‘Happy birthday Chicksy, you’re going to make your debut for the Redbacks. Now, it’s not official yet, so keep it quiet okay. Don’t tell too many people. Going to be a fun night, hey.’

Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah—WHAT?

Wow, where was I supposed to start? Oh wait, that’s right, it was my twenty-first birthday party and I was being asked to be a bit discreet with some massive news.

I was certainly very grateful when Boof and Greg Blewett took me aside behind the gazebo and let me into their confidence early in October 2000, and agreed immediately that I would keep it to myself. Okay, sure, tell Mum and Dad, and Gav, and maybe Uncle John and Aunty Fay and the boys from Northern …

As you can see from the photo of that night elsewhere in this book, I was a happy fella. I’m sure my speech was a doozy. From what I recall, it seemed to go off okay.

We’d organised my twenty-first for the first weekend in October, which turned out to be excellent timing with my debut set down for the next weekend, three days before my actual birthday.

I was to wear the Redbacks colours for the first time against Queensland in Brisbane. It was at Allan Border Field rather than the Gabba, which was unavailable due to the Sydney Olympics. It didn’t bother me, especially when I got there and found it more like the club grounds that I was used to as opposed to a big stadium like the Gabba.

I was a bit nervous, especially going up against a Bulls side that had the likes of Matthew Hayden, Jimmy Maher, Martin Love, Stuart Law and Andy Bichel in it. But alongside Blewey, Boof, Graham Manou and Paul ‘Blocker’ Wilson, I had every reason to be confident.

It was a beaut day, with a good-sized crowd that felt like they were almost on the field with you at times. I didn’t have much time to settle as we won the toss and sent the Bulls in to bat, hoping to get some early life out of what was a typically sound one-day track at their home away from home. After a few overs from Mark Harrity and Blocker, the ball was tossed to me and away I went … bowling to the intimidating Matthew Hayden. But I got some nice shape with the newish ball and away went Haydos, caught behind and grousing all the way to the rooms (‘Why didn’t someone say he bowled an outswinger?’). It worked for one big gun, so I tried much the same to Stu Law, with the same result as he went to drive.

Two in two! How good is that at interstate cricket? A hat-trick? Could I dare to dream? And then Martin Love languidly moved to the wicket, casually took strike, and effortlessly handled the hat-trick ball. And quite a few more after that. He and Jimmy Maher scored 60s and with some Bichel big hitting and other contributions down the order, Queensland finished with 7–273. It was a handy score, but one that might have been 30 runs short on the compact Border Field, with its short square boundaries. I had 2–35 from 7 overs, so was well pleased that Boof had looked after me, and that I had done my job to get wickets at the top of the order.

As a debut, I couldn’t really complain. We were in a bit of strife at 6–195 when ‘Choc’ Manou got out and I ended up in a partnership with Ben Johnson that took us to within striking distance of chasing down the runs. I’d hit someone for a few funs and Haydos decided enough was enough and hopped into me from point. Someone, maybe Boof, could have suggested to me that if any of the old hard-heads from Queensland went at me, then the best thing to do was to be quiet. I’m not sure I quite got that right. The scene was set an over or so later when Haydos came in to bowl, robust medium-pacers I recall. He dropped one short and I went hard to pull it, only to misjudge the pace and sky it straight up in the air and be caught. That was it for the day for me, and after a thrilling last few overs, we fell 3 runs short.

The Queenslanders were tough, but they also demonstrated similar qualities to the ones that Boof had always espoused and now the Redbacks had already displayed for me. Play hard on the field, and then have a beer and a friendly yarn afterwards. It was a telling reminder to me that while it was a step up from grade cricket, there were plenty of similarities in how we played the game. Most of the states got on with Queensland, just as they did with South Australia and Western Australia. The Vics and NSW would be a bit harder to crack, as was Tassie for a while, and as I gained experience, I knew the games that each state would be ‘up’ for. I remember Mike Hussey saying something similar many years later about how he had hated playing Queensland. There would always be a Matt Hayden or an Andrew Symonds or Stuart Law or someone who would be into him when he came to bat for WA and, more often than not, he would miss out and their words would ring in his ears all the way back to the rooms. And then at the end of the game, they would be great company and as it turned out, good teammates when several of them ended up in the Australia team set-up.

