Australia

by Ray Mambry

I was married quite young, in 1978 (I was just 20) and with the happy arrival shortly thereafter of the reason for the marriage, the course of my younger life was pretty well mapped out for the next 13 years. During that time I embraced married life as far as I could and arguably would. I was also now obliged to take seriously a dullish job that I was fiddling about with in insurance, in order to provide a regular income to support us all. When I reflect upon this time, had that 13 years not required it, the career in insurance would not have survived the period. 

During that time that my brother was pursuing a far more interesting career. He was making television documentaries in all sorts of places around the globe, anywhere a marketable story was to be found and told. Whilst on his travels he took the opportunity, wherever possible, to watch cricket (preferably test matches – but not exclusively by any means). He would then share his adventures with me, in particular the cricket matches that he had seen and the stories these matches always seemed to generate. I listened enviously, vowing that one day I would make at least one similar journey, if at all possible trumping him by going somewhere that he had not.

Skip forward to summer 1991. I was still in insurance, still with the same company, and had been moved to London to work in the loftier climes of their Head Office with, as it transpired, far more odious people. The marriage had by then sadly failed, so time was my own for longer periods than before. Thus my mind returned to my brother’s cricket tales and it occurred to me that now was the ideal time to create my own stories.  

There was due to be a cricket world cup in Australia & New Zealand through February / March of 1992, so I resolved to go. 

The itinerary was also designed to include a round the World trip, with stop-offs at Hong Kong on the way to Australia, followed by San Francisco and New York on the way back. That is how I filled out the itinerary; but this tale is about Cricket and the Australian leg.

There was however a tricky hurdle to navigate. My Mother was Australian and consequently the country is festooned with relatives. I had been warned by both my elder siblings that she should not be told of my plans, otherwise trouble, or at the least interference, could only follow. So I followed that advice and started looking at flights, hotels dates and tickets as a single traveller. Nothing is destroyed so quickly as a not-so carefully laid plan and having explained my travel plans to my children and thence by them to my now ex-wife then afterwards via her to my mother, as they both still lived in Devon and remained close. The hare was running. 

I asked and doubtless pleaded with her at the time to leave me to make my own plans, to which, curiously, she agreed. So it was with horror that a distant relative, who I had never met, rang me over a crackling line not two days later to say that I was expected when I arrived in Sydney and which matches did I want to go to, as she knew her husband would want to sort them out.

Mother explained their sudden involvement by saying she wanted her far flung relatives to at least meet me, so over the course of the next few weeks compromises were struck from afar. I was granted the freedom to make my own arrangements outside of Sydney, where they lived, but for anything in Sydney I was at their mercy. This arrangement both helped and hindered me. Should any of the following narrative sound ungrateful, that is not the intention, but I do recall with the greatest clarity nearly 30 years later that my early planning was in vain.

I flew in from Hong Kong and was met by hosts Dave and Martha at Sydney airport. No sooner had I cleared customs and after the joy of the holiday so far, my arrangements and movements were no longer my own. They lived in a suburb of Sydney: the sort of neighbourhood that looked like it had been cribbed from the imaginations of the Simpsons cartoonists. I was shown around the house and steered by Dave into my bedroom, where he had kindly left me some bedtime reading on my pillow. The book told the story of the last Ashes series in 1989 which the Australians had won 4-0 in England, so it was easy to see how he viewed the sporting world and what was fair game for his new guest in his blinkered mind. Dave was also tee-total, so my Uncle Bert, who had visited the week before had left his own present in my bedroom – a bottle each of Gin and Whisky with the suggestion that they might help me in the ordeal that awaited me during my stay there. They did.

Sydney 26/2/92 Australia vs South Africa

Dave was a member of the New South Wales Cricket Club, whose Headquarters are at the Sydney Cricket Ground (SCG) so he had seats in the main members stand, right behind the bowler’s arm. He had sourced the tickets for all of my matches in Sydney on the strength of this membership. This was of course wonderful at face value but down the line there was a particular reckoning to be paid at each match played at the SCG. 

Come the day of this first game, he insisted on driving to the ground and exercised his member’s rights by turning up just before the start of the game. Had I had the choice, I would have arrived early to take in this magnificent ground and the wonderful atmosphere of the first game of the World Cup at the SCG.  Still beholden to Dave I took my seat next to him just as the first ball was being bowled. We were surrounded by fellow members who were, if not friends, then at least acquaintances of Dave and, as it turned out, they knew his idiosyncrasies well. Introductions were made; I could see them adjusting their mind-sets to an Englishman being in their midst. Dave, of course, was to take no drink during the whole of the match.

