Cricket XXXX Cricket (27 page)

Never a mob to miss the right psychological moment, the Aussie crowd taunted on every possible occasion, especially as a revitalised Australian team had hammered England by 109 runs at Melbourne, and gained their rightful place in the finals. To add insult to injury someone had released a small wild pig on to the ground during the England innings, with ‘GATTING’ daubed in white on the poor beast’s side. The England captain had been caught for six off Waugh, and a joke immediately started to do the rounds. What was the real difference between Gatt and the pig? Answer: it was easier to catch Gatt.

In his defence, it would not seem that Mike allows himself to be in any way upset at such eminently personal jibes. During England’s game against the Aussies in Brisbane, a hastily prepared banner had been held aloft adjuring: ‘Mike Gatting. Ring Jenny Craig, IMMEDIATELY.’ Jenny Craig runs a highly successful string of weight-loss clinics.

Poster-borne graffiti are certainly the art form most commonly on display in Australian sporting stadia, and although such exclamations as ‘good shot’ and ‘wizard’, or exhortations such as ‘go for it’ are depressingly banal, there is no shortage of genuine humour. The best example I have seen was on the centre court at the Australian Tennis Open at Kooyong in Melbourne, during Australian Pat Cash’s surprise defeat of Czechoslovakian Ivan Lendl. A young woman’s poster read quite simply ‘Cash beats a Cheque’.

In Fremantle, Dennis Conner, 3–0 up in the finals, had decided to call a lay-day. The humiliations of Newport now seemed aeons away, and Dennis was enjoying himself. A few weeks earlier he had been taunting the opposition and the world’s press with an ostentatious outing flying his new spinnaker, the ‘Dolly’. Bequeathed to Conner by the New York Yacht Club when every other American contender had been eliminated, the Dolly was so named for her numerous, large and ultra-curvaceous Parton-style projections. Dennis obviously felt confident enough to have some fun, and the Dolly was nothing but a red herring and a mickey-take. Ms Parton
a propos
is here in Australia, in majestic person, touring with a fellow country and western singer, Kenny Rogers. A prime mickey-taker herself, Dolly was once asked why on earth she continued to make such arduous tours when she was already a multimillionairess.

Flashing those heavily be-false-eyelashed eyes from underneath the enormous platinum beehive wig, rustling the diamanté tassled cowboy jacket stretched suggestively over the half-century bust, and wagging her sculpted finger-nails at the interviewer, she answered in that inimitable Tennessee drawl, ‘Weyl . . . ya know . . . costs a lotta money ta look this cheap.’

The woman is priceless.

Since there was to be no racing that day, my hosts, Brendan and Pat Redden, some friends and I took a helicopter to the Leeuwin Estate winery and vineyard, located in the picturesque coastal resort town of Margaret River, some 280 kilometres south of Perth. The Estate is not only internationally recognised as a producer of premium wines, but also boasts a restaurant which won the prestigious Gold Plate Award at its first attempt. Despite fielding all the latest in modern equipment and technology, the winery nevertheless imports all its oak barrels from France for the wine ageing process, and no expense is spared in the tireless pursuit of small quantities of exquisite product.

The day slipped imperceptibly away in good conversation, good wine, good food and good company, and it was just as well we had our trusty chopper pilot to ferry us happily home. By that stage one of us subjected to a random breath test would have had a 1984 reserve bin Rhine Riesling, a 1983 Chardonnay, a 1982 Pinot Noir, and a 1982 Botrytis late-harvest Rhine Riesling to be taken down and used in evidence against us.

The
Kookaburra’s
last-minute efforts to call another lay-day have been in vain. Today, Wednesday 4 February 1987, looks like staging the culmination of the America’s Cup. The small town of Fremantle is bursting at the seams, and the short trip from Perth, which generally takes twenty minutes, is requiring a few hours. The gaily painted weather-board facades have always looked somewhat two-dimensional, insubstantial, like a film set, and today the place looks more like Hollywood than ever.

The cast of thousands is predominantly Australian, but there is a fair contingent of Americans, some cheekily sporting T-shirts with the legend ‘G’bye. G’day’.

They, at least, are in no doubt as to which way the wind is blowing.

