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Where do I start with Darren Lehmann?

Who is he? A caring father figure, a cricketing big brother, the cheeky fun-loving younger brother, a much-admired teacher, your larrikin next-door neighbour, a lover of tradition, a bold innovator, an anti-authoritarian stirrer?

In my experience, he’s all of that, and a bit more.

If I was asked to nominate the single most influential person on my career (and there have been a few who have helped, guided, taught, nurtured, scolded and cajoled me along the way), it would be Darren Lehmann. Northern Districts, South Australia, Queensland and Australia … my career has been intertwined with his for a vast majority of my time.

And it would be as much for the things away from the cricket field as on them that would be the reason why. He showed me how to conduct myself and he pulled me up when I needed it (and if truth be known, he still does pull me up, for instance, when my impulsiveness rears its head or I lose sight of the good things I have).

As a spiky-haired skinny kid making my way in the grades with Northern Districts, my steep learning curve would always get a little sharper when Boof was on our team during one of those windows when he wasn’t playing for South Australia or Australia. He had a presence, but most of the time, he would be acting like he was just one of the boys. He’d park himself in slips, do a bit of talking and directing of fielders, and just observe. Us, them, the umpires, the crowd … it all seemed to get fed into his brain, processed, and then somewhere along the way, magic would happen.

You always feel you are with the smartest kid in the room when you watch cricket with Boof. I spent some time on the sidelines with him when he was coaching the Queensland Bulls and Brisbane Heat. I was recovering during the second year of the KFC T20 Big Bash League and he encouraged me to put some training wheels on and have a dabble at coaching. Sitting alongside him for extended periods during a match was like watching an event that was on a time delay.

He would look at a scenario and outline a possible outcome, with his arms folded, swinging animatedly back and forth between the action in the middle and the sideline, chewing gum and running through how it could go.

‘I reckon Hopesy [James Hopes] should burn an over from Lynny [Chris Lynn] next over. X likes to hit from the opposite end, but this is the shorter boundary and he will want to get another good over in, so we might tempt him to change his game plan. Lynny will slide the ball into his pads. He might even get him playing over it, or one to stop and grip a bit and maybe get one off his pads back onto the stumps.’

A few moments later, as it all played out, you would take a moment from the jubilation of seeing a key opposition on his way back to the dugouts to marvel at how he had called it. Of course, he would then advance another scenario so outrageous that it couldn’t possibly happen, and usually that would be the case. But the dice were always rolling in his head.

He has always been generous with his advice and quick to impart simple pieces of knowledge that make a difference. That is why he was such a good teacher of rookies when he was playing, and why he has been a success the further up the coaching ladder he has gone.

I remember a team meeting for the Heat where one of the discussions was how to play Muttiah Muralitharan, who was playing for the Melbourne Renegades in the BBL—not the easiest bloke in the world to read out of the hand or off the pitch and, even though he was getting close to the end of his career, he was still a formidable prospect. At least one of the young Heat batsmen confessed he had not the slightest clue as to how he was going to approach batting when he got there.

Boof allayed his fears with a few simple bits of advice. ‘Mate, look at the first ball, if you can’t read it from the hands, get nice and forward outside the line and sweep him. When you can’t read him, do that. And don’t worry about hitting boundaries. He worries about conceding singles for some reason, so pick those up and you’ll find he will bowl quicker and flatter. Then you can slog him and get some runs off him in his last over.’

And that’s pretty much how it went when the youngster got to Etihad Stadium. He swept the first ball (with Boof giggling away on the sideline to himself), then nudged a few around for safe singles. After sticking to that simple plan, he then managed to ‘slog’ a few much-needed boundaries in the Sri Lankan legend’s final over.

Of course, Boof was one of those batsmen who could play most bowlers with a matchstick, or at least half a bat. His eye, natural skill and technique were all his, but his assessment of bowlers and batsmen was clinical and could be rolled out to those fortunate enough to be on his side.