This was a significant match in that, quite apart from the fact that matches between the two sides are mostly feisty affairs, it was the game that welcomed South Africa back to the International One Day Cricket fold.  Gloriously, South Africa won the match with 13 balls to spare. Allan Donald did most of the damage with the ball and the top scorer for South Africa was Kepler Wessels who, ironically, had represented Australia as an opener for many years - indeed at a previous World Cup tournament. The loss aggravated my host, but not remotely as much as my inadvertent choice of beer did. I had lasted the first innings without refreshment, but as the day wore on and the evening drew in I went off in search of beer and returned with two cans of Tooheys. It was my sorry luck that Dave had been made redundant by the same brewery amidst much rancour and he took my choice of beer seriously amiss. He was all the more aggrieved by his neighbour’s sniggers – who all knew him and his long-held grievance towards the brewery. So what with this slight and the loss of the cricket it was a silent drive home and he retired both early and grumpily.

Melbourne 27/2/92 England vs West Indies

After the awkward end to the previous day’s entertainment, I was at last left to my own devices for the trip to Melbourne for a much anticipated visit to the MCG (Melbourne Cricket Ground) which at the time was the largest cricket ground in the world. I had long been transfixed by Ashes test matches played there, always starting on a Boxing Day in front of 90,000 partisan Aussie fans and famously as recently as 1987 England had actually won there. It was and is a ground you have to see.

I had booked a room at the Hyatt on Collins, which in itself is unremarkable except that from my window the MCG was perfectly framed and looked huge. I was also gratified to see that for the latest Australian Open tennis tournament (2021) this hotel was used to house many of the players who had to quarantine before the competition. The hotel was and clearly still is wonderful. 

It was another day/night match so after a quick meal it was a short walk to the ground. As I approached it, through a park, it loomed very round and very large. It was clear that as I got near the place the match was not going to be a sell-out. It was a feature of this World Cup that if a match did not involve one of the home teams (the tournament was co-hosted by New Zealand) it would be poorly attended by the local fans. Marry that fact with very few West Indian fans and the sheer size of the place, the cavernous ground was virtually empty. The England fans, sporting a shiny new name, The Barmy Army, were truly dwarfed but made an impressive noise nonetheless. 

England won the match comfortably, but also gave notice that night they were serious contenders for the cup. They used Ian Botham in what was then called the pinch-hitting rôle, at the top of the batting order – clearly with instructions to hit out from the very start. This tactic failed on the night, but was to pay dividends as the competition wore on. Not only did they have several other great batsmen, including the captain, Graham Gooch but the team was also well balanced, with a useful bowling attack led by Phillip DeFreitas. England prospered throughout the tournament and only failed at the final hurdle (ironically in Melbourne) but on this night they beat the West Indies by 6 wickets and I returned to my plush hotel in good spirits to enjoy watching the whole thing again on the TV highlights.

Brisbane 1/3/92 Australia vs India

They say that only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun, so how does that apply to an ersatz Englishman going out in Brisbane sun – he gets burnt that’s what. Read on. I had escaped again, at least for the precious hours of daylight. I flew up the NSW/ Queensland coast to Brisbane and in good time to find a spot on the grass hill that the Gabba then still boasted. It was searingly hot by 10.30 am before I got to the ground.  I was fully expecting the crowd to be partisan: this was Queensland after all. It was worse. The hill was full and largely drunk - for the present it was shared by both Australians and Indian fans. 

India fielded first, when the first Australian wicket fell cheaply the wildly cheering Indian fans were showered with full plastic glasses of beer. The accuracy was unerring and chilling to witness. The hapless Indians retreated to another less hostile area, but I got the picture, this was the Wooloongabba alright. I too relocated to a spot in limited shade at the very side of the hill and enjoyed a good game between two well matched teams. I had been given an Australian gold hat to wear, branded Australis, so I thought I blended in as a native. 

As the day wore on and the beer wore in, I must have uttered a few sentences to comment on proceedings. This caused real surprise amongst my neighbours – words to the effect of “are you a POM under that hat” became more and more insistent until I had to break cover. Explanation was made and challenged before confused acceptance bore in on my fellow fans. The issue that caused them most concern was that as an Englishman, why was I in Brisbane watching this game when on the same day England were playing Pakistan in far off Adelaide. My reasoning that I wanted to see a World Cup and not necessarily England was too much for my new friends to take in – so we all just drunk beer, enjoyed an Australian victory and I learnt the politics of when and when not to interrupt the game by watching them running on the dog track which skirted the boundary, when the urge or boredom took them.

