His bowling action aside, James’s back shouldn’t be a problem if genes have any part to play. His great-grandparents on both sides of my family were in an osteoporosis survey (the medical condition in which bones become brittle and fragile from loss of tissue, typically as a result of hormonal changes, deficiency of calcium or vitamin D). My parents also participated in the survey, as well as Donna, Dale and I, and I imagine James, Holly and their cousins will be asked to do it, too. The survey showed that our family’s bone density is quite high. When I had a scan three or four years ago, the person who conducted it said mine was the most perfect back she’d ever seen. I took that as a glowing endorsement that my action really was sound. She said the space between each of my vertebrae and the shape of my vertebrae was perfect. The fact that I’d opened the bowling for Australia for over 14 years made my back amazing, she said.
I think my core muscles also saved me from a lot of grief. My action meant that I was never going to bowl at 160 km/h, but it also spared me the stress fractures that plagued the likes of Dennis Lillee and Brett Lee. I guess I had a lot of things on my side. I didn’t bowl a huge amount when I was younger, so my bones weren’t affected. Those with a classic side-on action really engage their back muscles, but the worst thing you can do is mix your action because the violent twisting of your back exposes it to forces that lead to stress fractures. I had no idea of what my action looked like until I was videoed at the Australian Cricket Academy in 1990–91. All I knew until that point was that my action felt natural. I’ve bowled a few overs in charity games since my retirement and I discovered my shoulder is full of arthritis. It’s only a problem if I bowl, which is something I don’t intend to do all that often. The arthritis has prevented me from doing shoulder presses in the gymnasium, but that doesn’t bother me. All things considered, I’m very lucky because my hips, knees and ankles are fine. My back has also been given a big tick, and that comes back to my action, to how hard I was prepared to work, and to my genetic make-up.
People ask how I enjoyed such longevity while other fast bowlers break down. All I can say is that it didn’t come easily. In 1995 I returned from Australia’s first Test-series triumph against the West Indies in 22 years. I was 25, and I’d finally cemented my place in the Australian team. I took my first five-wicket haul in the opening Test in Barbados and I felt as though I’d contributed something to the team. However, there was nothing to me. I weighed 77 kilograms—that’s 25 kilograms less than I needed to be durable and to withstand the workload of a strike bowler—and I’d torn an area of my intercostal muscle, or the ‘grunt’ muscle, from where you generate your power as a fast bowler. I realised I needed to do something if I wanted to compete. While I was rehabilitating from my injury and thinking it was great to play international cricket, I also realised that if I didn’t do something to toughen my body I’d have no longevity in the game. I asked around for the best fitness trainer in Sydney and one name kept popping up: Kev Chevell. He was known as ‘Rambo’, so I figured, based on that, he would have the right approach. He’d trained Mark Taylor in the lead-up to Tubby scoring his 334 not out against Pakistan in 1998. I also heard that quite a few first-grade rugby league players had been through his gymnasium, so I figured he knew his stuff. It turned out he also understood fast bowling. At 13 he had been a child prodigy. He had been selected to bowl fast and furious for Bankstown in the 1970s when Jeff Thomson and Len Pascoe ruled the roost of what was then known as Memorial Oval. He had a break from cricket, then made his comeback in Western Australia a few years later when he clean-bowled the great South African batsman, Barry Richards, in a first-grade match after Richards had slaughtered Australia’s pace attack.
