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Mystic chords of memory Abraham Lincoln called them. That mix of emotions, perceptions, and fluid, evolving interpretations of the past. Our life stories change because, over time, we can integrate losses and grief and pain and imbue them with meaning. Life is lived forward but understood backwards. One religious tradition says this world is a “valley of tears.” I believe that because that has been my experience.  I do not need scripture to convince me. But all of us suffer. The Greeks tell us that human beings must suffer, suffer unto truth. “Yet in even in our sleep, pain which knows no forgetting falls from by drop upon the heart. Until, in our despair, against our will, comes Wisdom to us through the awful Grace of God.” Thus, have I been able to make sense of suffering in my life. If it did not reveal meaning or prompt change it would be futile. And the life of man nasty solitary brutish and short.

Pain, Loss. Memory. The Adelaide Oval has been both a field of dreams and a cauldron of nightmares for me. There, I planned to end my life on the evening of Australia Day 2012 during the final Test of India’s 2011-12 tour. Virat Kohli scored his maiden Test century, heralding a career that will probably entail eclipsing the immortal Sachin Tendulkar’s Test Aggregate. Both Rahul Dravid and VVS Laxman played their final Test Matches on the Adelaide Oval in that Test. They never played another Test Match. But I went on to see a few more as a woman. Rahul Dravid, synchronicity, fate, God, call it what you will, conspired to divert me from my own tortured mind that night. I flushed the load of sedatives and sleeping pills down the lavatory and tentatively affirmed life over death. Nowadays, I invariably sit alone at the end of play in Adelaide in the shade at the River Torrens end and reflect on what has been and what so easily may have been.

As I wrote here in the opening blog of this summer Dravid’s grace, humility and transcendent calm touched a chord inside me when I was in the audience for his Bradman Oration. I dedicated a chapter of my account of that tour to him and the impact his words had on me during the most trying ordeal of my life. He somehow transmitted hope amid despair. He reached me when no-one or nothing else could.

I made my debut as a cricket broadcaster at the Adelaide Oval when India played there in December 2014.Last Friday I gave my last broadcast about Test cricket for the ABC, from their Adelaide studio. In 2014, I shared the ABC media box with Dravid, whom I had met for the first time after transition at Trent Bridge in Nottingham the previous July. We have since become friends though he looms larger in my life than I do in his. Every moment I have spent with him has been a joy because he is good man. And an inspiration because he is also a great man.  A moving account of our personal correspondence and the talismanic presence he has provided in my life was dramatized in a production by Sydney Theatre Company earlier this year. Still Point Turning described the significance of cricket as the thread connecting my life. As a bereaved kid it gave me a quiet solace and a respite from bullying. As a trans woman it has given me acceptance and a renewed faith in the goodness of humanity. By choosing to live that night in Adelaide I earned a second innings. I am following on. But it could have been much worse. And as Dravid and Laxman showed at home in 2001 if you hang on you can win following on.

Thus, Adelaide dominates my memories of the game. That relentless bright summer of 2011. India’s return in 2014. The death of Philip Hughes. The death of my male self. And fittingly, my final Test Match as a commentator.  The match concluded yesterday but I learnt that I was surplus to requirements on Friday evening. I went to Adelaide nominally a cricket commentator. I returned without any real prospect of working in the cricket media again. It has been that sort of liminal place for me. Endings. Beginnings. Rebirth.

Commentary is like playing. You get dropped without explanation. It has left me sad and perplexed. The camaraderie of the media box is wonderful. Cricket has given me golden friendships and joys that I would never have dare anticipate.  On Saturday evening I joined Gideon Haigh, Andrew Faulkner, Peter Lalor and Malcolm Knox for a ruminative dinner at an alfresco restaurant in the Adelaide twilight. I knew that I would not be returning to the media box. I was too sad and empty to bid them farewell. We have been on the road together for what seems like an eternity, including three Ashes tours to England. From them I have learnt so much, not least about obscure Australian rock bands. But most importantly I learnt much of human decency towards an outsider. They have been wonderful friends.

William Faulkner, the American novelist wrote, in Intruder in the Dust, “It’s all now you see. Yesterday won’t be over until tomorrow and tomorrow began ten thousand years ago.” That may sound sound unintelligible to you unless, like Faulkner and I, you have never suffered from the delirium tremens after drinking around the clock for several days. Alcoholism and drug addiction are vastly under rated methods of achieving creative apotheosis. And, yet they pale beside gender dysphoria. Out of darkness light and life. Out of pain and mental torture wisdom. Gethsemane. Calvary. Resurrection.

But I was not hallucinating on Monday evening when I returned to The Australian War Memorial where India’s tour of Australia was formally launched by Cricket Australia back in December 2011. That is when Rahul Dravid delivered his memorable Bradman Oration. His oratory and presence were worthy of both the majesty of the venue and the prestige of the occasion. Fate. Coincidence. Wisdom through the awful grace of God? Take your pick. But Monday night felt eerily like that night. And Monday night has not even begun yet. And it does not even have to begin at all. So, wrote Faulkner of Gettysburg. William not Andrew.

