‘HOW DO YOU bloody think I feel, with half my leg cut off,’ harrumphed the voice on the other end of the phone. ‘Son, if you see a surgeon coming, run a bloody mile.’
Sounded like a similar sentiment to the ones Bill ‘Tiger’ O’Reilly often used to express in his colourful column in the Sydney Morning Herald: ‘If you see a coach coming, run and hide behind a tree,’ for instance.
His opinion of coaches resided somewhere in the basement and that written sentiment was meant as advice for any kid who wanted to get on in the game. Tiger had an equal dislike for coaches and captains. He often used to write that his collie dog could captain a cricket team. However, he saved his greatest disdain for batsmen.
He hated ’em. Especially left-handers. ‘They should all be shot at birth,’ he once wrote.
His disdain for batsmen was only matched by his low opinion of their competitiveness. A young journalist sensed a profile-raising story when a bowler attempted to Mankad a batsman in an international match. The journalist decided to visit O’Reilly, who was sitting in his favourite seat in the SCG press box.
He first asked Tiger about the machinations of the Mankad. ‘It’s when a bowler attempts to run out a batsman at the non-striker’s end because he’s out of his crease before the ball is delivered,’ explained the old leg-spinner.
Innocently enough, the young journalist then enquired, ‘Mr O’Reilly, did you ever attempt a Mankad?’
Tiger paused for a few seconds, glaring at his inquisitor over the top of his glasses. Then he growled, ‘Son, I never found a batsman that keen to get to the other end.’
That has to be one of the great put-downs of all time. Not to the young journalist but to batsmen.
The sentiment Tiger expressed to me over the phone came after I was silly enough to enquire about his health in late 1991. When it came to matters of health, Tiger had learned a lot from his father. As a young man Bill had toiled all day for the Wingello cricket team in a match played in outback NSW. Tired and aching Bill sat down for dinner with his father.
After a couple of mouthfuls of steak, Bill said, ‘Jeez, Dad, my back hurts from all the bowling today.’
Silence. His father went on eating.
A couple more mouthfuls and Tiger tried again. ‘Crikey, my fingers are sore from spinning the ball.’
Silence. His father continued eating.
Bill was never one to give up easily, so on completion of his meal, he said, ‘Jeez, Dad, my knee aches after bowling all those overs today.’
That was enough for O’Reilly senior. He tossed down his knife and fork and glared at his son. ‘Bill, do you want to know how not to get aching knees?’
‘Yes, Dad,’ replied an eager young Tiger.
‘And would you like to know how not to get a sore back?’
‘I would, Dad,’ said Bill.
‘And would you like to know how not to get arthritis in the fingers?’ asked an exasperated O’Reilly senior.
‘Very much so, Dad,’ replied Bill.
‘Well, bloody die before you reach thirty-five,’ came the pragmatic response.
Direct answers were obviously a hallmark of the O’Reilly clan; hence his comment about surgeons. I hadn’t actually rung Bill to enquire about his health but rather to ask for his permission to use one of his quotes in a book I was writing. Actually, any excuse was good enough to ring Tiger; he could be gruff and he could be cantankerous but he was never dull.
He’d generally taken a kindly approach to me as a young cricketer. I was in no doubt it was out of respect for my grandfather rather than any great regard for my cricket. After all, I was a batsman and a captain – I had two strikes against me before I even stepped into the batter’s box, in Tiger’s ball game.
The story I wanted to attribute in my book was classic O’Reilly. It concerned Australian Cricket Board administrators. I’d heard it from Tiger after a day’s play in a Test match. A few journalists were sitting around having a beer at the MCG and, as one who’d recently joined the ranks, I’d risen far enough up the O’Reilly pecking order to warrant a seat in the group.
The subject got around to administrators and I started thumping the table and making my feelings known. O’Reilly gave me about half the allocation they allow in parliamentary question time before he interjected, ‘Ian, why do you bother? Everyone knows they’re useless.’ And then warming to his subject, he added, ‘Do you remember when you were young and playing in the park – two guys, not necessarily the most talented, would toss a coin?’
He glanced in my direction. ‘Yes, Tiger, I remember those games,’ I answered.
‘Well,’ he continued, ‘the kid who won the toss chose a player. Then the other kid who lost the toss chose a player, and they went on down the line until there were eleven selected on each side. Remember that?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I replied again, ‘they were good days.’
