Author’s Introduction

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The great game of cricket charms us in so many ways, from matches and events to the mates we make. I revel in the backroom stories, like Tony Greig failing to recognise the Don at Adelaide Airport at the start of the Rest of the World tour and shrinking in embarrassment when Garry Sobers arrived and said, ‘Sir Donald … what an honour.’

And Greigy, on his UK debut at Hove, being caught plumb in front, first or second ball, only inexplicably to be given not out. It just so happened that the umpire and Greig’s Dad had been drinking buddies in Queenstown …

Terry Jenner told me about a prison cricket match at Waikerie, during his stint in jail. T J said, ‘Our team had the best record of all: a murderer, a drug pusher, two embezzlers, a couple of bank robbers and a few blokes who’d tried to diddle social security!’

So upset was rookie captain Ian Craig by his poor form in South Africa that he went to fellow selectors Neil Harvey and Peter Burge in mid-tour and said he was stepping down. ‘No way will I be a part of that,’ said Harvey. ‘No touring captain has ever dropped himself. Forget it, you’re playing.’

An eighteen-year-old Ian Chappell, motoring to his first ever ‘A’ grade ton in Adelaide club cricket, had just entered the 80s when the second new ball was taken. Immediately pulling Sheffield Shield paceman Alan Hitchcox for 4, he said with typical Chappell scorn, ‘Fancy you playing for South Australia.’ Hitchcox extended his run and tried to knock Chappell’s block off only to watch his next three balls clatter into the fence at backward square. The shorter he bowled, the harder Chappell hooked. In four balls, Chappell’s score advanced from 84 to 100. Within a week he’d been chosen by his state.

Years ago, flighting one of my loopy leg breaks at the MCG, I had David Hookes caught on the boundary from a steepling hit which would have surely gone over the old Southern Stand had it still been standing, a strong southerly bringing the ball back into the arena for cricket administrator David Richards to take a lovely outfield catch just metres from Bay 13. Hookes and I were in at a radio studio years later and he signed a copy of his autobiography for me:

To Ken …

Remember when: Hookes, c. Richards, b. Piesse.

Best wishes,

David Hookes

Having a Test player sign one of his books for me has always been a thrill. At the Centenary Test match, armed with four newly acquired Percy Fender tour books, I approached Percy, then eighty-four and in a wheelchair, and asked if he would mind signing them. He was all but blind and had brought his teenage grandson with him to be his eyes. ‘I’d be glad to,’ he said. And in tiny writing he wrote his name on each one.

Keith Miller was the most vibrant of souls. We lived in adjoining suburbs. One morning I dropped in for a cuppa and he was in tears. ‘You know I should have captained Australia,’ he said. ‘Don Bradman ruined my life … and you can quote me, Ken.’

‘Of course you should have captained, Nugget,’ I said, ‘but so should’ve Shane Warne. You two had a bit extra happening in your lives … and didn’t you bowl a bouncer which almost poleaxed the Don in his testimonial match?’

Within minutes Nugget was laughing again. He respected Bradman’s talents but they were poles apart personality-wise. Keith liked to win, but not at all costs like the Don.

Another morning Nugget rang. He’d just been watching Andrew Denton’s Enough Rope. His mate Michael Parkinson had been the interviewee, rather than the interviewer.

‘And guess what, Ken,’ he said, ‘guess what Parky said last night?’

‘I’ve got no idea Nugget, what did he say?’

‘Out of all the actors, the actresses, the heads of state, the really important people … guess who Parky said was his all-time hero?’

‘I’ve got no idea, Nug. Who did he say?’

‘Me,’ he said. ‘Me … little old Nugget!’

***

I’ve been fortunate to see cricket from Bridgetown to Bellerive, Johannesburg to Cardiff and St John’s to Sydney. My fiftieth birthday in 2005 coincided with Day 4 of the fabulous Edgbaston Test, where Australia edged within a boundary of a Boys’ Own annual victory in the most dramatic Ashes Test of them all.

Each time our Australian Cricket Society tours for the Ashes, we fixture at least one game in England – just to say we’ve played there. From historic Bath to tiny Meopham and its triangular-shaped village green with pubs on two of the corners, it has been a wonderful journey.