And so, I ended my journey as a cricket journalist precisely where it began, in the sepulchral gloom of the aircraft hall at The Australian War Memorial. Almost seven years to the night I occupied that same podium where my friend had stood. I spoke to a group of 150 school principals of Life. And Love. And Regret. And, of course Cricket. If I had submitted a manuscript dramatizing the past seven years this ending would have been dismissed as too cheesy, too improbable. It would have joined my sedatives in the cistern. From that bottomless nadir of despair in 2011 I could never have imagined that I would eventually speak to a capacity crowd at the Australian War Memorial as a trans woman. Malcolm nearly extinguished Catherine. But she ultimately lived to follow Rahul Dravid to the middle. That task was so challenging the BCCI had to invent Sachin Tendulkar to discharge it. I could not have scripted my farewell better. Malcolm would have been proud of her.

The game has a rich poetic heart. Now I will watch cricket from the stands as I did as a kid. No more the luxury of the media box. But that Rich Poetic heart of the game beats elsewhere. This Saturday I will return to the grassroots to play for Norths in Canberra. One more time. I never dreamt that I would play cricket longer than I commented on it. But the game continues to amaze and charm to the very end. Like the Test at Adelaide. One more improbable twist to remind us of our human limitations for prophecy. Harrison Oval is not the Adelaide Oval. But it is my home ground. It looks more beautiful than Lord’s. And be assured that is not an hallucination.


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Coming In From the Cold

Australian cricket came back in from the cold. Literally and metaphorically. Under a relentless azure sky in searing heat Australia’s three-pronged pace attack blew away India’s top order to leave the tourists reeling at 5/86.
A resolute century from Cheteshwar Pujara stabilised India’s innings. Given the question mark over Australia’s batting, I believe the match is evenly poised at the end of the first day with India reaching 9/250.
India elected to bat after Virat Kohli won the toss. The pitch contained no demons and in ordinary circumstances, the team batting first would regard 400 as essential to exert any degree of scoreboard pressure. But these are not ordinary times and the Indians confected demons in their own minds. The first four dismissals were all due to poor shot selection by batsmen indecisively pushing outside the off stump. Kohli, the hinge of India’s batting order edged to Usman Khawaja, who snared an extraordinary catch at second slip.
Unlike its Ashes-winning pace attack, ably supported by Nathan Lyon it is difficult to gauge this Australian top order. It may be that 250 is more respectable than is normally the case here.
Ultimately it was an absorbing day of cricket to open the Border- Gavaskar Trophy series. For Australia, there were some encouraging signs. The pace bowlers generated consistent speed all day in a sustained display of menace underpinned by magnificent athleticism. Their average speed over the first 25 overs was 142.87 Kph. And that speed seemed to surprise the Indians who had not been exposed to first class pace bowling using the Kookaburra ball. They looked underprepared, under pressure and unnerved.
Having collapsed to 5-56 India would be content to have occupied the crease all day and kept the Australians in the field in sapping conditions. The discipline and judicious shot selection of Pujara was an eloquent rebuke to his teammates who squandered a good toss. None was more culpable than Rohit Sharna who played a scintillating cameo only to obligingly hole out to Marcus Harris. He had cleared the rope with his previous shot and threw his wicket away trying to repeat the dose.
After day one it seems clear that Mitchell Starc Pat Cummins and Josh Hazelwood are capable of rattling the Indian top order. After a winter of discontent, it could have been much worse for the home team. And for India, it should have been much better.
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Guest Post – Harini Rana #WomeninSport

Australia gears up for scintillating summer, India is getting ready for winter and for the cricket fans- one of most riveting Test series featuring Virat’s men is all set to begin at the Adelaide Oval. Last week, I came across a promotional video that was created by Channel 9 to promote India’s tour Down Under in 1981.

The concept was to introduce the visiting Indian cricket team members to Australian cricket fans. Picture this – the promo begins with Sunil Gavaskar batting and a voice over stating ‘This is the mighty Gavaskar, in cricket world he is the biggest star, yet most Australian don’t know who they are’.

Followed by visuals of G Vishwanath with lyrics in the background, ‘He stands 5 foot on ground but at the crease he is giant, spectacular & defiant’.

The video continues– ‘Vengsarkar, Kirmani, Kapil Dev and another name we can’t remember’ while highlighting Rogger Binny’s name on the manual scoreboard.

The host broadcaster campaign ends with this message ‘but they will be house hold name once they get onto our nerves’ with a chorus ‘Common Aussies, Common Aussies’. While cricket is synonymous to Australian summer, it was still not the top sport in Australia back then. This promo in 80s also reflected state of Indian cricket & players & lack of popularity that they needed introductions.

37 years on, the narrative is far different. Indian cricket is one of the most powerful brand in world cricket, attracting the crowds & sponsor alike. Captain of this team is currently the best batsmen in world cricket. Including the Indian cricket team captain who has been the focus in Australia for different reasons over the years, cricket fans Down Under have seen 7 members from this squad play. For Australia, even as they continue their fight to be country’s most followed sport, this by far is the biggest & most challenging summer for the hosts following the ball tampering scandal.

A Test series in Australia is always gruelling, add 4 Test matches to it, overseas playing conditions, aggressive Australian fans who create hostile environment at the ground for the visiting teams and being on the road away from home for months. While technique remains one of the most crucial factors when it comes to countering overseas playing conditions, mental quotient is equally or more important to challenge the opponent on their home turf.

It’s ironical that a team which introduced ‘mental disintegration’ technique to Indian cricket & fans is coming into a high profile home series more vulnerable and weaker unlike any other Australian outfit. Even though India faces its own dismal record overseas as a challenge, they go into Adelaide Test led by a captain who has mastered the art of training his mind and using that as performance booster to beat the opponent as a batsmen and captain based on the previous Australian tour learnings.