After I told Kev I was prepared to do whatever was necessary to fulfil my goal to get fitter than ever, he promised to make me unbreakable—provided I could prove to him in a two-week trial that I was serious. He hammered me and there were times when I was physically ill, but Kev proved relentless. After the fortnight, he promised he could toughen me. However, he also made the point—and it stuck with me—that my attitude would determine how far I went. We trained so hard that I was happy when the cricket season started so I could escape his torture sessions. Kev’s training philosophy, and it worked for me, was that my training sessions with him needed to be more brutal than anything I could ever experience out in the middle. He believed consistency and knowing you could conquer any challenge was what separated champions from the rest. For that reason he subjected me to drills that put me under duress, because he said that would program me to overcome pressure and stress. It worked that day in Barbados in 1999 when I bowled 17 overs straight. By the end of the spell, my teammates said I looked skeletal but, the truth is, I would’ve bowled an 18th, a 19th or even a 20th if it was necessary for my team. That was how Kev trained me, to be unbreakable in body and mind. He packed the muscle on me: during my career my playing weight ranged from 86 to 94 kilograms. Apart from the training, he introduced me to superfoods and insisted that rest was included in my daily program.
I’d stay with Kev and his wife Vee in Penrith for days at a time, and my training was punctuated by rest breaks and eating five meals a day. I’d be woken by him at 2 am to consume a concoction of eggs, banana, apple juice and oats, and would then go back to sleep, only to wake knowing it was another day of tough yakka. After the 2000 Sydney Olympics, where he worked with the German rowing team, Kev placed a lot of emphasis on the rowing machine. His rule was to use maximum effort from the first to the final pull! While I still carry the mental scars from that machine, his training regimen allowed me to bowl (according to the statistics) 41,759 balls in first-class cricket. In 2013 a newspaper report comparing fast bowlers’ workloads discovered I’d bowled 1194 more deliveries than Ben Hilfenhaus had managed in 2012 as a result of Cricket Australia’s rotation policy. The policy rested players in an effort to prevent them from either burn-out or injury. The report highlighted the difference in workloads when it said I played 37 internationals in 2002, while Peter Siddle played eight in 2012. I should point out that the injury situation of our quicks hasn’t been as bad as it was a few years ago. It’s pleasing that we seem to be seeing the likes of Cummins (aged 22), Pattinson (25), Hazlewood (24), Starc (25) and co. playing more games nowadays. I think that’s as much a sign that their bones are getting harder as they grow older than anything else.
Kev Chevell fulfilled his promise to me. Through the work we did together I only missed one game due to an injury, apart from the ankle spurs I occasionally suffered from overbowling. Once I had those fixed I was fit and ready to roll for 95 per cent of my 124 Tests. Kev didn’t train me specifically for fast bowling—his goal was to make me unbreakable. I know there’s a school of thought in cricket that questions the value of gym work—Dennis Lillee and Len Pascoe are advocates of fast bowlers running and getting miles in their legs—but I placed a huge amount of importance on my work in the gymnasium. While my inclination is to advise fast bowlers that ‘balance’ is crucial, my gym routine was as important, perhaps even more so, than my bowling routine. I spent equally as much time in the gym as I did training in the nets and working on my deliveries, to help me be match-fit. I was never in the gymnasium to try and look like a body builder. I had a specific routine, which included the old-fashioned core-strengthening exercises Kev taught me; such classics as squats, deadlifts, dips, chin-ups, and clean-and-press reps. I was nicknamed Pigeon because of my skinny legs. I worked overtime to strengthen them because the legs, like the glutes, are of crucial importance for a fast bowler’s ability to slog on.
Brett Lee hit the weights about five years ago, when his future in the national team had been placed under scrutiny because he was 33 and the critics were saying he was getting too old. He added six kilos to his frame and pumped up to 95 kilograms. He was photographed shirtless on Bondi Beach looking ripped and the image worked. He was lauded for looking fit. However, he used himself as a case study as to why young fast bowlers were better lean an
d loose, rather than bulky and chiselled. ‘I felt strong but I felt as though I had to bowl around my chest or my bicep,’ Lee said after describing his exercise program as ‘cosmetic’. ‘There wasn’t the natural or smooth whippiness I was used to. And while that might work for an Andy Bichel or Michael Kasprowicz who bowled at 130 km/h, it was no good for someone who wanted to bowl 150-plus km/h,’ Brett said. I think, at the end of the day, it’s the job of the fast bowler to find out what it is that will make them unbreakable. My main tip is, whether it’s working in the gym, bowling in the nets, running, or hitting the rowing machine, just work hard and train smart.
