Sadly, but predictably, my marriage headed downhill very fast. Our daughter Erin was born, but as awesome as she is, I soon understood that a baby wasn’t the solution for our frayed relationship. Within two years we were separated, and a costly divorce followed. I had failed. It had all been for nothing.

  One problem of mine is that I can get addicted to things very easily, and so I can get myself into trouble. Deep down I knew that if I didn’t pursue my cricket and give it a good go, I was always going to regret it. Retiring in 2008 after the Indian series proved this point, because it sparked a very dark period of my life.

  After my separation I didn’t want to be reminded of my previous life, and for almost a year I didn’t watch any cricket. I couldn’t, because I felt like I had unfinished business with the game. The only time I took any notice was when Andrew Symonds got in a bit of trouble in Darwin. My old mate had been sent home after going on a fishing trip rather than attending a team meeting before a one-day series against Bangladesh in 2008. But after that, I ignored the game again. I didn’t want to talk about it; I didn’t want to think about the past. One way I escaped was by hitting the drink.

  I became quite bitter during that period. I was constantly going out, trying to have a good time, and sometimes I even thought I was having a good time. But it was all pretty hollow because I had lost the two cores of my life. Another problem was that it didn’t take much for me to get drunk. The boys used to call me ‘glass and a half ’. I was small and fit so the grog went straight to my head.

  Eventually I decided it was stupid of me to cut all my links with cricket, and in early 2009 I went to watch a one-day international at the WACA. I’d had a few drinks and I started getting upset that the crowd was so quiet; why wasn’t the ground announcer doing anything to rev them up? I telephoned someone I knew in the WACA marketing department and asked her to get me on the ground microphone, so that I could stir the atmosphere up a bit. She wouldn’t do it.

  I kept drinking, and out of the blue I was invited to the Australian rooms because some of the players I had played with, including Mark Taylor and Ian Healy, were there. Someone had found out I was at the ground and had got in contact.

  When I was walking around the ground, passing under the WACA scoreboard, a kid came up to me and started chatting. I felt horrible. This is really embarrassing, I was thinking. I’m drunk at my old home ground. I’ve got to pull myself together and show this kid I haven’t completely lost the plot. I didn’t want to be seen as a loser or a drunk, but I’m sure I was a dishevelled mess.

  I was always mindful that cricketers are seen as role models. Players often say they don’t ask to be role models. That’s bad luck, I say. You wanted to be the best in your sport, and this is part of what comes.

  So I tried to do the right thing by the kid, and then I headed for the change rooms. Before I got there, though, I walked over to the Channel Nine broadcast truck, found the producer and asked for a job. It wasn’t long before I was told to piss off.

  Near the rooms, I saw Taylor and Healy and gave them both a hug. Punter noticed me and invited me to come and join the team inside. I wasn’t keen, telling him I wasn’t in the right state to be there. But he insisted. I remember going in and lying down on Mike Hussey’s cricket bag, and waffling on about nothing. Huss saw the state I was in and said he would drive me home. I made him drop me at The Raffles, a well-known Perth drinking hole, and from there I walked home – again via the waterfront so no one would see me. I even had a lie-down in the bushes and slept for a couple of hours before eventually getting home.

  I was starting to realise that I was losing my way. In a short period of time I had gone from public figure to nobody. My ego had taken a hit, and my purpose in life had diminished. I felt I had nowhere to turn. This led to a period of deep depression. It was the cumulative effect of a broken marriage, a mundane work life, and my festering anger that I had walked away from cricket. It was all behind me, and nothing ahead. Getting time with my daughters was proving difficult. My whole world had crashed in on me, and I felt completely responsible.

  I hated the silence of my empty house. It reminded me what a failure I was. I couldn’t bear being there, so I went to stay with Mum, Dad and Nathan for a while. I needed people around me who I could talk to, and who could help me get through my dramas.