The riveting rivalry between the two countries following the Monkeygate scandal has made India, Australia Tests as one of the most sought after series in the calendar. If anything the stakes are even higher this time, Kohli chases history and Tim Paine leads the team in their first ever Test at home since the ball tampering saga.

No Australian captain would have had it this tough & Paine’s comments ahead of the series reflect the mood in the dressing room, ‘There has been so much talk in the last 10 months that everyone is sick of it’. While the Australian squad might be ready to move on, it will be interesting to see how the fans who had questioned and slammed Australian cricket culture respond as the summer gets underway.

As for Kohli, he is extremely sharp & completely understands the uncertainty that the Australian team faces to get their game back on track. As a captain and batsman he is ruthless, mentally shrewd & will do everything within the spirit of the game to ensure the hosts feel pressurised further. Just like what the Australians have been doing over the years to their opponents.

Covering a cricket series in Australia is on the bucket list for any cricket journalist, it is no different for cricketers. A Test tour in Australia, irrespective of the results provides a complete experience and contributes immensely in making a player mentally stronger & tougher. 6 Indian players including Jasprit Bumrah are set to tick that off their bucket list and live that dream of experiencing Australian Test summer for the very first time. The freedom to move around, walk across the city and do things they cannot do in India without getting mobbed adds to this experience. It is not surprising that we often see Indian players walk to the ground from their hotel, walk to the malls, super markets, restaurants and coffee shops across Australia.

In a very long time, India enter a Test series overseas with high chance of a series win if not as favourites. While Indian batsmen will be challenged by the experienced Australian bowling line up, what works for India will be their bowlers who have been their biggest asset in the recent past as they are up against a weaker opposition batting line with top two Australian batsmen serving a ban.

For most cricket fans in India, a series in Australia means waking up early, catching rest of the play in the gym or at work and evening conversations will revolve around the day’s play. For those who can travel, experience Boxing Day Test against Australia at the MCG & New Year’s Test at the SCG always makes it to the bucket list. Apart from the conditions, chances are India could feel at home with Indians across Australia cheering their team just as we witnessed during Cricket World Cup in 2015.

Even though the Australian cricket fans have strongly opposed cricket team’s attitude and behaviour since last 10 months, it provides them a huge opportunity to back the boys and help the team move forward. After all, Australian cricket fans’ uncanny knack of getting under the skin of the opponents has been their biggest strength in the past.

The Indian team will look at this series as their best chance to script history & win their first ever Test series in Australia. Virat Kohli will aim to make this summer his own just like the way he loves- score more, win more and compete harder. He and his team face tough conditions and their dismal overseas record but they also face a chance to scale a new high by doing what no other Indian cricket team and captain has achieved.

And for the Australians, they will look at this series as a journey towards regaining respect of their fans. A journey that goes beyond winning and losing. A journey that will be extremely crucial to get the focus back on the players and their performances. A journey that could provide a new meaning to the ‘win at any cost’ culture.


Our thanks to Harini Rana  #WomanInSport who has followed Indian cricket and knows it well. Views mentioned in blog are personal and you can find her at @HariniRana on Twitter and Instagram

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Pay No Worship to the Garish Sun

Having fallen in love with night, Australian cricket fans will once again pay worship to the garish sun when the First Test between Australia and India commences this Thursday at Adelaide Oval. Along with fireworks and other baseball ephemera, Day/Night Pink Ball Test Cricket has become the ‘traditional’ format for the Adelaide Test. Three consecutive years constitutes an eternity in the era of T10 and T20 cricket, justifying the term ‘traditional.’ On the last occasion these two nations clashed in Adelaide though, no lights were employed. Indeed, Adelaide had been scheduled to host the Second Test of that rubber, following the ‘traditional opening’ of the summer Test scheduled at the Gabba in Brisbane.

However, the shock of the death of precocious young Australian batsman Philip Hughes forced the postponement of the Brisbane fixture. The players gathered in Adelaide still in grief and shock at the death of Hughes, and that Test Match was played in an outdoor shrine amid thousands of floral tributes. As successive Australian batsmen passed significant milestones they paid public tribute to their young mate. David Warner, Steve Smith and Michael all scored centuries in Australia’s gluttonous first innings of 7/517. Each paid elaborate homage to their fallen comrade on attaining their century. They looked skyward and Clarke paid tribute to Hughes on 37, which was 63 short of a ton. And again on 63, upon which Hughes was unconquered when struck on the neck during a Sheffield Shield Match in Sydney on 25 November.

In the ghastly days that followed the formal pronouncement of Hughes’s death on the 27th of November, cricket displayed its amorphous spirit and unified the nation. Families left simple bats outside their gates. Yet the game ascended to its greatest majesty by donning black rather than traditional cream for the fallen star’s funeral in his hometown of Macksville. In front of a live, national, television audience, cricket’s royalty, including Virat Kohli, marched behind the hearse. For a fleeting moment, Australia was uplifted. It was a Je Suis Philip Hughes 408 moment. The confluence of bereavement and cricket inspired a uniquely Australian response.

