Test of Will

by Glenn McGrath

  So, there I was, the glowing red light showing the camera was on and my microphone demanding I offer something to relay that the besieged Ponting was out for a duck. While I had to say something, my initial thought was, Is a 20-year-old friendship going to come down to the next few words that leave my mouth? I didn’t want to slate him; all I could do was mumble he’d played a poor shot. That was fact, and the reason I took comfort from that was because I knew from my own experience as a player that while it might sting, it’s hard to hold a grudge about a truthful observation. Regardless, as I watched Rick make his long walk back to the pavilion with his place in the team on the line, I thought to myself, It’s only my third day of commentating and I hate this. I realised that I was perhaps still a little bit too close, if not to the Australian team, then definitely to some of the players. After stumps, I went back to my hotel and asked some tough questions of myself, the main one being, Can you do this? I realised I’d feel pretty lousy about myself if I ever got behind the microphone and just mouthed off to be controversial or colourful, but Rick’s dismissal that day actually proved to be a breakthrough of sorts for me as a commentator. I realised I needed to have fun; I had to let go of my tight grip on the rope and enjoy it. Some commentators might disagree with me, but I found it hard to say negative things about my teammates—it just doesn’t sit well with me—and that is why commentating is getting easier for me every time a Rick Ponting or a Brett Lee retires.

  One of the real thrills about commentating for Channel Nine was the opportunity to get a glimpse of the late great Richie Benaud in action. He was such a great commentator—the doyen—and such was his fame for his work behind the microphone that I’m sure there’d have been plenty of young viewers who were unaware of the fact Richie was also one of Australia’s greatest cricketers. Not only was he a top leg spinner who became the first Test all-rounder to take 200 wickets and score 2000 runs, but he was also a great captain, who was regarded as being both innovative and one who led by example.

  As I say, I only had a glimpse of what made him such an outstanding broadcaster, but first and foremost I believe the key to Richie’s success was his ‘feel’ and his obvious love for the game—that was the foundation that made him quite special.

  When I was given my chance in the hot seat, Richie was 82 and he didn’t say as much as he used to. Nevertheless, he would still offer his unique pearls of wisdom because that’s what he did, it’s the way it was. And for my part, those few times I was in his presence I just watched, listened and tried to learn. He mastered the pregnant pauses better than anyone else (and plenty mastered impersonating his voice); he possessed a dry sense of humour; and while he was witty, Richie Benaud was wise enough to allow the players to tell the viewers the story of what was happening out in the middle and he’d pick his words carefully to enhance the scene. Everyone hung off each of his words. When Richie passed away in April 2015, the game mourned the passing of a true legend. In the spirit of the great performers, he left his audience wanting more.

  11

  LEARNING TO COACH

  The philosophy of the school room in one generation will be the philosophy of government in the next.

  — Abraham Lincoln, 16th US President

  When I retired from cricket, there were two fields I told my manager Warren Craig I didn’t want to pursue: one was commentating and the other was coaching. At the time I needed to get cricket out of my system. The sport had dominated the previous 20 years of my life and while I enjoyed ‘the life’, I wanted to spend time with my family. After missing too many of the moments that mattered while I was away on tour, I welcomed the chance to do the fatherly things with Holly and James that most kids took for granted. However, eight years since my last match I’m doing both, and absolutely loving it. Based purely on how much I’m enjoying my role as a fast-bowling coach, it seems strange to admit my initial reaction was to panic and doubt my ability to do the job. When my childhood hero Dennis Lillee suggested I take the reins from him as a coaching director of the renowned MRF Pace Foundation in Chennai, India, that’s exactly what I felt—panic. Dennis is one of the world’s foremost fast-bowling coaches. He has the ability to immediately work out what issues are troubling a bowler simply by looking at them run in. That’s a unique talent. My approach to taking something on is to give it my best, and the first thought that came into my head was ‘no’ because I wasn’t sure if I’d be any good. I now understand why I needed time to consider what I’d be getting into if I accepted Dennis’s generous invitation. Firstly, I had never thought about coaching as a career because all I ever did when I bowled was what came naturally to me. I assumed everyone else was the same. Secondly, I was worried that some Australians would question my decision to help produce another nation’s players.