It would irritate him when one of his charges would agree to a plan, go out and suddenly revert to what they had agreed he wouldn’t do. When that inevitably ended in a dismissal or an opposition batsman getting on top of a bowler, Boof would get the down-turned mouth, maybe dart away for a hasty cigarette, hop on his exercise bike, and think about how he would communicate both his displeasure and the next steps he and the player would take together to ensure it wouldn’t happen again.

Then there is his almost unrealistic belief in winning games from seemingly impossible positions. I’ve heard him speak several times about the influence of the late David Hookes on his way of thinking, and it was that same cavalier, devil-may-care, balls-out approach that Boof would have driving him. As a player, he conjured up remarkable wins for teams he was part of, either through his own efforts or by giving a potential match-winner the licence to create mayhem.

One of my most enjoyable team victories came when Queensland, against all odds, won a final-ball thriller against Victoria at the MCG in the decider of the Ryobi Cup in 2012–13. I was part way through a comeback that had started a week or so earlier in the last regular season one-day game and would continue into a Sheffield Shield final against Tasmania a few weeks later.

Even in the frantic final few balls, where we picked up 2 wickets in 2 balls to win in drizzling rain, Boof was convincing everyone around him that we were going to triumph. I could see him on the sidelines of the MCG, moving about and urging us on. His willpower and belief were such that we all thought it was possible, and when we pinched a win against the odds, he celebrated as hard as the rest of us.

Boof’s mantra is pretty straight-forward. You should play to take the game forward; be positive when the tendency might be to go conservative, and not be afraid to lose. The freedom was there to be unorthodox, to try something that the opposition might not be expecting, especially if they were on top. An over of off spin from a fast bowler, use a part-time leg-spinner for an over, rotate your bowling attack through single-over spells, put a fielder in a weird spot, move a batsman up or down the order … anything you can to unsettle the opposition or at least get them to think about what you are doing rather than what they are currently up to.

With Australia, he is well planned, and usually gives us all some simple tasks or KPIs to look at. He likes to break the game down on the white board to sessions, and will tick and cross as we go. By the end of the game, if you have lost, then it is normally pretty simple to see where the game was decided. And if you have won, you know the areas you might exploit next time, and where you might want to improve. He wants you to be relaxed, so outwardly he treats pressure situations as just another game. ‘It’s just a game of cricket mate’, he will tell you, almost willing you to see it as if you were back playing where you were most comfortable, club cricket or for your state. He knows that people can be scared, can fear failure, and doubt themselves or others when they find themselves facing a challenging situation. He will often tell the players about how many times he thought he was out of his depth, and how nervous he was, and it helps them understand that everyone goes through those emotions.

It is something I reckon he got from Hookesy. He was a legend of the game in South Australia, but I never really had much to do with him on a personal level. In fact, the first time I really sat down and heard him speak was earlier on the day he died. I hadn’t stayed at the hotel where it all happened, and only found out the next morning when I woke up. It changed Boof as only tragedy can, and his approach to life and cricket changed with him.

As a coach, Boof is relaxed but organised. He likes to prepare things a fair way out, but is flexible enough to make changes if he thinks a better option has presented itself. He preaches family first … you have responsibilities to the team but they are not designed to be mutually exclusive to your family. It is a trust thing—you would never dare to abuse it.

One thing you learn from the outset is that he hates lateness. The Bulls and Heat would regularly present themselves in foyers well before check-out time and the team would inevitably be all ready to leave before the agreed-upon time. To that end, Boof loves a team fines system. It takes on a life and structure all of its own—there is a lot of fun involved but you know that if you are late, then it will need to be one hell of an excuse. And the further he has gone, the bigger the fines have got.

‘What are you blokes complaining about, you’ve all got plenty. Pay up or it’s another fine.’

Of course the collected revenue will end up going back to the team in the shape of a social outing, or to charity.

Boof enjoys the fun of being in a team. Somewhere in there, he’s still a big kid at heart.

He’s done some great stunts in his time. He and New Zealand’s Mark Richardson dressing up in hooded one-piece running suits to do a hurdle race over kegs was one of those images that you won’t forget (go on, Google it).