The long arm of the relatives was then flexed. The price of my day’s freedom was to stay the night with one of my Mother’s relatives who was a Queensland circuit judge and he was everything you would expect such a holder of that job to be – conservative – of strong opinion and with firm views on the rights or lack of them, of the indigenous Australian peoples. The evening was not a meeting of minds. I made my excuses early the next morning, thanking providence for an early flight back to Sydney.

Sydney 4/3/92 India vs Pakistan

Back to the SCG for an unforgettable night. All the way back in England I had highlighted the fixture between India and Pakistan as a game at the World Cup that I just had to see. These games always have needle wherever they are played and especially so in the one day form of the game. The lack of interest locally was easily overtaken by the clamour for tickets from both sets of the Indian and Pakistani fans. Amusingly, Dave had sold his members tickets back to the club long before he knew I was coming over, so he had kindly arranged for me to watch the game from a corporate box hosted by, of all people, a brewery (not Tooheys, but VB).  I was warned that I would be in boozy company. As Australia were not involved he showed no interest whatsoever in such an iconic fixture. 

I had a wonderful time in the arms of some affable hosts and in his turn Bacchus. I particularly recall one amusing incident – when the hot buffet food arrived the Aussie men fell on it as one. When I gently inquired if we should not ask the two lady guests if they might like some buffet first the host's booming voice rang out “ the pom wants to know if you two Sheilas would like some tucker first!“ That is word perfect, I have never been able to forget it – gratifyingly, they did. India won the game quite easily, with the magical Sachin Tedulkar playing a leading role with the bat. It was a memorable occasion, when you watched the game from the outside seating area of the box the sheer noise and exuberance of both sets of fans, sticks fast in the memory. I made my own way back on public transport to South Strathfield, which proved to be a good experience to have in the bank.

Sydney 5/3/92 Australia vs England.

Given Dave’s partisan support of Australia this was always going to be an interesting evening – quite apart from the long history between the two teams. It was all the more important as Australia were having a poor tournament as co-hosts and needed to win the match to stay in the tournament. England by contrast had fared well being virtually assured of a place in the semi-finals before a ball was bowled. The ground was sold out and a large English group of the Barmy Army posted on the hill lent noisy support to England, much to the confusion of the Australians generally, who were then not used to this level of support for visiting teams and especially the old enemy.

So there we were in Dave’s hallowed member’s seats, surrounded by his equally partisan mates and the stuff of dreams was duly served up before me under the lights of the SCG. England trounced the Australians. Having won the toss, the hosts were bowled out for 171, which England knocked off for the loss of only 2 wickets and with nearly 10 overs to spare. Ian Botham had a wonderful match with both bat and ball, taking the man of the match award. I am for ever glad to have witnessed that at the spiritual home of Australian cricket. No doubt Botham was quite pleased too.

Dave took these events badly. He amazed me by hitting me on the leg with the fall of each Australian wicket, not with a tap but a punch. That was just amusing, what was not so amusing was his decision to leave the match when it became clear what the result was going to be. I can’t remember exactly when in the match he announced this, but he genuinely expected me to go home with him. I gently explained that I had not travelled half way around the world to see this of all matches, only to leave before the end and with England winning. He played the “I am your host” card, to no effect, then the “you don’t know how to get home” line – easily answered by my journey home of the previous evening. In the end it was his friends and fellow members who shamed him into keeping me company to the bitter end – wickedly, I insisted on seeing Ian Botham get his man of the match award. What with this slight and the way the game was lost it was another silent drive home. Curiously, he did not stay up for a post-match post mortem but I found the highlights on their TV and tucked into Uncle Bert’s supplies.

So much for the Cricket, I was now able to regale or bore my brother with all of these tales. I was pleased because at the time he had never seen Cricket in Australia. He corrected that within two years. I had been to five very good and different matches, seeing England win twice. I got a real flavour of a Cricket World Cup being played in Australia for the first time. True, I was overly fussed by Dave & Martha, but they did look after me with well-placed kindness and found me good match tickets whilst in Sydney. Between matches we all took a drive down to Canberra to see my Uncle Bert where he lived. That was an experience - I can never forget Bert’s intoxicated driving and his entreaties for me not to “tell Sis” of his adventures. It was interesting to discover that the 9 hour drive each way was not considered far; we saw all sorts of local wildlife on the road and a generous slice of rural Australia. Bert’s worries about his sister’s perceptions was due to the fact that she was due in Sydney the next week. Thus I had the real pleasure of being able to spend some time with my mother in her home town and country.

When I think back to 1992, I wish that I had been able to explore Sydney, indeed more of Australia on my own terms but there is much to be said for not having to think and just going with the flow. After all, San Francisco and New York awaited - with not a relative in sight.