Ignoring my opinion, he charged ahead, ‘Well, after each self-appointed captain had chosen his team, there were six guys left over. Remember that?’
I nodded this time.
‘Well, son,’ continued O’Reilly, ‘those six guys were the coat minders and the coat minders went on to become members of the Australian Cricket Board.’
I hadn’t heard it expressed this way before. Nor had anyone else and it brought a huge roar of laughter.
Years later, having listened to O’Reilly’s short discourse on surgeons, I asked him if I could use his quote on administrators in my book. He readily agreed. ‘Son, go for your life – the more people that know, the better.’
I wasn’t completely surprised that O’Reilly had a rather poor opinion of Cricket Board administrators. He’d once told me the story of his visit to the Victorian Cricket Association boardroom during the 1936–37 series against England.
It was the season when Don Bradman had taken over the Australian captaincy. Australia, trying to retain the Ashes they’d regained under Bill Woodfull in 1934, promptly lost the first two Tests. Following a stirring Australian victory in the third Test at the MCG, O’Reilly, along with his team-mates Stan McCabe, Leo O’Brien and L. O. ‘Chuck’ Fleetwood-Smith, were called before the Australian Cricket Board.
On the short walk from the MCG to the VCA rooms for the meeting, McCabe said to O’Reilly, ‘Tiger, you’re a school teacher. You have better command of the English language than the rest of us – you can be our spokesman.’
That settled, they arrived to meet the board members and were read a screed by the chairman, Dr Allen Robertson. There were vague mentions of unfit players, insubordination, and even some who were drinking too many alcoholic beverages. On this occasion O’Reilly allowed Dr Robertson roughly the equivalent time to that set aside for parliamentary questions before he interjected, ‘Excuse me, Dr Robertson. Are there any specific allegations being made here?’
‘Oh, err, no, no,’ replied a flustered Dr Robertson.
‘Well then, boys,’ said O’Reilly, turning to his team-mates, ‘I don’t know what we’re doing here.’
With that, the four cricketers got up and left. They never heard any more about the matter and Australia won the remaining two Tests to become the only side to come from so far behind to win a five-match series.
This incident was reported as yet another clash between the Catholic and Protestant sides of Australian cricket. The problem was rife at the time and because O’Reilly and the other three Australian players at the hearing were Catholics, it was assumed this was another example of religious differences. However, O’Reilly had a slightly different view on the incident and the Protestant Bradman’s involvement.
‘If the captain wasn’t at the meeting,’ O’Reilly told me, ‘then surely it’s safe to assume he was party to the disciplinary hearing. Surely,’ he continued, ‘if Bradman wasn’t behind us being carpeted, then he would’ve wanted to be there to support us?’
As a former captain, I couldn’t fault his logic. If, for instance, Dennis Lillee, Rod Marsh, Greg Chappell and Doug Walters had been called before the board, I would’ve known. I certainly would’ve attended the meeting and defended them vigorously, because I wouldn’t want even one of them missing from the Test line-up.
When it came to Bradman the person – as opposed to the cricketer – and cricket administrators, O’Reilly and I had a common view. Not so when it came to fisticuffs. In early December 1985 I was commentating on a crucial Test match being played in Perth just before O’Reilly’s seventieth birthday. It was the third and last Test in the series between Australia and New Zealand, with the teams locked at 1–all. New Zealand had had the better of the first day, a typically boiling-hot one in Perth played under a clear blue sky.
I couldn’t wait to get back to the Sheraton Hotel where we were staying so I walked, as none of the cars were ready to leave. It was only a short walk but I was really perspiring by the time I reached the hotel. I was just about to enter through the self-opening doors, with my mind firmly fixed on a quick change and then down to the Out Bar for an icy cold beer.
That was when my train of thought was rather abruptly derailed. ‘Chappell, you’re a #$%&,’ screamed this voice. ‘I was a better cricketer than you at sixteen and I could knock your block off right now.’
I took one look at the guy, who appeared to be rather agitated, and thought better of any smart-arse reply. I opted to walk through the open door into the air-conditioned foyer but he followed me. ‘I said,’ he repeated, ‘I could knock your block off right now and I might just do it.’