  The MRF Pace Foundation is based in the grounds of the Madras Christian College Higher Secondary School in the Chennai’s Chetpet district. The foundation was the brainchild of the late Ravi Mammen, who established what could be described as a factory of pace in conjunction with Dennis. Mammen backed it with funds from his family’s company, the tyre group MRF Ltd—a company that started by making balloons in a tin shed in 1946 but evolved into one of India’s great corporate success stories. The foundation was borne from a sense of frustration with the state of the Indian cricket team’s pace line-up. As Vinoo Mammen, the chairman and managing director of MRF, said in an interview a few years ago, it seemed an insult to the nation’s pacemen that there were times that India’s famous opening batsman, Sunil Gavaskar, would open the bowling. While Kapil Dev emerged as a feared pace bowler in the 1970s, it was clear India did not have a depth of talent in the fast-bowling department. Ravi Mammen—who sadly passed away from a heart attack aged 39 and just two years after the foundation’s inception—took action by presenting Lillee with his blueprint and selling him his vision.

  I attended the foundation as a student in 1992. It gave me my first insight into the subcontinent’s conditions—and it’s no scoop to reveal they’re tough. The pitches do the pacemen few favours, the heat and humidity is mind-numbing, and any success is through a wild-eyed persistence. That’s why the foundation is so important—it helps to give the fast bowler a fighting chance. The facilities are brilliant: there’s a world-class gymnasium, an Olympic-size swimming pool, four different turf pitches, residential facilities and its own cricket stadium. The ethos is ‘service’ to fast bowlers and it’s impressive to learn that the MRF Pace Foundation helps pay the fees of emerging fast bowlers selected to be tutored there. The success rate has been staggering with 55 trainees progressing from their nets to represent India. Among the foundation’s roll of honour are the likes of Shanthakumaran Sreesanth, Zaheer Khan and Irfan Pathan. Since the foundation opened its doors to foreign players in 1992, the likes of Brett Lee, Mitchell Johnson, Chaminda Vaas, Mohammad Asif, Dilhara Fernando and myself have all been fortunate to benefit from what’s on offer.

  So, there was Dennis on the other end of the phone offering me what anyone else would have considered a brilliant opportunity, and all I could do was ‘umm’ and ‘ahh’, while my mind was bombarded with doubt after doubt, questioning how could I possibly coach. My greatest strength as a bowler was the mental side of the craft. I understood my mindset; I ensured I understood my role in the game plan; and whether it was stretching or working on a particular delivery in the nets during team training or in my own time, I prided myself on the fact I went about my job professionally. I think I had a fairly decent action, and the reality is that was the result of being left to my own devices. As a kid I was rarely called upon to roll my arm over for my junior team, the Backwater XI. I was banished to the role of specialist fine leg, all because my captain believed a fishing pole had more ability to bowl a yorker than me! Most of the people at the club thought I ought to focus on shooting hoops in the burgeoning bush basketball league, so no one at the cricket club gave me a second thought. I guess they figured it’d be a waste of time. In hindsight they di
d me a massive favour, because that perception prevented someone from tinkering with what my body found to be the most natural action and inner rhythm. I have no doubt that’s what allowed me to enjoy my longevity in the game. Back in 1992 I was sent to the MRF to work under Dennis after I’d spent time with him at the Cricket Academy. After he had watched me there for a while he told me that I had a ‘sound action’. The Cricket Academy sent us to India to get familiar with subcontinent conditions and to have Dennis monitor our progress. He liked that my hips and shoulders were aligned when I bowled, because he noted that restricted the risk of the career-threatening injuries he had endured. Rather than commit to an overhaul on me, his priority was to work on what he called ‘refinement’.

