DAVID ‘DOC’ MCERLANE, the Australian team’s shrewd and much-admired physiotherapist, thought the underarm that brother Greg ordered and youngest sibling Trevor delivered had its genesis in the backyard cricket matches we played as kids.
I’m not so sure that’s right. I think the three of us knew that if our father Martin had seen that type of cricket going on in the backyard there would have been hell to pay. I suspect Greg’s decision had more to do with a six the West Indies fast bowler Wayne Daniel hit at VFL Park in Melbourne during World Series Cricket.
The West Indies required four runs off the last two balls to win the match. Mick Malone was bowling the final over for Australia and he called me across to see if I had any suggestions. In those days there were no restrictions for either width or height of deliveries.
Not knowing anything about Daniel’s batting habits or capabilities, I suggested Malone bounce the first delivery over his head. Mick wasn’t certain he could get the ball up that high on a rather lifeless pitch, so I suggested he slip an inswinging yorker down the leg-side.
‘Try that for starters,’ I said, ‘and if we get away with it I’ll think of something else for the last delivery.’
I didn’t need to come up with any further suggestions. Daniel, who I discovered loved to clear his front pad and swing the ball to the leg-side, did so on this occasion with maximum efficiency.
The ball hit the middle of his bat and cleared the fence – never mind the boundary rope – by a wide margin. Game over. Exhilarating victory to the West Indies.
I believe that shot, hit in 1978, caused Greg to order an underarm, with New Zealand requiring six runs to tie off the last ball of the third final at the MCG in 1981. Perhaps it’s more correct to say Daniel’s shot and the state of the MCG pitch were responsible. Greg had been complaining about the hazardous and generally poor state of the strip for some time. He was getting nowhere as the secretary of the Melbourne Cricket Club, former Australian captain Ian Johnson, kept saying there was nothing wrong with the square.
In an agitated state over the pitch and not wanting to endure a full, best-of-five final series after a demanding season, Greg ordered Trevor to bowl underarm to New Zealand tail-ender Bruce McKechnie.
Trevor, who had never played lawn bowls at that stage of his life, delivered what, in both cricket and the underarm game, would be deemed ‘a blocker’. McKechnie played a forward defensive shot to the ground-hugging delivery, tossed his bat away in disgust, and then the boos commenced at the MCG.
The New Zealand captain Geoff Howarth ran onto the field to complain to the umpires. Howarth was playing for Surrey at the time in the county cricket competition where the underarm had been outlawed for a couple of seasons. No such change had been written into the international laws and so, at the top level of competition, the delivery was legal.
But was the underarm necessary?
A few weeks after the delivery had caused a furore, Trevor was invited to play in a double-wicket competition in New Zealand. Someone with a wicked sense of humour partnered him with McKechnie.
When Trevor arrived home from the tournament, I rang and asked how he went. ‘We did okay,’ he said. ‘Made it to the semi-finals.’
‘How did you get on with McKechnie?’ I asked.
‘Fine,’ said Trevor, ‘but he didn’t help much.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
‘Well, not only didn’t he hit a six in the tournament,’ laughed Trevor, ‘he didn’t even hit a bloody four.’
Immediately following the underarm delivery I wrote in my column for the Sydney Sun that I vehemently disagreed with Greg’s decision. To me it has always been Greg who should get the blame, not Trevor; all he did was follow orders of the captain and an older brother. How could Trevor disagree even if he wanted to?
In between my column appearing in The Sun and the next final at the SCG a couple of days later, I didn’t have any conversation with Greg.
When I arrived at the SCG for the fourth day–night final I parked my car at the Paddington end of the number two ground. As I got out of the car, a large bus pulled up nearby and a number of band members alighted. They were obviously part of the entertainment for the day but I took little notice at the time.
As I headed towards the Noble Stand and the commentary box, I noticed the Australians were practising at that end of the ground. I thought now would be a good time to have a chat with Greg so I headed in that direction.
Greg was back at his bowling mark at the time so I walked towards him and called out, ‘Hi, mate, how are you?’
He looked around, scowled and then growled, ‘Thought you would’ve come on the bus.’