While never more than a club-standard cricketer, I’ve also played at some of the major Australian capital city venues from the Melbourne Cricket Ground, the Gabba and the Adelaide Oval through to Arundel and one particularly memorable afternoon at Royal Ascot, where we opposed the Thames Valley Gents, including their Aussie ring-ins Steve Waugh, Dave Gilbert and Brad McNamara. The spread at lunch was so enormous and quality wines so abundant that the main interval went for an hour and a half.

I was bowling in tandem with Paul Jackson, who was Victoria’s spinner before Shane Warne. ‘Jacko’ ribbed me before lunch for not shining the ball. He bowled the first over after the break, another maiden and tossing it to me said, ‘Try and keep it nice.’

Waugh was on strike and struck my six balls, all same-paced leggies, for 6 4 6 4 6 6 … 32 for the over. The first only just cleared mid-on’s head. The rest were straight out of the screws. Halfway through the over, Nigel Murch at short cover started laughing, ‘I’ve never seen anything like this before.’ You can imagine the state of the ball after that.

Just a few days earlier at his host club Amersham, Jacko and I had shared a 30-run last-wicket stand which had taken us across the line. Their No. 4 was a girl who played beautifully. She drove my very first ball straight back at me so hard that my fingers were still tingling two overs later. While she made only a dozen or so, it was all with classical, copybook stroke play. After the game, still on a high, I approached her and said, ‘You know, you are very good. You should really try and make something of yourself.’ Our wicketkeeper Mark Foster was within earshot. ‘Piessey, you bloody idiot,’ he said. ‘That’s Jan Brittin. She opens for England!’

Despite the Waugh mauling and being hit just below the breastbone by a Merv Hughes bouncer in the MCG indoor one day after Dean Jones called, ‘Six to win!’, it wasn’t until I passed fifty years of age that I seriously discounted my chances of wearing the baggy green. Until then I lived Bert Ironmonger’s dream. First selected at forty-six, he played through until he was fifty.

My best cricket had been played in the subbies at Port Melbourne, famous for its wide, white wicket and scones, jam and cream at tea breaks. An extra plateful would always be saved for our opening bowler, VFA footy legend Vic ‘Stretch’ Aanensen, who despite his intimidating physique bowled slowish, into-the-wind outies off a dainty nine-pace run-up. Whenever he conceded his first 4, I’d start warming-up. I was always on from his end.

Trying to bowl competitive leggies while juggling a career as a sportswriter and commentator wasn’t easy. One Sunday, still with my make-up on, I dashed straight to Williamstown from the Channel 7 television studios in Dorcas Street where I’d been presenting the cricket segment on World of Sport. ‘You bloody poofta sportswriting prick,’ was the general consensus.

Our wicketkeeper Ken Spicer was the only one who didn’t drink. Once on tour, our bus was stopped by the boys-in- blue and ‘Spice’, who always drove, was asked when he’d last had a drink. ‘Twenty-two … maybe twenty-three years ago,’ he said.

The Port boys played hard on and off the field. They were great family men, but Saturdays were ‘play’ days – rain, hail or shine. All-day card schools were the norm once play was abandoned, a common occurrence most October Saturdays in the late ’80s. On Thursday nights, the wharfies would come in for a drink with all sorts of contraband straight off the docks. For years I did my Christmas shopping at Port, from below-cost wrist watches and perfume to remote-control cars. A bloke named Barry would come in, remove his jacket to reveal six or seven watches all strapped to his wrist and forearm. ‘Which one do you like, Guru?’ he’d ask.

Because I hailed from blue-blood Beaumaris, a Liberal-loving affluent area half an hour south, the boys reckoned I had money to burn and for larks would throw lit fifty-dollar bills out the car window on the way down to our Thursday night pizza stop, Topolinos in Fitzroy Street.

They loved it whenever I happened to be bowling and a tailender walked in with one of those big Stuart Surridge Jumbo bats. Once a leftie hit me over the small scoreboard at Port and I snarled down the wicket, ‘That’s just a slog pal!’

‘Hang on a minute, Guru,’ said Stretch from slip. ‘Have a look how far it’s gone!’

Our opening bat ‘Macca’ was camped under a skier right on the pickets at square leg one day. He had the safest pair of hands and I’d put it down as a wicket when somehow not only did he manage to miss it, but it also donged him on the shoulder and bounced over the fence for 6.