  The more I think of it, the more I believe I am a coach—my first student was my 15-year-old self. But I wasn’t thinking so clearly when Dennis was on the other end of the phone and offering me a challenge. The waves of reluctance continued. It struck me that despite the fact I’d played in 124 Tests and 250 one-day Internationals, technically speaking I couldn’t articulate how I did what I did. I’d tell people the secret to my success was controlling the controllables, keeping it simple and bowling a nagging line and length to force the batsmen into a mistake. But the thought of actually sitting down, dissecting an aspiring bowler’s action and going through the process of teaching how to bowl was quite daunting as I struggled to pinpoint where to even start. I asked Dennis the inevitable question of ‘Why me?’ as we spoke on the phone. He explained that when he joined the MRF Pace Foundation in 1987, the people who ran it wanted the best retired fast bowler in the world as their coaching director, and few could disagree Dennis Lillee definitely fitted the bill. Now, 25 years later, he was charged with the duty of recruiting his replacement. He identified me as the man for the role. While I hesitated, Dennis pointed out that my 563 Test wickets carried some clout. Though I considered the phone call as much a massive compliment as it was a vote of confidence, I still couldn’t help but hesitate. Thankfully Dennis had faith in what he thought I would bring to the table. When he sensed my reluctance was due to self-doubt rather than a lack of interest or enthusiasm, he suggested I simply think about it. That advice sat well with me because, while I didn’t want to make a rash decision I also didn’t want to slam the door shut without giving his offer the consideration it deserved.

  Sara saw the phone call as an opportunity for me to give back to cricket, by passing on some knowledge that might help a couple of kids fulfil their dreams; and her view made great sense. However, while I know it may sound ridiculous now, I also struggled with the notion that people who’d supported me might brand me a traitor for seemingly turning my back on Australia for Indian money. I also thought long and hard about how I would handle the idea of a young Indian kid tearing through an Australian line-up, and then thanking me for helping him. It’s ridiculous, because you’d find few more patriotic Aussies than Dennis, or me for that matter. I’d also been asked by a couple of international teams to help coach their bowlers, but I baulked because I had played for Australia. I’m still close to the national team and I want to see it continue to do well. The concept of passing on the tricks of the trade that I had learnt through the Aussie system didn’t sit well with me. I also know my character, and it worried me to think that if I was working with England, South Africa, India or Sri Lanka I’d give them my all and would want to see them do well, even against Australia.

  While Dennis’s offer was a great opportunity, it certainly threw up its challenges. Ultimately, I was swayed by the idea that former players have a duty to share our knowledge to the new breed as generously as Dennis did with me throughout my career. He, of course, wasn’t the only pace bowler to ‘gift’ me with the insights of a champion. It’s now a treasured memory for me to think about a conversation I had with Ray Lindwall not long before he died of a stroke in 1996. Ray, who was the strike weapon of Bradman’s 1948 Invincibles, sat in the change sheds with me at Hobart’s Bellerive Oval after a match to talk about the ‘art’. Lindwall was in his seventies and he asked for my thoughts on such things as reverse swing. While I was well aware of his status as one of cricket’s greatest pacemen—one who mixed his outswinger with a brutal yorker and a frightening bouncer, all delivered at a frightening speed—it’s only as I’ve grown older that I can fully appreciate why Lindwall wanted to share what he could with a youngster. It was his duty to pass the wisdom down. He was a kid who grew up bowling to his mates at a paraffin-tin wicket in a suburban street in Sydney. It just so happened that this street was where the great Australian spin bowler Bill ‘Tiger’ O’Reilly walked home from work every day. When Lindwall came under O’Reilly’s wing in the St George grade team, O’Reilly mentored him, passing on insights and wisdom about the game. Lindwall, in turn, passed on his knowledge to the great left-armer Alan Davidson when he was a rookie in the fifties, a young Lillee in the seventies and, late in his life, to me.