I was fortunate to be able to follow my one-day debut with an encore performance the following week against Tasmania. I was twenty-one for real this time, and again, found myself in a match that had plenty to teach me. Overnight rain in Adelaide meant a delayed start, so the game was reduced to 43 overs a side, with the threat of more bad weather around. The Tigers sent us in and we performed solidly to score 6–248. No batting for me this time so when I got the ball, I was naturally anxious to recapture my debut effort and show I was worth having around. Unfortunately I (and most of the attack) ended up copping some stick from two of Tassie’s finest: the heavy-scoring left-hander Michael Di Venuto (124) and young Ricky Ponting (68). I was involved in the run-out that removed Diva, and with the team holding its collective nerve, we won by 4 runs. Being part of an exciting win in front of friends and family was more than enough to convince me that I had made the right choice; the question now was how much more of this could I have.

I went on to play five more games that season, and found that the learning curve as a rookie state cricketer was steeper than anything I had ever encountered. I had another rain-affected game against the Victorians that we won well, and then pinched a thriller over NSW at the North Sydney Oval. That was a game where I had the best seat in the house as the non-striker looking on from the other end of the pitch as Boof scored one of his typically inventive centuries. My 31 not out was not even on the radar compared to his 115 off 118 balls, but I thoroughly enjoyed being the first person to celebrate his ton when he brought up three figures against a steady NSW attack consisting of Glenn McGrath, Brett Lee, Nathan Bracken, Stuart MacGill …

No wonder I was enjoying the moment. Looking on at the larrikin kid enjoying the reflected glory of Boof’s hundred were the likes of Steve Waugh, Mark Waugh, Michael Slater, Michael Bevan and a handy young keeper by the name of Brad Haddin. No-one else quite did star-studded like NSW in those days on the rare occasions when they had their Aussie players to call upon. Despite the stellar cast, the Redbacks triumphed on that occasion.

Any young player coming through the ranks early in their career is going to have a moment like that. Suddenly the blokes you had been cheering for on the television were right there in front of you, usually doing everything in their power to remind you of your place and role in this game. That is, down the bottom, and a minor player at best. It was hard knowing how to react. Go hard at them with all of your youthful energy and passion, and all you manage to do is stamp yourself as a big-head who has no respect for those who have greater records and reputations, and potentially annoy a powerful figure.

The following scenario would certainly have taken place around Australian cricket.

Cricket powerbroker (maybe coach or selector): ‘What about young so and so from X? He’s got some real potential—what do you think?’

Powerful player (thinking of their encounter earlier in the season when ‘so and so’ had been quick on the lip): ‘Well, I dunno. I’ve heard he’s a bit lazy and I think there’s better than him. What about Y? He was super impressive for us when we played so and so and I know he’s got a great temperament and good work ethic.’

The other alternative is to stay in your box and try not to look sideways in case you are perceived as being disrespectful. And that means you are normally seen as being easily intimidated, which ends up with a similar outcome.

Earning respect. It was something that had been drummed into me at Northern Districts, and then reinforced by the likes of Boof, ‘Dizzy’ Gillespie, ‘Blocker’ Wilson and coaches like Tim Nielsen and Wayne Phillips. Confidence is a great thing to have when you’re starting out, but respect will sustain you in the long term.

I was competitive, and probably came across as confident in that first season and not overawed by the occasion, but it took me a long time to think I really belonged. Deep down I really didn’t have the belief that I could do it at that level. I did find myself playing reputations rather than the players in front of me. It was only natural, I guess, to find it tough bowling to Steve and Mark Waugh. I was excited to be up against some greats of the game, but once the excitement stopped bubbling long enough for me to look at the task ahead, inevitably I would find myself wondering if I was good enough to get them out.

Funnily enough, that season’s second game against NSW featured a young player who personified precocious—well, certainly as much as the man he would eventually succeed as national captain.

Teenager Michael Clarke made his debut and batted 7 for NSW against the Redbacks at the Adelaide Oval in January 2001. The nickname ‘Pup’ might not have been in wide circulation at the time, but I’m sure we all thought, ‘Oh well, here’s another rosy-cheeked Blue bagger who’s already got his baggy green’, as David Hookes had once professed.