The Queensland boys still get a laugh about the aftermath of when the Bulls won the Sheffield Shield in 2011–12, beating Tasmania in a thriller at the Gabba. The celebrations were confined to the dressing-rooms well into the night, and at some point several of the players and Boof found themselves out on the ground. A mountain bike had appeared from somewhere, and with the ingenuity that comes from a long season, some liquid incentive and general tomfoolery, something like a ramp was cobbled together from plastic chairs and corflute signs.

Of course, dew and beer and water made for slippery conditions, but one of the daredevils successfully made it partially over the jump. That was enough for Boof. He ended up on the bike and, wobbling slightly, took a mighty go at hitting the ramp at speed. Physics, along with a lack of friction on a now very slippery sign, meant that Boof was like a roller coaster without the rails. He landed—hard. Eventually between groans and giggles, the thrillseekers abandoned their homemade stunt show and the night continued. By the next morning at recovery, Boof could hardly move. He had to go to the Indian Premier League for a coaching stint a day or two later, and by the time he had touched down in India, ‘Crusty Demon’ Lehmann was looking for the team doctor to treat his busted ribs and bruising.

My fortunes and fate have been tied to Darren for so long, that it stood to reason that when I faced the biggest decision of my career at the end of the 2007–08 season, he was one of the first people I went to for advice. Should I leave South Australia? As always, he was straight to the point. Where would I be happiest? Where would I play my best cricket?

The whole question of where I would be happiest was a double-edged one. Gavin and his family had moved from Sydney to Brisbane not long after Mum died and there was some symmetry about going there to be with him again. The other was a girl I had met recently.

Her name was Cherie, and we’d known each other in a circle of friends when we were teenagers. When she was eighteen she went out with one of the guys who played cricket and, Adelaide being the sort of place that it is, we’d see each other out and about.

One of Cherie’s best friends, Amy, is the sister of one of my good mates, Damien, and so we were in similar circles over the years. I went to a wedding with Damien and other friends of ours and they were all into me—I was single and they all kept telling me to get in touch with Cherie.

And so, with a touch of Dutch courage, I did. We were friends on Facebook for a while and things were going nicely. It was just after Christmas when things got a bit more serious. Graham Manou was seeing the Australian runner Tamsyn Lewis and we had all got together to go to the Bay Sheffield, the famous Adelaide athletics meet. We enjoyed a big day and most of us ended up at a local tavern on the way home. Gav and his family were there and so at some point I was ‘encouraged’ to get Cherie to come and join us, and she did. She didn’t quite realise the build-up I had given her. At some point I may have stated ‘I’m going to introduce you to the girl I am going to marry …’ She managed to get through all of that in style, and so 27 December was when we started seeing each other.

I was torn with staying in Adelaide and seeing where things might go with the SACA, or making a fresh start with Queensland or WA (who were also keen). If I went to Queensland, I would be closer to Gav, and Dad had talked about potentially moving up as well.

A lot of people thought that I followed Boof to Queensland, but I was doing my talking to the then Queensland coach Terry Oliver, who handed over the Bulls coaching job to Trevor Barsby by the time I moved there. There were a few portents though.

The last game of the season had been against Queensland and Jimmy Maher, the Bulls skipper, had announced he was retiring. Several of the senior campaigners in Australian cricket had jumped at the opportunity to join the new Indian Cricket League, which had been set up by a rival television network in India after they had been shut out of the equally new Indian Premier League. There had been a spate of retirements, as the new league was not sanctioned by the various governing bodies, and so intending players pretty well had to step down from their domestic teams.

As we enjoyed the last moments of the season in our dressing-room afterwards, Jimmy, who was a great mate of Boof’s, sat beside me and popped his faded and beer-stiffened baggy maroon on my head.

‘Looks good on you champ. You’ll have your own inside twelve months I reckon,’ he chirped.

I laughed it off, but obviously the lengthy and varied Maher/Lehmann conversations about cricket that had taken place over the summer had touched upon me at some stage and it had struck a chord with Jimmy.

Just how much of a chord became apparent when it came time to finalise my immediate future.