The Test series should have been an anti-climax, but it produced an epic contest. Ultimately, the Australians won convincingly by 2-0. The scoreboard was unflattering of the tourists. India had shown a steel and a hunger that had not hitherto been obvious in their tours of Australia. Kohli, upon whom far too much reliance has been placed for scoring on tours outside India, enhanced his reputation as prickly, aggressive and fiercely competitive. He scored his debut Test Century at Adelaide in January 2012 in the final appearances of Indian legends Rahul Dravid and VVS Laxman. Kohli has since shouldered much of the burden borne by those two and the inimitable Little Master, Sachin Tendulkar, since that time. He holds the key to his nation’s aspirations to win a series in Australia for the first time since independence. As beloved Indian broadcaster, Harsha Bhogle, has observed, Kohli embodies the New India. Brash. Assertive. Determined to be taken seriously on the world stage. His fate and that of his nation’s oft blighted hopes will be synonymous over the next few weeks.

The Indian media sense that Australia is peculiarly vulnerable at home this year. Apart from the normal intensity of a Test series, Australia represents unfinished business for the number one ranked Test Nation. Although allocated Test status in 1932, the newly Independent Indian nation played its first series against Australia in 1947-48, but India is yet to win a series on Australian soil. The current generation has grown to maturity amidst the frustration of letting Australia off the hook in 2003-2004 and the backlash over sledging in 2007-2008. Indian players have long been bemused and enraged by the deeply personal nature of Australian on-field chatter. What is considered amusing (if perhaps insulting) among Australian cricketers forged in an unforgiving Grade system, is considered condescending and often racist by Indian and Pakistani men. That is especially the case when the targets are the wives and mothers of observant religious men.

There was sufficient blame to go around in 2008. However, the Indian Board of Control flexed its considerable political muscle to humiliate Cricket Australia. Australia blinked under duress with the BCCI threatening to cancel the rest of the tour after the spiteful Sydney Test. The weight of history falls heavily on Kohli and his men as this summer gets underway. He is a fiercely proud man, leading the team which most personifies the hopes of a rising economic and military superpower. That will to win encounters an Australian cricket apparatus beset by deep self-doubts, if not an existential crisis of identity. Australia are the underdogs, though India’s history here and its immediate past record in England and South Africa offer hope. How robust will Australia be? Who will exert more pressure and how will each cope with it? In the game more aware of its traditions and history than any other, history imposes great weight. My friend Harini Rana from India and I will offer our previews of the Adelaide Test later this week. After scandal and inquisitorial reviews, it will be pleasant to return our gaze to the delightful Adelaide Oval. Bathed in light. Of the traditional natural variety.


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Nothing left in the Shed

When Monique Schafter asked me to participate in the ABC 7:30 Report’s series around the theme ‘Advice to My Younger Self’ I accepted without hesitation. Apart from anything else, I was incredibly flattered to be selected in a batting line-up bristling with living Australian Legends. Some of the others were Jimmy Barnes, Ita Buttrose, Michael Kirby, and Tom Keneally. I admire every one of them. And each is an icon. My own life has been fairly chaotic and punctuated by failures. So, I felt something of an impostor in such company. My single greatest triumph is that I am still here at all, having planned to die by my own hand on numerous occasions, including earlier this year. But I managed to hang on until fading light forced an adjournment enabling me to reset before batting on. Batting, like life, is done one breath at a time.


Too often when I appear on television, I receive a torrent of Twitter abuse for bering transgendered. But not this week. The better angels of our nature seemed to prevail. Note to self. Only, ever talk about pain, loss, regret failure and cricket. Monique and I discussed all these things. They have provided the texture of my turbulent, crowded hour of fleeting life. They seemed to touch a chord among the audience. People responded with love and acceptance and mutual recognition of my reflections on failure, loss, regret and pain. They are as much our shared language as cricket. And perhaps unsurprising in a nation which marks the anniversary of a painful military defeat with more gusto than the formation of our Commonwealth or the adoption of our Constitution.


Perhaps, as the man in the Shawshank Redemption so eloquently put it, we need to “Get busy living or get busy dying.” Just for today, I am vividly alive. Life and death provide an epic quality to every life. That bell tolls for all of us. The cosmic umpire’s finger is raised to every last one of us. What I tried to impart was what I have gleaned on the way to an unconquered 62 years. Foremost is that I have known deep love, deep loss and extravagant failure. Yet, so has every other person alive or has lived. As the Greek poet, Aeschylus wrote, even before Christian sanctification of suffering in Gethsemane and Calvary, “Man must suffer, suffer unto truth. But ripeness comes as well. And even in our sleep pain which knows no forgetting falls drop by drop upon our heart. Until, in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us through the awful grace of God.”


I lay claim to no singular wisdom or achievement. But I chose life over death and continue to do so as a conscious act of survival every day. Like taking guard to face the next delivery, when your body is rebelling with pain and fatigue. You only ever have to face one ball. We live by the breath, never really knowing which one will be our last. Best not to die with any runs left in the shed as I clumsily put it to Monique Schafter.


So, why all this cricket chatter and analogies? Why cricket? Well, the game has sustained me. I love it now more than ever before. It has rewarded me richly in friendships, travel and experience of triumph and belonging spiced by failure and loss. And cricket has done this more so than any other area of my life. It has been the constant in a life of shifting sands and allegiances. I transitioned political parties before I transitioned genders. It may have been more therapeutic to merely transition genders. One set of enemies is enough.


Over time my feelings for the game have matured. These days I write about it better than I play it. Today my love is without illusion. As it did when the scandal at Newlands erupted, the game can shatter our romantic fantasies. But when it rises to its loftiest heights it is without peer. And that can happen at Harrison Oval out in sunburnt Canberra suburbia, just as it can at Lord’s or Trent Bridge. The game has a rich poetic heart. It has saved my life and nurtured me in my darkest despair. My dear friend and fellow commentator and cricket author Jarrod Kimber recalls one arid summer trek more vividly than I. He penned a delightful piece titled ‘The Night Marcus North Saved Cate McGregor’s Life’.