‘No, mate,’ I responded, ‘I live in Sydney, I’ve got a car of my own. Why would I want to come on the bus?’
‘Get on the bandwagon like the rest of the bastards,’ he replied.
Diplomacy was not a subject taught in the Chappell household. ‘If you don’t like what I write,’ I suggested, ‘then don’t read the papers.’
He paused for thought. ‘Anyway, just as well you did disagree,’ he said. ‘I ordered it, Trevor bowled it, and if you’d agreed with it they would’ve thought we’re all bloody mad.’
Nothing more was said but the lighthearted nature of his final comment had cleared the air.
What I didn’t know at that stage was the immediate reaction of Kevin Douglas Walters to the underarm delivery. Doug has always had a rather unconventional view on cricket matters. When Mark Taylor had an extended run of poor form in 1996–97 a lot of critics were calling for his demotion as Australian captain.
A radio station rang Doug for his opinion. ‘What’s wrong with Mark Taylor?’ asked the interviewer.
After a pause, the reply came: ‘He’s batting too long.’
‘But Doug,’ came the bemused response, ‘everyone is saying he should be dropped because he’s not making enough runs. How can you say he’s batting too long?’
‘Well,’ replied Doug, ‘think back to Greg Chappell’s poor run in the eighties. He kept getting out for a duck. No one knew whether he was in or out of form. But Taylor,’ he continued, ‘he’s making 9, 13, 11, 17, everyone can see he’s out of form. He’s batting too long.’
As always there was some cricketing sense to Walters’ twisted logic; by batting for a while Taylor was making it obvious to all and sundry his form was bad.
The same could be said about his view of the underarm incident. When the Australian players entered the dressing room in the bowels of the MCG following the underarm delivery, there had been an eerie quiet.
Silence is not something you expect to find in an Australian cricket team dressing room. Untidiness, loud conversation and the odd practical joke, but not silence.
For about twenty minutes not a word was spoken. Then the sound of a slow hissing – sshwoosh – as Doug Walters pulled the ring top from his first can of the day.
A sip of the cold beer, a pause for thought and then Doug made his pronouncement. ‘I don’t know what all the fuss is about.’
The room erupted. ‘We bowled a bloody underarm, you idiot,’ cried an aroused Rod Marsh. ‘They needed six to tie off the last ball and we bowled a bloody underarm.’
Another sip of his beer, followed by, ‘So what’s the problem?’
‘The problem is,’ said Marsh, warming to the subject, ‘by bowling underarm we deprived New Zealand of any chance of winning.’
Another sip of his beer and a drag on his cigarette. ‘He could’ve hit it for six – what’s his name, McKechnie,’ replied Walters.
‘How could he hit it for six?’ argued Marsh. ‘The bloody ball rolled along the ground. It’s a bit hard to hit that over the fence.’
Another drag on the fag and a sip of beer. ‘Oh, I dunno,’ replied Walters, ‘pretty easy, really. You just put your left foot down the pitch, let the ball hit the edge of the boot, and when it pops up in the air you hit it for six.’ Another sip and a lengthy drag on the cigarette. ‘A piece of piss, really.’
‘Oh yeah, smart-arse,’ laughed Marsh. ‘You could do that, could you?’
A sip from a fresh can and a drag on a second cigarette. ‘Yeah, I reckon I could,’ said Walters.
And that’s why there was a rare sighting of Walters in the nets on the day of a game. It was at the SCG before the fourth final and Kim Hughes had offered to deliver an underarm to him.
Walters was facing at the Noble Stand end with the large brick wall surrounding the number two ground away to his left. Beyond the three-metre-high wall was Moore Park, with hundreds of unsuspecting fans wending their way to the SCG.
Hughes delivered a perfect ‘toucher’ and Walters, true to his word, put his left foot down the pitch, let the ball hit the side of his boot and it popped up into the air. With a casual but well-timed swing of the bat he sent the ball sailing high over the wall, where it cleared Driver Avenue and landed in Kippax Lake out in the middle of Moore Park.
A piece of piss, really. Yeah, a piece of piss if you have the skill and lateral thinking attributes of Kevin Douglas Walters.