A lot was made of me kissing the white wristband Brooke had given me. ‘Be strong, Daddy,’ she said, when a tabloid newspaper printed more accusations against me by a woman just a day or two after the family arrived from Australia in the build-up to the Lord’s Test. By then, my marriage to Simone was all but over, not that we had told the kids. Therefore the shock of this story was exaggerated. Simone took them back home immediately, like a couple of days later, which made the tour painful for me off the field.
It’s one of the reasons I’m especially proud of my performances over all the five Tests. And I was even more proud of Brooke, who was seven, going on eight, and old enough to understand that things weren’t good for her mum and me. Once the family was back in Oz, I spoke to the kids pretty much every day on the phone, and when I raised my arms to thank the crowd for their applause, I kissed the wristband as an open message of thanks and love to Brooke. Printed on it was the word ‘Strength’ – pretty good from a seven-year-old.
Not even that wristband could get me a hundred in a Test match, though. I holed out to deep square-leg hooking at Simon Jones. Four years earlier, I was one short when I slog/swept Dan Vettori to deep mid-wicket in Perth; this time, at Old Trafford, I still had to get 10 more. You’d think I’d have taken it a bit easy in the 90s, but that’s not how I roll. Once adrenaline kicks in, the native instinct to attack takes over. (I twice made 86s, out hooking Wasim Akram at the Gabba, and LBW to Kumble in Adelaide playing all round a straight ball in an attempt to steal the strike!)
It’s well known that we drew the game, nine down, thanks to a special innings by Punter. Those lucky enough to have tickets spent the day on the edge of their seats after 10,000 more had lined the streets outside the ground begging for a way to get in.
Briefly, Punter had looked like he might win it on his own, but more than 400 in the last innings of a Test match is exactly that, more than 400, and usually well out of reach. I hung on for an hour and 40 minutes with him, and hope remained while Ricky remained.
He was eventually caught down the leg-side by Geraint Jones off a Harmison short ball – echoes of Edgbaston once more – after batting for nearly seven hours. Binga was good again, batting really bravely for 45 minutes till the end, and, incredibly, so was the Pigeon, who survived an unlikely nine balls in the final 17 minutes of the match. Our dressing-room was a relieved place, though the smiles and handshakes on the balcony prompted Vaughan to get his guys together and say, ‘Look, the mighty Aussies are celebrating a draw with England. We’ve got them now.’ Not a bad team talk that.
Those balcony smiles of ours hid an increasingly moody attitude. We weren’t playing as well as we should or could, and it was niggling away at us. You could say the boot was on the other foot and the challenge was to drag ourselves back into the series with better cricket.
On the bus on the way back to the hotel after the game, John Buchanan called a team meeting. I was like, ‘Oh no, what’s he going to say now?’
We collected in the team room and he started with an obvious line, something like, ‘We didn’t play very well again this game.’
Yep, true, Buck.
Then he said, ‘But why didn’t we play well?’
Maybe you tell us, Buck. So he did. It was along the lines of ‘I don’t think you blokes care enough and, playing like you are, I don’t think you’re worthy of wearing the baggy green cap.’
I could sense the rage bubbling in the room and could feel it burning inside me, but I waited for the captain, anyone, to say something. Everyone sat there quietly, heads down, no-one willing to get involved.
I thought, ‘To hell with this,’ stood up and said, ‘Buck, don’t you ever tell me I don’t care enough and that I’m not worthy of wearing the baggy green cap. I’ve busted my b***s for a long time, so has everyone else in this room, so how about we just play and you keep your thoughts to yourself.’
McGrath said, ‘I’m with Warney.’ Magilla said, ‘I’m with Warney too.’ Ricky was like, ‘Hey, hey, alright, calm down, you blokes.’ I said, ‘F*** this meeting, I’m not taking this s**t from him,’ and started to walk out.
There is no-one who can say I’m not worthy of the baggy green – no-one. John Buchanan would have no idea how much blood and sweat I’ve put in, never mind the tears, especially on that tour. That’s not just me either, it’s all the guys. We’ve all busted our guts and given it everything. Punter said, ‘Hey, let’s calm down.’ But I had mentally gone. ‘This meeting is over, Punt,’ I said, and was out of there. Buck never really understood when to make a point and when not. It was like he couldn’t judge the moment. He thought he knew us but he didn’t. And that was proved time and time again with these ridiculous meetings.
Coaches
Here is the thing with coaches. They’re an integral part of the game in first-class cricket, second XI cricket, age groups, development programs, all those areas. Basically, at every level of the game beneath international cricket, because by the time you play for your country, you should know the mechanics of what you’re doing and you should know yourself. Having said that, I know how valuable it is to have someone to talk to, like Terry Jenner. So, as far as I’m concerned, the role is less coaching than mentoring and guiding – a job the manager should be able to do.
The power of the mind and the intricacies of tactics are things you find out about along the way. Simmo was the best, then Greg Shipperd. I rate Trevor Bayliss and Darren Berry too. They all know every aspect and detail of cricket and had relevant things to offer. I had the impression that was the case with Duncan Fletcher for England, who the England boys said was very good too. Whoever it is should be in the background and allowing the captain to run the team.
Excerpted with permission from No Spin: Shane Warne – My Autobiography, by Shane Warne (with Mark Nicholas).
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