There were twenty-eight teams in Subbies, the championship being decided between the two top-ranked teams from East Group and West Group. We beat Preston and Sunshine on consecutive weekends to enter the championship final. Sunshine lasted only until 2 p.m. on the Sunday, and the boys went troppo, as if we’d just won the premiership. ‘One more to go boys,’ I said, cautioning them. ‘Let’s hold the celebrations for next week.’

‘No, Guru,’ they said, ‘it’s the Grand Final! We’ve won it!’

That afternoon I made the mistake of trying to go pot-for-pot with Stretch and pulled out after ten. Stretch was downing them like they were waters, while I was seeing double.

Having reluctantly switched clubs, closer to home, I played against my old mates at Port. I batted three and was bounced first, second and third ball and run out at the other end having failed to score. ‘Serves you right you poofta %#*&ing sportswriter,’ said Stretch, walking back with me almost all the way to the dugout.

I’ve always been in the company of cricketers, ever since I started scoring for the Beaumaris first XI at the age of nine. The captain John Chambers lived up the road and would pick me up. So keen was I that once I decided to have four different colours for the 1s, 2s, 3s and 4s. Our book that day looked like a colour-in and Mr Chambers politely asked me to just stick to the lead pencil.

If I wasn’t good enough to play cricket with the best, I wanted to still be there around them. Writing and commentating provided that opportunity. A young Shane Warne was making heads turn in Melbourne and I bowled down to a second XI game at the Albert to do a story. It was right on lunchtime and Shane obligingly agreed to bowl a few leg breaks in the centre for my newspaper the Sunday Press. I acted as the wicketkeeper at the other end and the ball hummed at me, veering in mid-course and spinning violently sideways like it had hit a redback. I took it over the stumps in my bare hands and can still recall the stinging sensation in my fingers.

One year I was assisting Shane’s coach Terry Jenner with his autobiography, TJ Over the Top: Prison, Cricket & Warnie. At midnight on the first night, talking about his shame of going to jail, T J broke down and started blubbing like a baby. His partner Ann said, ‘Terry, just tell Ken like you told me … don’t leave anything out.’ The three chapters we did on Terry’s experiences in the Big House were truly compelling and helped to make the book a bestseller. Shane, Terry’s star pupil, kindly provided the foreword.

Around that time my own leg break had so lost its fizz, I was struggling to even dismiss the ageing practice captain at Frankston. Out of desperation, I emailed T J. Within twenty-four hours came the reply: ‘Master,’ he wrote, ‘have you considered retiring?’

HARD NUTS: Port Melbourne CC, 1986–87 subbie premiers. Back row, left to right: Gary Phillips, Peter Vesty (scorer), Lew Coyle, myself, Vic Aanensen, Robert Bevilacqua, Sheik Bogdanovic, Jimmy Earle (secretary/barman); sitting: Shane Davidson, Robert Tinsley, Graeme Anderson (vice-captain), Bob Allen (president), Phil OMeara (captain), Paul Crocker, Darren Duscher, Teddy Wale (12th man)

***

I’m still in the subbies, but these days exclusively playing thirds beside my old captain from Port, Phil O’Meara. He comes in at No. 4 and despite being in his sixties, is still our champion bat. One recent late summer’s Saturday at Oakleigh, we elected to bat on what I thought was a hard, flat wicket but turned out to be a bouncy, spiteful thing. Phil and I had worked out that we’d see out their opening bowler, a leftie who swung it in at pace and we did. But their first change, another leftie, turned out to be faster again and as challenging as anything either of us had faced in twenty years. Phil got a first-baller and I never even saw the hat-trick ball, which whizzed past the off stump at high speed. Apparently the kid was coming back from injury and just testing himself in the lower grades. It was like a dodgem alley there for a while and at each change of overs, grateful to have survived, I met my partner, smiled and said, ‘I’m still alive.’

One final yarn from me before we start with a whole array of my particular favourites, old and new. We were playing Essendon thirds at Adrian Butler Oval one year and one kid, their opener, scratched and edged his way to a most unsatisfactory 50. As his mates were applauding, I walked past and told him he had nothing to be proud of – ‘it’s probably the worst %#*&ing 50 in the history of the game!’ When he reached three figures, to more rapturous cheering, he acknowledged me at mid-on, saying without my help, he could never have done it. He went straight into the seconds, made another ton and was playing firsts by the season-end. Amazing – and true!

Ken Piesse

Mt Eliza