The wrong un, p.8
The Wrong 'Un, page 8
I went back to the farm and talked to Dad. ‘That’s it,’ I told him. ‘I’m not doing it anymore.’
Dad and I actually went looking for some extra land to buy, so I could start my life as a farmer. Then I received a letter saying I had been picked for the West Australian Colts squad. Despite this, I told my parents I still wasn’t keen to return to Perth. I was sick of city life and preferred the country. And I’d had enough of being disappointed.
Mum wasn’t going to let me give up that easily. She knew how long I had fantasised about playing first-class cricket, not to mention the endless hours we’d spent in the nets, and travelling to and from Perth. She pushed me to reconsider.
Mum was always good like that. Every time I was down, she’d get on my back, psyching me up and making me feel better. ‘Don’t give up,’ she kept telling me. ‘Don’t give up.’ Sometimes I didn’t appreciate this, because I was young and wanted to live my own life.
Dad also started getting into me. He told me making the Colts squad was a big step, and I shouldn’t squander that. ‘You can’t keep travelling the way you are,’ he said. ‘Go and give it a good go.’
I said I would try. But if I hadn’t made the state team by Christmas, I told them, I’d be coming home – for good.
*
Selected as an opening batsman for the Colts, I was given two matches in November and December of 1993 to prove I was of first-class standard. I was picked to play against the South Australian Second XI in a four-day game in Adelaide, and that was followed by a match against the New South Wales Colts team in Sydney.
The WA Colts team was formidable: it included Mike Hussey, Stuart MacGill and Simon Katich. Hussey and I opened the batting against South Australia, where we came up against Jason Gillespie. I wasn’t too bothered by ‘Dizzy’, although he bowled Hussey in our first innings. Gillespie was wearing an enormous bandanna, and during our second dig he was going on and on about how he was going to be playing for Australia within two years.
‘That was military medium,’ I said to Huss, ‘and he thinks he is going to play for play for Australia in two years’ time? There’s absolutely no way he’s going to be playing for Australia.’
Some judge I was. Two or three years later, Gillespie was indeed playing for Australia, and he later bowled one of the quickest spells I’ve ever seen at the WACA. I couldn’t believe how someone who had been bowling military medium could suddenly have become one of the quickest bowlers in the world.
I developed a reputation at the Colts for being a very hard trainer. I would come to cricket training after a full week on the wharves absolutely knackered, but I would still train the house down. I was always the fittest runner on the track. I was religious about my training and would get a bit worked up if it wasn’t 100 per cent right.
After scoring 40 in each innings at Adelaide, I felt pretty comfortable against New South Wales, scoring 38 and 87. Four reasonable innings, and no failures. I thought I was a chance to get a state call-up. My Christmas deadline still beckoned. Would 205 runs in four innings for the Colts side be enough?
Then I discovered why I had been ignored for so long: my card had been marked.
We were flying back from New South Wales, and I was sitting next to the team manager. ‘You’re a bit different to what we thought at the WACA,’ he told me out of the blue.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, we all thought you were an alcoholic and a drug addict.’
‘How the hell did you come to that conclusion?’
‘Because every time the selectors are at the club, you’re on the turps.’
I was upset to hear this but I composed myself. Admittedly, I was on the turps pretty often. And I knew I had a reputation from Fremantle, what with my nude act when singing the team song. I understood that was not to everyone’s liking.
But I also wanted to defend myself, so I explained that my wild behaviour only ever came after matches, not in the lead-up. I asked if the selectors had taken note of the fact I never had a single drink the night before a game, and I was always pretty well prepared. The manager himself seemed fairly relaxed about it.
After that chat, I became very conscious of my image. Acting the way I had at Fremantle was clearly not okay if I wanted to move to the higher levels. I had to restrain myself a bit. I was confused about the right and wrong ways to act off the field: the way you celebrate, what you should do when you go out and so on. But I told myself I had to be more careful, and not put myself in a situation where I might get out of control. My legendary Fremantle striptease act was now definitely off the agenda.