10
IN THE CRITIC’S CHAIR
Criticism, like rain, should be gentle enough to nourish a man’s growth without destroying his roots.
—Frank A. Clark, US writer and cartoonist
I’ve never been a negative person. While I’ll certainly speak up when there’s something that needs to be said on a matter I’m passionate about, I do find it hard to offer criticism for criticism’s sake. It’s possible to take a negative or positive angle on any of life’s subjects, but it seems controversy, negativity, slander and scandal is what sells in the modern world. I adopted the stance to be ‘controversially positive’ a long time ago—Australia will win the Ashes 5–0 is a good example of that—and while I copped a lot of stick for it over the years, there were plenty of people who understood my predictions were simple logic, because I was never going to say we’d lose a game, let alone a series.
I use an extension of being controversially positive when I’m commentating and watching a team that’s being dominated by the opposition. It would be very easy to lash out at the blokes who are struggling—and every player of any standard has had one of those days—but I prefer to pay tribute to the dominant side and explain to the audience why they have the upper hand. I guess whether you appreciate that outlook depends on how you view life; I’m a glass half-full man rather than a half-empty one.
During my playing days, criticism never worried me unless I believed it was true. I was a player who knew his game. I was always very honest with myself and acknowledged how things were going. Because I also knew where I wanted to go and how I’d get there, I was very rarely bothered by what anyone may have written or said about me. I never took much notice nor was I ever concerned about which batsman I was up against on a particular day, because I’d realised early in my career that if I just focused on what it was I had to do—and did it well—everything would be fine.
With that as my outlook, there was very little chance an article or a couple of harsh words from a commentator would distract me. I will say there were times when I was often bemused (if not amused) by what I might read the morning after a game, and I would wonder if the correspondent had been at a different place to where I’d played. On the few occasions someone wrote or said something that I thought was off the mark, I’d have a quiet chat to them because I thought it was important that they at least be informed. I thought that approach was far more constructive than the cold shoulder that some other players preferred to serve; and while the chat was always amiable—on my part, at least—there were one or two journalists who handled being pulled up much worse than the way the players who copped their criticisms had! One thing I learnt from my time in the dressing room and out in the middle, that’s carried over to my new life in the commentary box, is that it’s crucial to be fair and consistent.
I remember the late Peter Roebuck wrote a piece for Fairfax Media about how he viewed the character of the Australian team—it was damning, comparing us to a ‘pack of wild dogs’. Adam Gilchrist quizzed him about the article and asked why he didn’t seek any opinions from the team members. Roebuck’s response was that he preferred to draw his own opinion from his observations rather than being influenced by conversations with the players or officials, and that seemed fair enough. However, when he did a very favourable article on the Sri Lankans, he was asked by one or two of the boys about the detail in the story, and Roebuck told them he’d gained it by talking to members of the squad! I think, like most other sportsmen, I expected consistency; you want the media and the critics to be fair, and you’ll expect that any opinion they express is based on fact. It shouldn’t be too much to ask, because ultimately they are dealing with players’ careers and creating perceptions.
I’m aware that whenever I make a public comment about a player, I could potentially have an impact on their life and their career. I never liked it as a player when the media seemed to gang up on a teammate and target him until he was either dropped or regained form. That targeted criticism is, rightly or wrongly, another mental side of the game. And while there are those players who thrive on the idea of ‘proving them wrong’, there are just as many who can’t cope, and I have seen such criticism leave players feeling vulnerable and hurt.