Cricket provided succour to a confused kid who had lost an adored father at the age of eight. The game provided the therapy that no one could afford in that era. Every once in a while, I felt complete harmony, complete congruence, complete bliss at the crease. Everything around me seemed to slow down on its way to dissolution. It was akin to deep meditation or the transcendence that I have fleetingly experienced in a religious cloister as the monks chanted in Latin amid the midnight gloom. To slip the surly bonds of earth to touch the face of God….


That timeless champion of steel and dignity, Rahul Dravid, described this very phenomenon in almost identical language during his Bradman Oration. His gentle, lilting delivery reduced me to tears and gave me a sense of connection to him when my life was unravelling in pain and confusion. Through an amazing coincidence, I had discussed my gender conflict with a psychiatrist earlier in the very day Dravid delivered that speech. I had described to them the still, quiet, refuge that the crease had provided to me in my grief and uncertainty five decades before as I wielded the bat my deceased father had left under the Christmas tree in 1964.

All of this flooded back to me during the television interview with Monique Schafter. It gave me a reason to look at the past with fresh eyes. To feel the pain of the loss of a marriage, a home and a lifetime of expectations. But I also was able to pause and look back at the heights ascended and the depths left behind. It is a bliss to be alive. Today I am still playing cricket.


Sadly, I can no longer guarantee to occupy the crease long enough to go into a deep state of congruence and peace. But it still happens. Nowadays, it is safer to book a lane with my coach Mark Divin. The nets are the land of the second, third and fourth chance. I spend as much time in the nets as I can. I am still playing for my Canberra Club, Norths Gunghalin, though I hope to round out my career in Hobart with the South Hobart Sandy Bay Sharks at their exquisite home ground. Mark Divin is located in Hobart at the Hobart High-Performance Cricket Centre in Kingborough. He is an incredibly talented coach whose passion is infectious.

My shot selection and decision making have markedly improved under his tutelage. Very much an orthodox red ball cricketer from the last century, I have a tendency to dig in and only play inside the V for too long. In white ball, limited over cricket that is indulgence the team cannot afford. Score off every ball. While once an elegant leave could inspire a string of invective from a frustrated fast bowler, today it hands them a small victory in the war of attrition. Try to work every ball and avoid allowing any ‘dot’ balls. Each ball is a contest, just like traditional cricket. But the clock ticks faster. Like life in the seventh decade really.


Tomorrow I am will join Andre Leslie on News Breakfast to preview the coming Test series against India and the World Cup final between the Australian Women and England. Summer beckons. Women’s T20 cricket and a red ball epic against India in Adelaide. Later this summer, I will explain how that sentence literally brackets the peaks and troughs of my life. Until then…

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Indian Summers-Whispering Jacaranda

To the English, who gave the world the game of cricket, the sound of leather upon willow announced the arrival of summer. To a kid growing up in regional Queensland in the 1960s, it was the explosion of purple Jacaranda blooms. They drifted to earth forming a lavish purple carpet on the streets of my hometown Toowoomba. These, in turn, attracted bees, whose low drone mingled with the cicada hum of crackling descriptions of play on the wireless in our living room. That sound of summer was ubiquitous. My mates and I placed a tiny transistor radio on a fence post beside our improvised backyard cricket pitch where we toiled for hours. Our workload management would incur censure from the army of High-Performance gurus employed in the game nowadays. But what we lacked in technique we made up for in resilience. Entire summer days elapsed in these fiercely contested ‘Tests’.

I had become enthralled by cricket on the radio during the summer of 1962-63. England, or more correctly the MCC was touring Australia. I was only 6 years old but deduced that all the adults in my family and among our neighbours regarded the Test series as being an event of great moment. Conversations invariably commenced ‘Any idea of the score?’ I was an instant and fanatical recruit to the cause.

From the outset, I learnt to loathe the ‘Poms’ and to worship the Australians whom I regarded as invincible as the other Olympian figures of my childhood, the ANZACs. In particular, I gleaned from Dad that Queenslanders like Peter Burge and Ken (Slasher) Mackay were even more admirable than the others. Queenslanders had to be twice as good to make the Test side. Life was a conspiracy against us by ‘Southerners’.

Cricket has since been the golden thread running through my life, which is now in its seventh decade. I still play. I write about it. I love it deeply. And in the summer of 2011-12 when I was at the brink of self-extinction it nurtured me, and its family saved my life. In 2016 I met the arresting and charismatic Marta Dusseldorp to discuss a play and television series about my life. In person, her remote beauty is even more breathtaking than her screen presence in Janet King. Discussing my life with Director Priscilla Jackman, Marta asked, ‘How much cricket is there?’ ‘Lots’ was the reply. ‘It provides the through line.’ That sounds about right.

By the time India arrived in Australia for their 1967-68 Test series, cricket was my absolute passion. I would hit balls against the back fence in what my mother described as an almost trance-like state. I was not seeking to emulate Bradman. I only admired players from my own era. I adored a tall Victorian left-hander, named Bob Cowper. Left-handed kids were regarded as odd and subjected to concerted attempts to convert us to normality. I am glad I did not let on that left-handedness was not the only thing that set me apart from the class. But cricket helped me make sense of the world. Every summer the Jacaranda blossoms evoke that idyllic time of innocence. I can still conjure the aroma of suntan lotion mingling with mosquito coils amid the pervasive lilt of the ABC radio commentary.