I was now nearly 23 years old, and I was pretty sure I’d be heading home to the farm in January, to move on with my life as a farmer. The only cricket I’d play would be at Tarwonga. Then I received a telephone call from one of the best-known figures in West Australian cricket, state selector Kevin Gartrell. I had met him some years earlier at a training camp I had attended at Guildford, where he had shown an interest in me.
A pretty straightforward character, Gartrell got right to the point. ‘Hoggy, I wanted to ask you if you think you’re ready to play first-class cricket for WA.’
‘F—en’ oath, Garty. I’d give my left nut for a chance to represent WA,’ I said. ‘And that’s a stupid question to ask a country lad – you know we’re up for any challenge, mate. The harder, the better.’
‘Well, I’ll see you out at training at the Nedlands cricket ground on the 18th of January, at 4.30 p.m. sharp.’
‘I’ll be there at 3.30 p.m. sharp,’ I said.
‘I believe in you, Hoggy,’ Gartrell said, before hanging up.
Buying another farm was put on hold, even when I won $15,000 on the Lotto numbers one night. Mum wanted me to use my winnings to buy a block of land in Mandurah. If I’d done that, it would probably be worth around $800,000 now. Instead I bought a Mazda 929, which cost me $14,000. It looked like a spaceship, and within a few weeks I had already crashed it. Whenever I took my car back to Williams, all the blokes would go for a drive and flog it. So much for using my Lotto winnings wisely.
Spaceship at the ready, I happily went back to work on the Fremantle wharfs, and prepared for my big moment at the Nedlands cricket ground.
BEHIND THE SCENES
Greg Hogg was very worried when he saw Brad burning the candle at both ends, working hard, partying hard and playing cricket in Perth.
I think the most difficult time for us as parents was when he was crutching in the area and then heading off to Perth several times a week for training. That meant long days and late nights. He wouldn’t get home until around 11.30 p.m., and when he was staying at our house we would wait up until he got back. We wouldn’t go to sleep until we heard him coming through our front gate.
Tim Macnamara had his moments in grade cricket, but soon drifted off, focusing more on university and business opportunities.
It really irked quite a number of young country players [that] they were constantly overlooked for state trials. We got forgotten at times. Maybe it was also a hindrance [that] we were so technically correct, and not as flashy as some other city players, who could compile runs quickly.
There wasn’t a great deal of difference in our cricket skill levels, but I never had the aspiration to go further. Brad did. He once told me he had written a letter in which he said he wanted to play cricket for Australia, and I told him I wanted to be the Prime Minister of Australia.
You had an inkling he would get there, because he was so committed. In later years, he would often ask me why I didn’t want to play professional sport. I told him that there are 12 people in Australia who get to play for the Test team, and that’s a small few. The commitment to make the state side is significant, let alone the Australian team. You really had to be focused. And Brad had that focus.
When I played grade cricket, and was being told that I had to get to the game at 9 a.m. even though the game didn’t start until 11, to do laps, fielding, have a hit – I knew that wasn’t for me. I was from the bush. I’d roll up at the game, get my gear on, and just get out there and do what I was good at. I only wanted to play the game when it was on, and not beforehand. I wanted to create some sort of security in my life, and for me the risk attached to becoming a professional sportsman was far too great.
Maybe it had something to do with having parents who were farmers. We watched them work so tough and hard for very little. I wanted something behind me. But to his credit, Brad kept at it. His drive has always been exceptional.
Wayne Copeland often opened the batting with Brad at Fremantle, and he witnessed his teammate’s many moods.
We were playing in a second-grade game for Fremantle, and he was busting to get into the firsts. In those days he was just another player, a country kid who had been to England, but [he] had this deep, burning ambition to play at the highest level. We were playing South Perth, and the England batsman Robin Smith was using the game as a practice on his way to joining the Test team in the Caribbean. I got out, and then Brad got out, and he was really, really emotional. In the dressing room, he was in tears.