From 2008 to 2011 I found it hard to watch the cricket when the Australian pace attack wasn’t doing so well. The sight of our blokes bowling all over the place and from both sides of the wicket was tough to handle. The 2010–11 Ashes series won by England in Australia was hard to cop. However, I accepted we were in the throes of a rebuilding campaign, and despite the disappointment of the defeat I also appreciated the blokes playing were busting their guts. But I actually found I couldn’t watch too much of it. I was contacted by journalists on numerous occasions throughout that 3–1 series loss to have a crack at the Aussie pacemen, but I never took the bait because I didn’t want to become that former cricketer who appeared to have an axe to grind with the current players, because the truth is I didn’t and I don’t.
During the summer of 2014–15 I spent time commentating on Fairfax Radio Network alongside Ian Chappell, Dean Jones, Carl Rackemann, Damien Fleming, Greg Matthews and former England all-rounder John Emburey. While it was a great challenge and a rewarding experience, there are still those times when I can’t believe I’m behind the microphone and describing to a national audience the way in which Indian skipper Virat Kohli has set his field. When I was a student at Narromine High, my fear of talking in front of a group was so deep-seated that it was one of the reasons I decided to finish school in Year 10. You see, I was terrified of being a part of the Year 12 graduation ceremony, where the students stood before a packed school auditorium and said a few words as they received an alumni certificate. If I had been given the choice back then to either deliver a speech or enter a lion’s cage, I’d have asked for the keys to the cage. My shyness was so severe when I was in class that I refused to put my hand up to answer questions I knew the answers to. I was so conscious of what the other students may have thought of me. Unless you’ve suffered from that awful feeling of self-consciousness, you can’t understand how terrible it is—praying not to be called upon to stand up in front of the class and recite a poem or read an essay, because you think people are laughing at you. It’s socially crippling, which is why I’m pleased James and Holly get to practise public speaking at their schools, because it’s a great tool for any kid. I think it empowers them to, at the very least, speak up and offer their thoughts on a subject. My attitude changed the day I made the NSW team. I came to the realisation that talking to people, being interviewed by the media and perhaps even public speaking was something I would have to do. I was given a wonderful tip at this time, which was that when you do speak in public, talk about what you know and be yourself. I found that helped because, in time, I overcame my fear.
I started commentating in 2012, a time when I had no clear direction in life. I was doing bits and pieces—I had corporate speaking engagements, the foundation kept me busy and I still worked with the sponsors who supported me throughout my career—but I had never had a set working week since I was employed at the bank for a four-year stretch more than 20 years ago. When I received an offer to commentate on Channel Nine, my first reaction was to wonder how I could possibly get excited watching a batsman hit a four when I had deplored that as a bowler. Anyway, I tried it and found I enjoyed the expe
rience. But my views on commentary and criticism means there have been a few times when I’ve squirmed in the hot seat and wished to goodness I was just about anywhere else, away from the microphone and the public expectation to say something.
I was in the Channel Nine commentary box at the Gabba in 2012—just three days into my new gig—when my old skipper Ricky Ponting was dismissed for a duck by South African quick Morne Morkel. It had been a tough time for Rick, who I had befriended in 1992 when he was only 17 and we attended the Australian Cricket Academy together. I really wanted him to succeed that day because he hadn’t been playing very well, but he fell for his third duck in four innings against what was regarded at the time as the world’s premium pace attack. Even though he’d scored eight centuries and 11 half-centuries at an average of 51 across the 24 Tests he’d played against the South Africans, on this day he played a poor shot. Rick was then aged 37, he’d lost the captaincy to Michael Clarke, and at that time there would’ve been people sharpening their knives to finish him off. I was well aware that despite his disappointing efforts at the wicket, he was working hard in the nets and probably living with constant pressure. I know no player—especially Ricky Ponting—goes out and plays a poor shot, delivers a bad ball or spills a catch on purpose; but when it happens, the last thing you need to hear is criticism from one of your old teammates sitting in the comfort of an air-conditioned commentary box and hammering what would feel like yet another nail into your career’s coffin.
Test of Will Page 8