Yet, despite my sense of timeless hope and serenity, the world was changing rapidly.  Ultimately not even cricket was able to stand aloof and immune from the social and economic changes underway in 1967 that confounded my parents and their generation. Australia had changed its currency to dollars and cents during the Fifth Test of the Ashes series in February 1966. Sorry, I should explain – as well as providing a ‘through line’ cricket has also given me a cadence and calendar marking the passing of time. Give me a Test match and I can give you the political context of the time and maybe bang out a few bars of the Top 10 hits of the day. If you are really unlucky, that is.

By the time India arrived in December 1967, Britain had announced its withdrawal from East of Suez. Australia was conscripting young men to fight in Vietnam. A young National Service Man, named Errol Noack had been the first conscript killed in Vietnam on my tenth Birthday. And our Prime Minister, Harold Holt had drowned in the surf just before the First Test against the visitors in December 1967. My Mum viewed all of these trends with mounting consternation. She thought we would become a pallid imitation of the United States. We lived with the unease of a potential nuclear exchange. Though according to Mum at least that may have spared us the calamity of becoming a Republic. Many apparent certainties were evaporating. Cricket alone gave me a sense of continuity and transcendence. Yet, over time cricket has succumbed to the same commercial and globalizing forces. Many of those commercial pressures have emanated from the sub-continent from whence came those exotic tourists in 1967.

While concerned at our uncertain geo-strategic environment and the prospect of nuclear Armageddon, I was genuinely alarmed at our relative decline as cricket power. I had imbibed Australian invincibility with the cordial Mum had provided the teams during adjournments in our timeless ‘Tests’. Australian cricket hegemony was crumbling as I fell in love with the game. In rapid succession, we lost to the West Indies in the Caribbean in 1965. That was our first overseas loss to anyone but the Old Enemy, England. Then (inconceivable to me) my heroes, Cowper, Ian Chappell and Graham McKenzie were emphatically beaten by South Africa over there in 1966-67. Of some comfort, we at least we still held the Ashes, which to me were imbued with mystical significance. And we vanquished India comfortably that summer.

In languid insular Queensland, I found the men from the sub-continent incredibly mysterious and romantic. Their Captain was the Nawab of Pataudi. Imagine that will you- a Nawab no less, leading a cricket team with names that defied my tongue. Farokh Engineer. Bishen Bedi. Erapalli Prasanna. And apart from his noble title, there was Pataudi, whose full name was Mansur Ali Khan Pataudi. To a kid who thought Toowoomba’s Loo Shan Chinese Restaurant was the pinnacle of cosmopolitan intrigue, the India cricketers propelled me into a new dimension.

Pataudi possessed only one eye, which compelled him to adopt a very square on stance. At the crease, he made George Bailey look blandly orthodox. He lived up to his nickname ‘Tiger’ throughout the series, batting with poise and character against a rampant Graham McKenzie in Melbourne. In addition to his visual impairment, he batted with a torn hamstring in Melbourne and required the assistance of a runner for most of his innings. In those days the Indians were not as physically imposing as the Australians.

Their attack lacked raw pace and was built around spinners such as Bedi and Prasanna. Bedi, who went on to win the hearts of Australian crowds during the tour of 1977-78, wore a brilliant blue turban. In my childish imagination, the Nawab and the turbaned Bedi had leapt straight out of novels about the Raj and the Indian Mutiny. Moreover, Bedi was a left-arm orthodox bowler like me. He went on to play 67 Test Matches, Captaining India 22 times. Quite a record for that era when the schedules were less frantic than today.

Apart from cricket, my only knowledge of India was through the eyes of the colonizing power, Britain. My reading diet comprised the tales of Biggles and assorted Boys Own books, which featured the odd loyal and brave sepoy. But the subcontinent was portrayed as vaguely mysterious and dangerous for the English and implicitly Australians. If Tiger Pataudi’s team had ridden bejewelled elephants to practice I would not have even raised an eyebrow. Over time India has cast off such patronizing stereotypes to be both the dominant financial and administrative power in global cricket. It arrives here as number one ranked Test team.

India’s ineluctable rise to economic, military, and cricket eminence is an inspiring story. An enormous nation of dazzling wealth and dismal poverty, its people unite around their cricket stars. To play for India is to carry the hopes, pride and aspirations of hundreds of millions. Few Australians fully grasp the intensity of India’s love of cricket. The rise of Indian cricket has gone some way to erasing the humiliation of colonization of an ancient and sophisticated civilization. They adopted the game of their oppressors and it has been one of their primary vehicles to assert their national pride. Today, world cricket without the power, prestige and wealth of sprawling, dynamic India is equally unimaginable.

This weekend the jacaranda are in bloom. The bees are buzzing. And another Indian tour fires my imagination and that of our cricket loving public. Just as their nation has grown in strength, so too, contemporary Indian players are bigger, stronger and more athletic than their forebears. India are yet to win a Test series here. This year looks to afford them their best chance ever.

While the Indian form against South Africa was uninspiring, the 4-1 result against England was more lopsided on paper than on the square. They possess some truly classy batsmen and a better- balanced bowling array than they have fielded for some time with genuine pace and spinners of the first rank. Australia’s woes need little elaboration. Our top order looks fragile. Neither Mitchell Marsh or Glenn Maxwell would be regarded as an Australian Test number 6 when our fortunes are at the flood. If we are to leverage the considerable advantage conferred by home grounds, then our fast bowlers will be crucial. They will need to restrict India to modest totals. I will evaluate both teams in more depth later this week. And I will be joined by a dear friend and accomplished Indian cricket journalist Harini Rana for an in-depth analysis of the tourists. Until then…..