I said to him, ‘Hoggy, what’s going on?’
He started going on about how his mum and dad were doing it tough on the farm. They had provided him with all the trimmings of life, and he was afforded the opportunity to play with a grade club, and it was weighing heavily on his mind.
I thought to myself, Toughen up, mate.
He must have sorted himself out, because later that year he made the A-grade team that won the premiership.
Gavin Brown, who later became a close friend of Brad’s, was opening the bowling for Willetton against Melville.
The first time I saw Brad was when he was a young, skinny kid opening the batting with Graeme Wood for Melville. Wood was their star batsman, following a long Test career, so we knew we had to get him early. So we set a trap. Wood would always look for a single at the end of the over, because he was a master of farming the strike. So it was probably six overs before Hoggy faced a ball.
Early on, I hit Wood in the ribs. Hoggy came up the wicket and looked really concerned. I didn’t know who he was, but I turned around, peered at him and said, ‘You’re next.’
Then I hit him a couple of times and he copped it. You just knew he had been brought up in the country because he was such a hard nut. He might have made 30 odd, but didn’t give his wicket away, and didn’t back away. Everyone underestimated Hoggy as a batsman. But he was a class batsman. A jovial kid who was hard as nails.
7.
WET BEHIND THE EARS … AND UP FRONT
‘Hogg’s promotion to the WA side is unusual in these times when almost every new first-class player throughout the country has graduated via the AIS Cricket Academy in Adelaide, a manicured, polished and self-possessed performer. Hogg is different, a cheerful, uncomplicated young man from the bush.’
Ken Casellas, writing in the West Australian
For many cricketers, their initial first-class match is often a case of keeping your head down, staying out of the way of the senior stars and just doing what you’re told. A time for finding your feet. In my case, that was true, but I would also undergo a transformation that would be life-changing. I would discover an aspect of my game that would prolong my career for several decades.
Chosen as a middle-order batsman for Western Australia’s trip to Sydney to play the Shield leaders, New South Wales, in early February 1994, I found myself surrounded by luminaries, including eight Test representatives. I felt completely out of my depth. I was in the company of numerous experienced, hard-headed cricketers – men such as Mike Veletta, Damien Martyn, Tom Moody, Tim Zoehrer, Brendon Julian and Jo Angel – but at least there were two familiar faces in Geoff Marsh and Justin Langer.
The group wasn’t exactly buoyant; many of them had just missed selection in the 15-man Australian squad touring South Africa for a three-Test series the following week. Not one West Australian made it. So my new teammates either had something to prove in Sydney or were keen to drown their sorrows.
To ease me in, the team manager, Tony Mann, roomed me with my hero from Wandering, who was captain for this match. That settled me a bit, but I couldn’t stop thinking that it was too much, too soon. I was so fearful of embarrassing myself, my club and – most frighteningly – my family, who had sacrificed so much for me. They all believed in me, but I wasn’t so sure.
My nerves weren’t helped when the local Channel Ten television crew turned up to interview me at work, on the weighbridge at CBH. They wanted a colour piece on the kid from the bush who had made the big time. For me it was a rabbit-in-the-headlights moment, and I couldn’t speak. I’d had no media training and didn’t know what I should say. It was as if my mouth wouldn’t work. Every third word was ‘um’ or ‘ah’. It was embarrassing.
I was still feeling pretty unsettled when I joined my teammates at Perth airport. They tried to make me welcome but I knew they wouldn’t stand for too much nonsense from someone they didn’t know if they could trust. I decided that keeping my mouth shut would be a wise policy.
After we arrived in Sydney, my first task was to attend the team dinner, held in Kings Cross. It was two nights before the start of the game and I was absolutely shitting myself about how I was going to fit into this team. Virtually every one of these guys had played for an Australian team – except me. I was feeling very self-conscious – even more like a hick than usual.