The famous Boxing Kangaroo, who, sporting his aggressive red boxing gloves three years ago in Newport, knocked the NYYC into a cosmic huff, is fluttering on pennants everywhere, but today lacks conviction, a bit like Dennis Andries after his drubbing at the hands of Thomas ‘Hit Man’ Hearns. As we wave the yachts off from the harbour he is even walking around in the flesh, or at least in the synthetic fur, and is no doubt silently grateful that there are no Italia crew members driving Alfa Romeos in the immediate vicinity.

It is only 10 am and already the temperature is up in the high twenties. Papa Luigi’s is full of Italians, taking their mid-morning fix of espresso. Eskies are hauled on to launches, stores of ice are being laid down, zinc cream is slapped on facial protrusions, choppers hover noisily above like so many sci-fi monsters . . . the America’s Cup party is about to begin.

We have a choice. We can sail on a tender in the ‘triangle’, and seriously watch the racing, or we can sail on the
Leeuwin
, and seriously hit the vino. There is no competition. Besides, the
Leeuwin
, a magnificent traditional tall ship built to provide an adventure training facility for the youth of Western Australia, is equipped with several televisions, and if we get bored with the racing, we can probably watch some cricket.

The atmosphere at the starting line is sheer exuberance. Anyone who can patch his rubber dinghy with an Elastoplast is out here, jostling for a view. The Commodore of the New York Yacht Club sails past, looking snooty. A few drunken larrikins boo, and the sentiment is taken up in pockets. Dennis has become a folk hero here in Freo.

The rest is history.
Kookaburra III
never even got a look in. No ferocious tacking duels, no fights around the marker buoys, no pan-national coronaries at the finishing line.
Stars and Stripes
romped home in a distressingly clean sweep.

Nevertheless the scenes in Freo that night were positively bacchanalian. God knows what must have happened in Australia the night they won the Auld Mug, the Aussies were certainly having a riotous time losing it: people sitting in the gutter, arms around each other, supported by pyramids of dead tinnies; slurred versions of ‘Waltzing Matilda’ emanating from the favoured watering holes, lyrics morosely changed to fit the occasion . . . ‘And that was the end of the boxing kangaroo . . .’; dancing in the streets;
Kookaburra
sweat-shirts going cheap; one lone AIDS Jeremiah carrying his lugubrious message on a sandwich board, unheeded by an unashamedly hedonistic crowd.

The presentation ceremony was an emotional event, even for those who were not commensurately tired. The Commodore of the Royal Perth Yacht Club, Alan Crewe, handed the America’s Cup, glistening in the brilliant sunshine, to the Commodore of the San Diego Yacht Club, Fred Frye. Frye, in turn, presented Crewe with a bicycle spanner, the implication being that the spanner, of metric design, would be virtually useless in wresting the trophy from the San Diego Yacht Club where the Cup would be secured by imperial bolts. True to his end of the bargain, Bob Hawke had ensured that the American President’s bush-hat was entrusted to Conner, for delivery on his return to a rapturous ticker-tape welcome. It was unfortunate, however, that the Prime Minister had not seen fit to append instructions. Subsequent photographs showed the Irangate-beleaguered Ronnie wearing the titfer back to front.

Conner, by now an unofficial roving ambassador for Western Australia, could not have been more gracious in victory. The folk of Freo have taken him to their hearts in a way the NYYC never did. When asked where he would like to see the next challenge held, he answered unerringly ‘Fremantle’, and was duly rewarded with an affectionate cheer.

Watching the last of the sailors leave, the Western Australian talent must have felt like so many Didos saying farewell to beloved Aeneases, not quite managing to stave of the sinking feeling that this could be adieu rather than au revoir. They were not yet sufficiently forlorn to light the funeral pyres, however. After all, Bondy had promised to go and get that Auld Mug back . . . again . . .

The next day I left for Melbourne, just as an exclusive liner was sailing into Fremantle. Guests on board were each paying a few thousand dollars a day for accommodation, but it was worth every red cent. They had saved up to come all the way from New York to watch the final of the America’s Cup!

There was a strange, white laundry bag sitting in the bedroom on my arrival at the Menzies at Rialto, Melbourne. On further inspection it revealed its contents: a life-sized doll’s head, with a very large open mouth attached to an ingenious pumping device. Phil, it transpired, had won the Wanker of the Series award.