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Early season shots!

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One From the Vault – December 2017

The WACA is no longer worthy of Test Match cricket, but thanks for the memories…

Dawid Malan celebrates his century during the final Test at WACA
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The Gifts of Mother Cricket

Last Anzac Day I sang our national anthem twice. The first occasion was during the Dawn Service at the Australian War Memorial. The second time was later that morning among my teammates from the local Indian and Pakistani communities. We had gathered on Australia’s most solemn day, to mourn the death of one young man rather than of thousands. He had died as dawn broke on Anzac Day 2016. It was not Zeeshan Akbar’s destiny to be venerated in death as a hero beyond reproach by mere mortals, growing in stature with the passage of time. His death was brutal. It was cruel. And it was utterly random and unjustified. Those whose lives Zeeshan touched, vowed never to forget him. We forged a Shield to commemorate him. Henceforth, on the anniversary of his death teams of young men born in India and Pakistan will play a cricket fixture to honour a fine young man who had made Australia his home. Zeeshan came here in 2009 to complete his education. He loved Australia and his application for citizenship had been approved before his death. This was a source of great pride for him but he never got to finalise it.

I had come to know Zeeshan through the Indo-Pakistani cricket competition in Canberra, which is the brainchild of my friend Syed Jaffry. In addition to playing First Grade female cricket, I play in this competition with one of the two Pakistani teams, a blonde trans woman in a team of observant Muslim men who carry their prayer mats in their cricket bags. My final game of cricket will be played among these young men, whose passion for the game is infectious and delightful. The nations of their birth have currently suspended Test Matches against each other because of security concerns. The nation of Pakistan was born amid vicious sectarian conflict in the aftermath of Indian independence and the two countries have fought periodically. Their most recent war severed the new nation of Bangladesh from Pakistan. If the elusive spirit of cricket, if the often-invoked ‘grassroots’exists, it exists among these young men in the parklands of Canberra. To play amongst them is a joy because of that passion. And an inspiration, because of their deep faith in God, their homelands, and their adopted land of Australia.

The gathering to christen the Zeeshan Akbar Shield epitomised everything I love about cricket and Australia. Firstly, Zeeshan’s boss Pedro spoke. He had come to Australia from Italy and the service station was his family business.  A humble man, he spoke with simple eloquence about his former employee. The Mayor of Queanbeyan, Tim Overall spoke. So did the Deputy High Commissioner of Pakistan who led prayers in gentle, lilting Urdu as the young Pakistani men rocked back and forth, eyes closed, accompanying him. I spoke briefly and offered a prayer, prefaced by the invocation that we are all children of Abraham, the Patriarch of the Arabs and the Jews and Old Testament prophet in the Christian tradition. In the wake of the attack in Melbourne, the usual strident voices have been shrieking denunciations of Islam and immigrants. Had they been at dinner that night perhaps even their flinty hearts would have been touched.

The gifts that the game of cricket has bestowed on me over the past five decades are too numerous to calculate. But I shall cherish the memory of that night as long as I live. Here is a column I wrote for Fairfax about that night– it has aged better than the author!

We will never forget Zeeshan Akbar. Son of Pakistan. Adopted son of Australia. Son of Mother Cricket.

Zeeshan Akbar – Not Out (in perpetuity)

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Indian Summer

As a former Australian soldier I feel some, slight, illicit sense of misgiving about the commemoration of the 100th Anniversary of the cessation of hostilities on the Western Front in 1918. Let me make clear- I am not a pacifist. Rather, I am a foreign-policy realist, who in my seventh decade has bleakly concluded that ‘only the dead have seen the end of war.’ In his panoramic survey of warfare as an anthropological phenomenon the Israeli historian Azar Gat concludes that humans have been using orchestrated lethal force against one another since the hunter gatherer period.

Both my grandfather, for whom I was named, and my father served in the First and Second Australian Imperial Force. My grandfather Malcolm was an officer in the 21st and 24th Battalions of the Second Division. He was wounded and repatriated to Cobham Hall in Kent, before returning the Western Front. Dad likewise suffered a wound during the Buna Campaign. He also recovered to return to New Guinea for the Lae and Wewak Campaigns in 1945.

My grandfather died when I was three, my father when I was eight. The weight of expectations and my gnawing doubts about my masculinity led me to Royal Military College on 14 January 1974 aged 17. But that is a story for another day. After that I went where I was sent and was regarded as an exemplary officer. But I never encountered the sustained violence that my forebears did. I still feel residual shame and guilt about that, especially in light of other decisions I have made. Only about half a dozen of my Duntroon Class of 115 ever deployed on operational service of any type. I was one of the few.

So, I am hardly a fiery radical who loathes our military and despairs that they have been blindly sacrificed in ‘other people’s wars’. All of our military commitments, right back to the Sudan and even the Boer War have been directed to maintain the supremacy of the preeminent liberal democratic power of the day. We have benefited immeasurably from that global order even when the scale of our sacrifice is measured.