I was probably torn between showing a fellow greenhorn that I had some empathy for the position he was in, and wanting to make sure I finished on top and reinforced the fragile ‘status’ that my five one-day games to date had earned me. Within two years time he had made his One-Day International (ODI) debut for Australia and his career trajectory was up, up and away. Mine, on the other hand, had been on and off the launch pad without quite getting to orbit.

My second season with the Redbacks was one that probably encapsulated where I was as a cricketer and a person.

I made my first-class debut in a truly amazing game, but also sustained a serious injury that probably set me on a pattern of behaviour that, looking back, I was incredibly fortunate to overcome. I’d had what I thought was a pretty good off-season and preseason. I had been working on my strength in the gym and might have overdone the upper body work as it turned out.

I had to bide my time for the first month, playing a few more one-dayers, but November brought the call I had been waiting for—I was to make my Pura Cup debut for South Australia against Tasmania in Hobart. And even better, it looked like I would share the new ball with Mark Harrity. I was as happy as a dog with two tails, and thought: ‘Now this is more like it.’

I was raring to go, and any nerves were quickly dispelled when Boof won the toss and elected to have first use of a Bellerive Oval wicket that either played like a featherbed or a minefield back in those days. Those dreams you have about being an instant success … that was me that morning. My first scalp was the Tigers number three Michael ‘Cowboy’ Dighton, followed by Shane Watson—then an emerging but raw talent who had been enticed from his native Queensland to play for Tasmania. And then, four balls into my tenth over, it went from dream to nightmare. With my tail up and striving for that bit of extra, I let one go, only to feel sharp, searing pain across my chest. My pectoral muscle chose that moment to tear, and that was me done for the game. All on my first morning. In hindsight, my focus and emphasis on upper-body work had probably done me in. Whatever I had gained in strength, I’d lost in flexibility. Whatever, I was devastated. I’d waited for the chance, but then blown it by getting hurt and letting down the team.

The usual rule of thumb is that when you lose a frontline member of the attack for the match, it is very hard to win the game, unless someone plays out of their skin. Tassie went from being in strife at 5–122 to powering away to 7–382 off the back of a great 141 from wicketkeeper Sean Clingeleffer and 84 from all-rounder Shaun Young. Mark Harrity bowled 35 overs and Paul Rofe, who had come through with me at youth level, rolled through 44 overs—all while I watched miserably from the sidelines. After getting some treatment across the day, and into the next, I tried tentatively to bat in case I was needed. But I couldn’t play any shots due to the pain and I resigned myself to the fact that I was now officially a passenger.

Things looked bleak for us, with opener Jeff Vaughan forced from the field early, and our other opener David Fitzgerald dismissed for 31. I mentioned that you needed someone to do something amazing? Enter Greg Blewett and Boof.

The pair proceeded to produce something extraordinary. A stand of 386 turned the game on its head. Who could sit on the sidelines feeling sorry for themselves when this was unfolding? Boof scored 246 while Blewey hit 163 … Boof was mesmerising. He was in such touch; it was almost as if he was taunting them. He would hit it centimetre-perfect to either side of fielders, and every time the Tigers captain Jamie Cox and the bowlers would move someone, he would hit it to where the fielder had just been. David Saker, the hard-nosed former Victorian fast bowler who would later go on to coach England’s bowlers, would bowl and then duck as Boof would pound the ball back straight down the ground. We ended up with 5–589 declared, and then saw a shell-shocked Tigers team rolled for 167 in their second innings, with ‘Hags’ (Harrity) taking a 5-wicket haul. An outright win by an innings and 40 runs … if I hadn’t been crestfallen at my own fate, it would have been a perfect debut. My prognosis was ordinary—eight weeks out. I managed a return late in the season but was nowhere near my best. The one thing I recalled from the game against the Warriors was the big blond WA quick Brad Williams. He bowled like the wind and showed why there were calls for him to take his talents to a higher level. Again, he bowled quick and moved the ball … there was a recipe there to adopt but whether I could get the ingredients right was another story.

I had an opportunity to go to the UK again for cricket and took it. I came back determined to make up for lost time. Along the way, though, I was starting to develop some traits that were not ideal if my potential was to be realised.