  Still, there were times I just wanted to get away from everything and everyone. I knew I was being a misery guts. I was even giving myself the shits. I’d meet someone, and all I could talk about was how stuffed my life was. I kept going on and on about my personal problems and how I had messed up, which must have driven some people mad. I was becoming a painful bore.

  Sometimes I drove down to Fremantle to think about what was going on in my life. I parked my car at Port Beach and went for a walk. I’d stare out at the sea and think, I could swim out to that groyne, and if I make it back, fine. If I don’t make it back … well, hard luck. I was prepared to let fate decide. I was in a really dark space.

  I did that Fremantle drive four times. And each time I thought about doing something really drastic. Thinking and doing are two completely different things, thankfully, and there was never really a moment when I was going to take off my clothes and start swimming. It was more about contemplating what it would be like if I decided to end it all. Nonetheless, it was frightening that I was having these negative thoughts on a regular basis.

  I was spending more time under the watchful eye of Mum and Dad, but for a few weeks I was also hitting the booze pretty heavily as I partied with my brother. Although I wasn’t in a great space mentally around this time, I did enjoy spending time with Nathan. Because he’s so much younger than me, this was really the first time we developed an adult relationship. When he was a kid, I’d been raising my own. Now we were both sponging off our parents, and we partied like a couple of teenagers.

  Around this time, I had a massive, drunken argument with a cab driver. Then I went into my parents’ house and started arguing with Mum and Dad. I had become very loose. Not caring for their conversation, I then blew them off and drove back to my empty house. My father followed me, concerned by my behaviour.

  It was when Dad knocked on my front door that it all hit me. I assured him I knew I was acting badly and would sort myself out. I apologised for my dreadful behaviour to him and Mum, and said I needed time alone to think. I felt angry with myself that I had been treating my parents so badly, especially as they had supported me for so long. They didn’t deserve that.

  I had hit rock bottom. I went to the bathroom and looked myself in the mirror. ‘You’re being a dickhead,’ I said. ‘Things have to change.’

  Then I went to my office, where I had a large whiteboard, and took the first step towards sobriety and purpose. I wrote down all the things I wanted to achieve, and exactly what I had to do to get my life back.

  • I will start treating people as I treated them when I was at my peak.

  • I will stop feeling sorry for myself.

  • I will always be fit, physically and mentally.

  • I will get a successful business up and running.

  • I will enjoy coaching.

  • I will get my media career up and running.

  • I will prepare and deliver fantastic presentations.

  • I will be more accountable to my mates.

  • I will get my family more involved.

  • I will look after my kids and brother.

  • I will always smile and be happy.

  • I will remember that I am a good person, and I won’t try to be someone I’m not.

  • Above all else, I will remember my motto in life: I’m an achiever and a believer, I will pursue my dreams, and I will enjoy every bloody moment from now until the day I die.

  17.

  BACK FROM THE BRINK

  ‘He is an endearing creature, but Brad was not always street-smart. He speaks very much from the heart, and if people don’t understand or appreciate that, they can take him the wrong way.’

  Tim Macnamara, Brad’s best mate

  When I was at my lowest point, my bush links came to the rescue. My best mate, Tim Macnamara, provided me with a lifeline, offering me a position at his farming business, Wellard Agri Limited. He was concerned that I’d been drifting and that my self-esteem had been deeply affected. I worked with him for about eight months, and being back in the bush did settle me down.

  It was important that, at that difficult time in my life, I was back among those I felt most comfortable with. My links with the bush were still strong, and emotional for me. For a great deal of my life I had felt guilty that I had left the family farm to pursue my dreams. That guilt mostly concerned my father, who had sacrificed so much, but also my uncles. Their involvement in my upbringing – keeping me on the straight and narrow most of the time – was something I appreciated deeply.

  At one time Dad and his two brothers were running one of the farms, and I was also supposed to be involved in it, but then cricket had taken off for me. I knew it was unfair that they were busting their rings on the farm while I was travelling the world and doing what I loved. That knowledge confirmed for me how lucky I was to have such a supportive, unselfish family, who had provided me with so much. Still, I always found it hard to get over the fact that I had taken what must have looked like the easier route in life.