Fortunately, there was a security guard nearby and he grabbed the guy and ushered him outside onto the footpath. Grateful for the intervention I hurried upstairs, quickly shed my jacket and tie and headed for the lift. When I entered the bar from the hotel foyer, the first guy I saw was Bill O’Reilly. He was wearing a sports coat and a northern English-style flat hat. He was drinking a beer with Daily Mirror cricket writer Dick Tucker.
I greeted the pair of them and went to the bar to grab a beer. Armed with my drink I rejoined Bill and Dick and told them about the incident that had just occurred out on the footpath.
Unbeknown to me, the guy had escaped from a mental institution and at that moment he was being restrained by a number of the hotel security guards. As often happens, he had the strength of three men and it was taking a bit to hold him down as he was screaming and yelling.
Just then, the Australian captain, Allan Border, arrived at the hotel entrance to hear this guy calling out at the top of his voice, ‘Chappell’s a $#%&.’
Allan walked over to him, leant down and said, ‘Don’t get so worked up about it, mate, everyone knows already.’
Before Border later joined us for a drink, I was in the process of telling Tiger and Tucker about the altercation, when the outside door leading from the footpath to the bar opened. Who should walk in but the guy the security guards had been trying to restrain.
He saw me and started again. ‘I’ll knock your bloody block off,’ he yelled as he began walking in my direction.
Before anybody could move, Tiger took off his cap and put it on the table. He then started to remove his jacket, saying, ‘If you want a fight, mate, I’ll accommodate you.’
Tucker quickly grabbed hold of Tiger and told him to let the security guards handle the situation. O’Reilly wasn’t convinced by this suggestion but fortunately the security guards arrived and escorted the guy away from the hotel.
There was always a fire in Tiger’s belly and after seeing that episode I felt some sympathy for the batsmen who had faced up to him. And that fire in the belly wasn’t restricted to fighting – it also shone through in his writing.
In the late eighties Tiger had been focusing his wrath on a particular Australian fast bowler. He’d been caning him in his regular Sydney Morning Herald column and it obviously got to the quickie.
Somehow the bowler got hold of a sheet of Australian Cricket Board letterhead and he sent O’Reilly a caustic, unsigned note. O’Reilly was having a chuckle over this note and said to Mike Coward, the cricket writer for The Australian, ‘Have a look what this cove has written.’
Michael read through a few lines and then told O’Reilly he knew who had written it.
‘How do you know?’ enquired O’Reilly.
‘Because he writes letters to me when he’s on tour,’ replied Coward.
‘Is that so?’ chuckled O’Reilly. ‘Well, we’ll have some fun with this.’
Tiger then proceeded to take out his red pen and correct the spelling, grammar and composition in the fast bowler’s letter. Turning the clock back to his teaching days, O’Reilly then awarded a mark of 1/10 in the bottom right-hand corner, with a note to do better next time. On his way home from the cricket that night, he posted the letter to the Australian fast bowler’s address.
He was an excellent writer with a colourful turn of phrase, and whether you agreed with his sentiments or not, his column was required reading. You were never in any doubt about the theme of his column and it generally contained either a couple of memorable quotes or some entertaining or informative thoughts.
Tiger once told me, ‘Son, you’re in a privileged position. If you see something about the game you don’t agree with, write about it. If they don’t take any notice then write about it again, and if they still don’t take any notice, you write about it again.’
He lived up to that creed right to the end of his writing career.
His final column was written at an SCG Test match. He sat in the same press box seat he’d occupied for forty-odd years and I asked our WWOS producer David Hill if I could interview Tiger in the tea break, sitting in his favoured spot.
David agreed to the interview, and to organise it I had to follow Tiger around for most of the morning. He was in demand, as everyone wanted a piece of his time, and when I caught up with him he agreed to do the interview, but only if we finished before the end of the tea break. ‘I have to start writing my column then,’ he explained.
As we neared the end of an entertaining interview, I said, ‘Well, Tiger, we’ll miss your writing on the game but the thing we’ll miss the most is your company around the press box.’ And with that we shook hands.
He looked me straight in the eye, as he always did when he wanted to make a point, and said, ‘Son, judging by the look in your eye you mean that and I thank you.’
He then went and wrote a magnificent column at age eighty-two. I’ve kept it to this day as a reminder of what you can do even at an advanced age when there is a fire in your belly.