  When Dennis heard my concerns about appearing unpatriotic, he pointed out that young Australian players also attended the foundation—just as I had 22 years earlier—under a reciprocal agreement between Cricket Australia and the foundation. In my first stint as a coach there I had a handful of Australian cricketers, including Josh Hazlewood and Gurinder Sandhu, for two weeks, and they’ve since gone on to earn their international spurs. In my last visit, a few quicks from the National Performance Squad, including Liam Hatcher, Billy Stanlake and David Grant, came to the foundation for their first taste of the subcontinent’s conditions. I have no doubt what they experienced over that fortnight will give them a head start should they be picked to tour India in the future. My view on having an involvement with foreign teams is a lot more relaxed now. I note that former NSW coach Trevor Bayliss is the head coach of England, Dav Whatmore coaches Zimbabwe, and in the past Greg Chappell coached India. Geoff Lawson coached Pakistan, Trent Woodhill coached New Zealand and John Dyson, Sri Lanka. When my old Sutherland and NSW coach Steve Rixon coached the Kiwis, he even told their batsmen to try and unsettle me by charging me! In more recent times my old teammates have done the same: Michael Hussey was involved with South Africa’s last World Cup campaign and Brett Lee helped Ireland. My view is that apart from putting bread and butter on the table, they’re helping the game by sharing their knowledge. I’ll always want Australia to do well, but at the end of the day, when a team is out in the middle, it’s up to them. As a cricket lover you want to see the players perform at their best and for the best team to win. With my original doubts quelled, I asked Dennis if I could travel to Chennai with him and watch how he operated. I wanted to get a feel for what was required in the job and to see if I could do it.

  As has always been the case, whenever I’ve been in Dennis’s company, I absorbed what he said and watched what he did. It was inspiring—he simply reinforced to me that he really is a great teacher. I took mental notes when I heard him say that his attitude to an individual’s bowling action is that unless it is grossly wrong or prone to injury he doesn’t change it, he preferred instead to refine—or hone it—with what he called ‘slight modifications’, as he did with my action. My own belief is that the body works out the action best suited to it, so his view not to make change for the sake of change resonated with me. He is also a believer in fast bowlers ‘knowing’ their body in this age of stress fractures and serious injuries. He says that while a bowler’s workload needs to be managed, the bowler must also have some accountability and know how much is too much. It was just common sense stuff, and I found that the more Dennis spoke, the more I started to think I could follow his lead; although he’s a tough act to follow.

  I also liked the feel of the academy—it has a rock solid foundation of goodness. It speaks volumes that in the 25 years Dennis worked there, he never signed a contract because he said the relationship was built on a cornerstone of trust and faith. The foundation trusted he’d give his heart and soul to the trainees, and he had faith that they would fulfil their promise to l
ook after him. I saw it was a great relationship, and that helped me warm to the idea of committing to the job. I was just as impressed by the facility’s chief coach Myluahanan ‘Senthil’ Senthilnathan, who once captained India’s under-19s team and represented the Rest of India. While he was a batsman, he’s technically a brilliant bowling coach. Though we’re the same age, Senthil had worked alongside Dennis for 23 years and this has armed him with tremendous knowledge. I also liked that his manner suggested from the moment I arrived that if I took on the role, he’d want me to succeed. All of the doubts that clouded my mind were brushed away when I arrived in India by the excitement of believing I could make a fist of coaching. Almost three years after taking on the job I’ve never looked back.

  My role involves spending three stints a year—each of them a two-week duration—in Chennai, and I’m continuing to learn a lot. Now, with a few years’ experience under my belt, I look for someone who can bowl quick; the faster he is, the more unique he is, so I aim to ensure we don’t do anything that will make him lose that. However, I’m also looking for those young bowlers who have the attitude to work hard without complaining, because I think where you can marry blistering speed with a good work ethic, you’ll have a world-beater. I can look at someone’s action now and pick up any flaw straight away. The reaction from the bowler when they fine-tune the fault—it’s as though you have helped them solve one of the world’s great mysteries—is very rewarding. Their reactions have helped me understand why Dennis said that receiving a letter from Chaminda Vaas—who took 355 Test wickets for Sri Lanka—to thank him for his help early in his career was very humbling and meant a lot.