I had some good cricket in me—2003 was when I won the Bradman Medal as the best grade cricketer. That was a huge honour for the club and I was thrilled at how my cricket for Northern Districts was going. Outsiders, though, noticed that my best efforts would invariably come at that level. When I went up to the Redbacks, I would perform in spurts, almost as if I didn’t want to bowl fast and take wickets and lead the attack all of the time … because then it would become expected of me. It was easier to be back in the pack—doing enough but not leading the way.

On the other hand, over those few seasons when I should have been building towards my peak, I went anywhere but where I was supposed to. Wayne Phillips, our coach, despaired of me on occasions, especially when I was rehabbing from injury.

It almost became easier for me to be injured, or sore, so that if I was, the expectations weren’t as great and the work I was doing was enough. I was being challenged by the coaching staff, but I wasn’t responding the way they wanted me to. I’d be late for training, not terribly, but five minutes here or there, and would offer up that I had been busy paying bills or doing a job. No matter that I would have had all day to do it. I didn’t always communicate clearly with the coach as to how I was fairing either.

I became something of a chore for Flipper. I’d turn up to training and see that I wasn’t listed on the board for batting or bowling. And would usually turn my nose up and grizzle.

‘Ah Ryan, good of you to join us’, Flipper would open proceedings. ‘And what are you doing today with us?’

I’d mumble that I was on bowling restrictions but could bat.

‘Okay, no bowling, some batting.’ And then he would pointedly add me to the board and, having dealt with his problem child, would put aside his exasperation and get on with training.

Being young and probably immature in handling situations like this, I would have more of a whinge later about not getting a go.

Wayne did his best to make me see that if anything was going to change, it had to start with me.

One day I made an appointment to go and see him to work out where I fitted and what his plans were for me. I was a bit head-strong and probably didn’t choose my words with much (or any) diplomacy.

He listened. He sighed. And took me over to where some pot plants were standing forlornly in the corner.

‘Ryan, those pot plants need watering and a bit of attention. At the moment, that’s where you can fit in.’

I was mortified, and embarrassed, and filthy all at once. He had used his quick sense of humour to make a valid point but I didn’t quite take it onboard, or in the spirit with which it was intended. As I later found out, my spot on the contract list in those seasons was often the subject of intense discussion. I needed to make it impossible not to pick me on the list. Instead, I was giving them reasons not to keep me. It would come down to the sixteenth and seventeenth spots, and serious thought was given as to why I should stay on.

The message was coming my way often enough. At our end-of-season reviews, in the off-season, in the preseason, during the summer. I give Flipper credit—he sat me down and kept reminding me that to go to another level, I needed more.

But enjoying myself seemed easier. I was single, and had enough money and time to do so without too much issue. My mates were having fun growing up and so was I. There was plenty of time spent on getting injury payments—essentially getting paid to recover—and so my motivation was all over the shop.

Around then was when I found myself getting on the drink and having a punt more often than socially. Dad used to have a bet on the horses, but was never a huge punter. I got myself stuck into the pokies.

I’d go to club training on a Thursday night, do a bit there and then have a few beers afterwards. We’d then adjourn to our local and play the pokies and bet on the greyhounds and trots. I was a home owner by then, so I actually had used some of my money wisely. It was a shame about the rest though. I’d win some but lose lots too. There would be times when I would borrow from my mates to get me through until my next pay and sometimes Mum and Dad would help out with the mortgage if I was caught short. I always paid them back, and my mates. I bet at the TAB and, occasionally, with the bookies at the track if we all went to the races, but I never bet on credit. I’d lose $1000 or $1500 on one night, and then a few days later win $4000. I would find myself in debt and in a few tight spots without getting into serious trouble. Fortunately, I was a pretty unsophisticated punter. I never got into betting on sport, certainly not cricket, as the intricacies didn’t grab me. Even now, I enjoy playing cards at a casino, and have some interests in owning greyhounds, trotters and racehorses, but I have got to a point where I have my limits and do it for enjoyment and relaxation. Even when I was a young bloke, the prize of owning my own home had been a goal, and that hasn’t changed.

Despite my self-inflicted headaches, I had plenty going right for me, or so I thought. I was probably most comfortable on the cricket field, where I had got a bit of a career going with South Australia. I had a loving and supportive family, plenty of good mates, and a bit of financial security. It was all good. Wasn’t it?