We got to the dining room, and I discovered I’d been placed at the head of the table. That meant I was at the bottom of the team’s pecking order, and I knew I had to watch my step. Making matters even worse, I was sitting next to Tim Zoehrer.
To put it succinctly, I couldn’t stand the bloke, because of what he had done several years earlier when he was invited to Narrogin to conduct a cricket camp for the best juniors in the area. I was one of those juniors and had eagerly looked forward to the day. He was meant to be there at 9 a.m. but he arrived three hours late. Then he told one of the parents he had to go and get some lunch in town because he was starving. He eventually got back to the nets about half an hour later.
Then he sat on a 12-gallon drum at the top of the nets, giving a bit of advice here and there. I went in to bat, and he must have thought I had a bit of talent because he decided to have a bowl at me.
Mum was watching from behind the net and could tell I was pretty narked off. I looked at her and she warned me: ‘Don’t you dare, Bradley.’
That didn’t stop me. The first ball Zoehrer bowled to me, I charged down the wicket and belted it as hard as I could, right at him. I was so pissed off. The ball hit the machinery shed next door.
That had been a while ago, but I hadn’t forgotten.
The restaurant owner came out at one point and asked us if we could autograph a bat for him. I did my signature at the bottom of the bat, just like I did when signing cheques: ‘G.B. Hogg’.
‘What the hell is that?’ Zoehrer asked.
So I spent the next half-hour nervously trying to work out how my autograph should be; I had no idea how you were supposed to sign a bat or an autograph book. The next time I looked up, I realised with a shock how pissed some of the players had become. I still remembered what the Colts manager had said to me so I had avoided all booze over dinner, only having a couple of soft drinks.
The next morning we were off to the Sydney Cricket Ground for a net session. Towards the end, I was bowling some medium-pacers to Geoff Marsh. There was a little ridge on the practice wicket and I was trying to use it. I managed to hit Geoff on the body and felt pretty happy with myself; it was like we were having an old-fashioned Tarwonga–Wandering battle.
Tony Mann looked a bit concerned, though. ‘If you want to have a future in WA cricket you’re going to have to look after the captain better than that,’ he told me quietly. ‘It might be worth calming down a bit, mate. What about trying some chinamen instead?’ Tony said that David ‘Freddy’ Freedman, who bowled left-arm wrist spin, would be playing for New South Wales the next day, and it would be good if the WA batsmen had a bit of practice facing something similar.
I bowled some leggies to Geoff, and landed them well. Then Damien Martyn had a bat, and Tony suggested I bowl him a few wrong ’uns, deliveries that turned away from the right-hander.
‘How do you do that?’ I asked.
Tony showed me, flicking the ball out from behind his wrist. He didn’t show me how to grip the ball, just the action. Again, I landed them instantly. I was intrigued, and kept bowling them in the nets for a bit of fun.
Tony Mann turned out to be an important early mentor for me. The former Test all-rounder, who for many years was an integral member of the West Australian cricket hierarchy, pushed me to pursue the art of spin bowling. It would make me different, he said, and could become my meal ticket. I listened because I knew my first state team manager knew what he was talking about.
The son of Jack Mann, a wine-grower and passionate cricketer from the Swan Valley, Tony had been a very capable legspinner himself. He enjoyed flighting the ball to deceive opponents, and he was also a resilient batsman. Mann had played in the first four Tests of the 1977–78 Australia–India series as part of the new-look Australian team led by Bob Simpson, who had been lured out of retirement after the core of the country’s talent had defected to World Series Cricket. Mann’s main claim to fame was scoring a Test century after coming in as a nightwatchman.
In Perth, Mann was a deeply admired cricketer. He’d had numerous big moments in the Sheffield Shield, with both bat and ball, helping to establish Western Australia as an interstate power. Nicknamed ‘Rocket’, Mann learnt how to bowl leggies on the back verandah of his family’s Swan Valley property.