England, despite concerted efforts to screw everything up, have made it through to the best-of-three finals of the Benson and Hedges World Series Cup. This, more than anything, is due to the fact that they have come upon a team which atypically ‘can’t bat, can’t bowl and can’t field’ even more effectively than themselves. Yes, the mighty West Indians, tactically bankrupt, psychologically deflated and depressed by the continuing veto on bouncers in one-day games, have been eliminated. The finals will be the old foes, England versus Australia.

The prospect of a Grand Slam has obviously given England that final fillip of which they were so desperately in need. By this stage, however, there is no shortage of bitching starting to surface, especially amongst the sidelined members of team. It would appear that the only players who are regularly obliged to pitch up at practice nets are the ones who have absolutely no chance of playing in the actual matches. It might not have been bad policy, under the circumstances, to oblige the
entire
team to practice. Goodness knows, some of the middle-order batting performances, in particular, were sufficiently catastrophic as to warrant the odd workout.

Much as I would have loved to witness the nets-niggling for myself, I was sadly obliged to fly off almost immediately to Brisbane, to address a Lord’s Taverners’ luncheon. Ex-Australian cricket captain and current selector Greg Chappell was there to give the vote of thanks. He is certainly one of the most suave, impressive and sophisticated chaps, impeccably well-mannered and -dressed, and heavily into the soda water at lunchtime. He is, by all accounts, now demonstrating an interest in moving into politics, having pursued a very successful career in real estate, and speaks disturbingly highly of Sir Joh. It will be interesting, however, to see which party if any he finally embraces.

It was a delight too to meet that remarkable old man, Ray Lindwall. As with Tiger, I seem to have a much greater affinity with the exes and the formers than with current-day cricketers.

A revivified England won the first final in Melbourne, and the circus rolled ebulliently back to Sydney, although at this stage no one was entirely sure which day it was nor indeed exactly where we were.

We were staying once more at our Bondi Junction apartments, where Ian Botham, along with his new Worcestershire teammate Graham Dilley, had taken the penthouse suite. Sensing a 2–0 England victory, Elton John had organised a party there for the evening of the second final. There is nothing that concentrates cricketers’ minds on success like the prospect of packing for the thirty-first time, and taking an early flight next morning back to whence they have just come.

It was already nearly midnight when England arrived back at our Sydney sojourn. Day-night fixtures tend to roll on until about 10 pm in any event, and then the usual round of presentations, press statements, triumphant toasts . . .

I had been hard at the tripe-writer all day, and for once was not feeling like a party. Phil, however, who had only played in one of these limited-overs fixtures, decided we had better put in an appearance. ‘Otherwise,’ he said, ‘they’ll all say I’m pissed off about not playing.’

The wicket that day at the SCG, as indeed the wickets everywhere else with the possible exception of Adelaide, had turned square, but England had resolutely fielded three seamers and just the one spinner, John Emburey. The truth of the matter was that PHE was indeed pissed off about not playing.

I suppose we stayed about an hour. As usual with Elton, it was a generous and lavish do, with an enormous barbecue and buffet, courtesy of the Sebel Town House, ubiquitous red, white and blue balloons, and plenty of good bopping music. Sober, unfortunately, I get bored very quickly, and foolishly we left.

Oh, serious error! How is it I always seem to miss the action? If tabloid tales of unknown ladies wearing nothing but miniscule tank tops are to be believed, we were back to Caribbean standards at last . . .

Let us not dwell on minor casualties such as ransacked lifts and dismantled ceilings, however. If elevators malfunction leaving Dennis Lillee immured airless and lightless, suspended for hours between Ian Botham’s penthouse and eternity, such things are wont to happen.

Neither let us dwell on the fact that as a direct consequence of this, a healthy contingent of the team, including Les Edmonds, was summarily decanted into other establishments around Sydney early the next morning. No, such are the vagaries and vicissitudes of life in a touring party, and certainly none of these peccadillos was going to spoil the general euphoria in the England camp or the British nation, where a spate of post-Falklands gung-ho chauvinism had apparently taken grip of the land.

Just as we were moving our possessions for the thirty-somethingth time, however, the phone rang, and a man operating under the code name of ‘Bill’ from the British Consulate-General in Sydney asked specifically to speak to me. Would I, a mere cricket widow, take delivery of a telegram from the corridors of power back home in London?