimes when I see a bowler send down a bad ball, I notice that they rush back to commence their next delivery because they’re so desperate to try and erase the result of their last one. More often than not, that catch-up ball will be poor and it risks compounding the bad place they’re ‘at’. My approach was to take my time, accept what had happened, refocus and commit to not bowling the same ball. I’d ask myself what I wanted to bowl next, and it wasn’t until I’d made my decision that I’d start to run in. One thing for certain is I decided what I was going to deliver before I ran in. That would’ve been like the guy who goes into an important board meeting but doesn’t think about what he’s going to say until he’s called upon—it’s a sure-fire recipe for disaster.
SETTING BENCHMARKS
In the hours before I made my Test debut against New Zealand, Craig McDermott, who was the spearhead of Australia’s bowling attack at the time and who took 291 Test wickets in his 71 Tests, asked whether I felt ‘nervous’. Well, I was excited, because I still couldn’t believe I’d been picked to play for Australia after only six first-class matches and nerves hadn’t entered the equation. When I told Craig I wasn’t worried, he smiled and said something like, ‘Don’t worry, it will get worse.’ It took me quite a while to realise what he meant, because his comment had a few dimensions to it. One way you could have interpreted it was that the more you played for Australia, the more you stood to lose; but, as I’ve said, the concept of being dropped was never a concern for me. What I ultimately took his comment to mean was that the anticipation and the need to get yourself ‘up’ for the challenge is tough, as is having to constantly raise the expectations you place on yourself. The longer I represented Australia, the more I grew to appreciate that, in that respect, Craig was 100 per cent correct. It’s an exhausting process, but the idea of raising my benchmark a notch higher after a good effort, such as taking 8–38 against England at Lord’s, was one I actually enjoyed.