  My oldest friend Tim was always there for me when it mattered. Years earlier, when I was still playing for Australia, Tim thought it was time I got some reward from my profile. One of my problems was that I’d never been good at promoting myself, and I’d never had a manager. I was never offered the lucrative advertising deals like some of the team’s big boys, so I always figured those opportunities just weren’t for me.

  I was reluctant to chase cricket bat deals, because it felt wrong to pursue one particular company for a sponsorship deal when, at times, I wasn’t even playing for Western Australia. I couldn’t give them consistent exposure. A lucrative deal with a high-profile European car company was on the horizon but I knocked it back because it just felt wrong to me. ‘Tim, that’s not me,’ I said. ‘If you want to get me a car deal, a ute would be fine, or a family wagon. I don’t think I’d be too credible in a posh car.’ Another, far savvier WA cricketer snaffled up that particular deal.

  I probably wasn’t as smart as I could have been in cashing in on my cricket profile. It didn’t matter who the person was – I’d tell them exactly how I felt. That probably didn’t help me at times, but it’s just the way I am, and it’s difficult for me to change.

  I had stayed relatively fit – I’d been playing lots of golf, and I even made a few appearances in charity Aussie Rules matches. But while my body was working perfectly, I remained deeply concerned about what other people thought of me. Life after cricket meant coming out of my shell off the field, and I wasn’t very comfortable doing that.

  I had also been convinced to join the retired sportsmen’s speaking circuit, but I found it tough as I really struggled to overcome my shyness. I had done a few speaking gigs for a professional bureau in Perth, but then I’d told them I didn’t want to do anymore. Basically, I just shat myself every time I had to speak. I’d had no media or speaking training, and it certainly didn’t come naturally to me.

  Then, around late August 2010, Cheri from the speakers’ bureau called again and was desperate for me to replace Kim Hughes as a panellist at a luncheon the following week. I agreed to do it, partly because it wouldn’t be a formal address – it was a light-hearted debate with other sportsmen about which was the best sport. The whole thing was a bit tongue-in-cheek.

  Still, when I woke up on the morning of the event, I regretted saying yes. I felt really uncomfortable. I didn’t bother preparing – I thought I’d go, embarrass myself and then get the hell out of there. I took along my 1996 Australian team jersey and baggy green cap as props.

  Waiting for the speakers outside the yacht club was Cheryl Bresland, a well-known figure in corporate entertainment and event management who was running the function. Her interest in cricket was scant. She explained that I would have 10 minutes, and could talk about whatever I liked. Bagging the other sporting codes was encouraged – everyone was there to have a good time, so I should just go out there and have a laugh. There was only one rule: no swearing.

  At our table was Tim Gossage, the MC and debate adjudicator, as well as Glen Jakovich (AFL), Stan Lazarides (soccer) and Ricky Grace (basketball). When Tim got up to start proceedings, I quickly scampered into his seat, next to Cheryl. I asked her lots of questions, and confessed that I hated public speaking. ‘I don’t do it well,’ I said. ‘I get really nervous.’ The other speakers seemed confident about what they were going to say. Cheryl encouraged me to relax and follow my instincts, but I later discovered that she thought I was trying to bluff the other speakers into having a false sense of security.

  Then I got up to speak and somehow nailed it. It probably came across like I was showing off to Cheryl, and she told me later she thought I was the star of the show, even though Ricky Grace took out the audience vote after leaping into the audience and giving women a hug and a kiss.

  After the debate we mingled with the guests. At one point I was standing at the back of the room with Snapper Schultz from Williams. I had a great view of the whole room, and I had my eye on Cheryl as she dazzled the room. ‘I’m going to get that girl,’ I told Snapper.