Yet, the manner and tone of our Remembrance disquiets me. My first ANZAC commemoration at the Australian War Memorial was on a brisk Canberra Thursday morning in April 1974. The junior class from Duntroon were dispatched by bus to attend the Dawn Service. Very few senior classmen roused themselves to attend. The whole College conducted a parade later in the morning and marched to the grave of our founder Major General Sir William Throsby Bridges who had been interred on Mount Pleasant. Not even aspiring officers in the Australian Regular Army voluntarily went to the Dawn Service. The teeming crowds and all-night light shows are recent developments.

Disillusionment with war and ANZAC mythology was pervasive. Other than my classmates in our British pattern World War Two battle dress and overcoats, only a group of nuns attired in full habits and small contingent of veterans comprised the crowd. We all comfortably fitted inside the forecourt gathered around the Pool of Reflection. Our fondness for war commemoration has only reached today’s epidemic proportions as fewer Australians actually know a family member who has been engaged in one. Since 1974 the nation has transformed. So has our cricket. Now there is a more brash, assertive assertion of identity characterizing both. Rather than a sign of maturity it smacks of adolescent insecurity to me.

Last week’s mawkish, abortive flirtation with Americana by Virgin Airlines is but a symptom of a social phenomenon that I know makes many veterans uncomfortable. The commemoration of war has become garish and sentimental. Both the left and right attempt to hijack our Veterans in the culture wars. Crude jingoism is used to hijack ANZACs to support the Australian Republic, while conservatives invoke Bean’s romantic descriptions of the ANZACs to lampoon our current men and women as ‘soft’ and too politically correct.

In fading memory’s eye, the ANZACs and First AIF have grown to fanciful stature beyond mere mortals. They won the Great War on their own. Monash was a superb General, while all the British Commanders were effete Public-School dolts etc. The truth is vastly less romantic. If the dead could hear the hyperbole about them ‘dying with faces to the foe’ I suspect they would exchange such drivel for the experience of just one more sunrise or sunset in the land of their birth. So too the millions of civilians, including children, who have died in the genocides of the century since the ‘War To End all Wars’.

Yet, despite all of that, tomorrow I shall return to the Memorial, wearing my medals, somewhat embarrassed that I have twice as many as Pop and the same number as the old man. I rather suspect that this, more than my gender transition, would arouse their contempt. They may even suspect that I had joined the ‘Yanks’ who allegedly gave away medals “in their Corn Flakes.”

So, what of cricket? Well, as CLR James observed ‘What do they know of cricket who only cricket know?’. The depth of that pithy, oft invoked, aphorism was brought home to me at the Australian War Memorial on an unseasonably cool summer evening just before Christmas in 2011. I was fortunate to attend the Bradman Oration in the Aircraft Hall of the War Memorial. War, memory, national and personal identity and cricket merged for me that evening. That year, for the first time, the Oration was delivered by a foreign cricket player, Rahul Dravid, the former Captain of India. It was the finest and most moving speech that I have heard delivered on Australian soil.

That summer I was covering the Indian tour for the Spectator Magazine and writing a book titled Indian Summer. Dravid’s speech enthralled me and I dedicated a chapter of that book to him. We have subsequently become friends and have broadcast Test Matches together. He was a talismanic figure to me through the trials of the ensuing three years, though he refuses to take any credit for this. He and a handful of others convinced me that my life had value and that I should not end it. While many sporting champions flatter to deceive, not so Dravid. He is an exceptional man. He is humble, authentic and gentle and blessed with baroque technique and steely concentration. Those attributes inspired his nickname ‘The Wall.’ Implacable. Impregnable.

Dravid movingly traced the history of Australia’s links to India back to that first morning at Gallipoli when Indian soldiers came ashore with the Anzacs. He explained how, later, Bradman became an iconic, mystical figure among Indians during their turbulent struggle for independence:

For one generation of fans in my country, those who grew up in the 1930s, when India was under British rule, Bradman represented a cricketing excellence that belonged to somewhere outside England. To a country taking its first steps in Test Cricket that meant something.

He went on to note that on 28 June 1930, the same day that Bradman scored 254 at Lord’s, Jawaharal Nehru was arrested by the colonial police. Given that coincidence, it was fitting that the first Test series played by newly Independent Indian nation was against Australia led by the Don. Indians, Dravid reminded us were ‘Comrades before we were competitors.’ But Dravid’s abiding message was more profound. Deep inside the home of Australia’s Whitefella Dreaming, a young Indian man cautioned against the appropriation of the language and metaphors of war to describe sport. Just as 2018 has seen Australia achieve ‘peak veteran’ so too, we have already attained peak cricket.

The national uproar over the ball tampering incident at Newlands in March was quite hysterical. In the absence of war, we seemingly demand that our cricketers embody our cozy self-image. Like the Digger an Australian cricketer is expected to be a taciturn, invincible hard man. The tears and remorse of Steve Smith reminded all of us that these players are young. That they are also too often unworldly and immature. They are not the essence of the nation. Nor should we expect them to be. But in this era of shrill, ostentatious patriotism we can expect an extended seminar on national decline over the summer. Fortunately, we have a Prime Minister who desists from exclaiming ‘Cooee’ and ‘Fair dinkum’ just long enough to swallow a pie. So Western Civilization may limp into 2019 despite the form of our cricketers.

The Indian team arrive next week. They are yet to win a series on Australian soil. Australian cricket is peculiarly vulnerable this Indian Summer. Our batting looks dangerously brittle and we are reaping the harvest of the devaluation of technique and red ball proficiency deemed necessary to accommodate more short form cricket. But Fortress Australia has defied better Indian teams than this before. When one uses a military metaphor for cricket, it is time to pause. Lest We Forget. Until next time.