  ‘You ain’t got enough Test wickets for that, young fella,’ he told me with a laugh.

  The next day I sent Cheryl an email to say I had enjoyed the function, and she responded professionally and warmly. Apparently she was waiting for me to flirt with her, but I didn’t. I’d only been separated for three months, and was still trying to piece my life back together. Our email correspondence soon petered out, but I never forgot her.

  Dad had a quiet word with me around this time, and gave me a great piece of advice. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘this time start thinking with the brain between your shoulders, and not the one between your legs, you dickhead.’

  A few months later, I went to the races at Ascot with my brother and some friends. As I was leaving the course at the end of the day – with one of my old WA teammates, Ryan Campbell – I saw Cheryl, who had just arrived for a concert. I grabbed her arm and spun her around to face me. She had the most surprised look on her face. ‘I know you,’ I said, and she said the same. She was with her sister and some friends. There was a pregnant pause as we just stood there, staring and smiling at each other. Everything was in slow motion, until finally her sister coughed impatiently and some quick introductions were made. What were we to do? We didn’t want to go our separate ways, but neither did we wish to let our friends down and leave them. Eventually, Cheryl said, ‘Another time, perhaps?’

  ‘Really?’ I said. ‘You’ll go out with me?’

  And we did, the following Friday. We arranged to meet in South Perth, on the river foreshore, and go for a drink and a bite to eat. It was a beautiful sunset, and from the foreshore we could see that the lights were on at the WACA ground. Absent-mindedly, I said there must be a day-night game on, and Cheryl asked if I wanted to go.

  ‘Not really,’ I laughed. ‘Do you?’

  ‘Well, if I was ever going to go to the cricket, it may as well be with a cricketer,’ she replied. ‘Let’s go!’

  So we went to the cricket. We got to the members’ gate and were told Cheryl wouldn’t be allowed in, as the shoulder straps on her cocktail dress didn’t meet the regulation three-inch width. We went to the office and Cheryl was given a black wrap to put around her shoulders, which covered her stunning dress. But she took it like a trooper, and finally we made our way into the stadium.

  All the boys from the Willetton grade club were there, and she slotted right in, talking to all of them and enjoying their company. She is exactly what I need, I thought. Someone who can stand on her own two feet and fit in. Things developed from there, and soon we were inseparable. I hate being away from her for extended periods. Thank goodness for Skype.

  Right at the start of our relationship, Cheryl discovered I was a troubled soul. She came around to my house one time and found all these videos and DVDs of my matches. She wanted to watch one but I told her, ‘Put it away. I don’t even want to know about it.’ I had absolutely no interest in watching any game I’d been involved in. It was a painful reminder of the successes I’d had in the past; now I had to focus on the future, which wasn’t so rosy.

  I had a couple of ideas about what I wanted to do, but no action plan. Cheryl helped me define my strategy, and shape my ideas into projects with actions. She quickly arranged a photo shoot for me, so we could create a profile for future marketing campaigns, as well as a website. Things were starting to happen, and I was excited.

  Cheryl had no interest in cricket before meeting me, she told me, although it had always been the happy background noise of her life. Her nanna had never missed a game; she even scoured the paper to keep up with grade cricket in Perth. She always had the TV on in the lounge room and the radio blaring in the kitchen, ensuring she didn’t miss a single ball of any match, even while making a cup of tea. When I talked to Cheryl about my background, I started to feel drawn towards the game again.

  It was around this time that my old clubmates from Williams got in contact. The boys from the bush said that one of their best players, ‘Rocket’ Rodney Ford, who was captain of the Australian Country XI, had to go back to the farm and couldn’t play in Country Week in January 2011. As they were short a player, they wondered if I might have a run with them.

  After being reassured that I wouldn’t be taking anyone else’s position, I said, ‘Let’s ring the WACA and see if they’ll let me fill in.’ The WACA said it was fine; because I hadn’t played for three years, I couldn’t be thought of as an unfair ring-in.

 

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