In this extract from his new book, Steve Waugh explains his strategy of mental disintegration
IN this extract from his new book, former Australia captain Steve Waugh explains the thought process behind his mental disintegration strategy.
THE EYES HAVE IT
'In international competition everyone is talented and fit and has natural ability, but the one who wins is the one who can focus on the job at hand and play the mind game the best.'
John Bertrand
The eyes cannot hide fear. In the confined space of a cricket ground, where a player is often isolated and exposed, no amount of prancing, preening or dialogue can rescue an intimidated cricketer once he's shown his vulnerability. To have the antennae to detect such anxiety is a vital mechanism for any player to possess, but more so for the captain, who can tailor his or her tactics accordingly, to capitalise on the situation.
Shane Warne owned the headspace of Daryll Cullinan, one of South Africa's better batsmen of the 1990s, and they both knew it. Every time Cullinan made his way to the crease when the ball was in Shane's sizeable grasp, we could see him shrinking both mentally and physically with each painstaking step, as if the inevitable guillotine was hovering above. It was always just a matter of time.
Often, the longer his agony continued, the more benefit we derived from it as a team. Having a teammate slowly succumb while being exposed to the point of humiliation can strike at the heart of a team and rupture its conviction. With each awkward play-and-miss or mistimed stroke, we could almost feel Daryll's demons being channelled directly to his team's viewing area, where it would infect each South African player as if it were a deadly virus.
Likewise, when we were playing England, Glenn McGrath's name only had to be on the team list to have Mike Atherton's scalp on his belt, while Atherton's teammate Graeme Hick dissolved in the menacing presence of Merv Hughes.
In both cases, the batsmen's body language betrayed their unease as they tried to withstand their nemesis. They weren't so much afraid of being struck or injured, just petrified of getting out. They were playing the man and not the ball.
The unmasking of the West Indies' Courtney Walsh by McGrath was a precursor to Australia becoming the world's No. 1 cricket team in the 1990s. After a decade and a half of total dominance by the Windies fast bowlers we decided it was time to fight fi re with fi re and return the short-pitch bumper barrage back at their lower order.
The message we wanted to send was clear: we were now going to intimidate and not be dominated. This tactic certainly caught their bowlers off guard and for someone like Walsh, whose competency with the blade was mediocre at best, it was threatening and uncomfortable.
The instant he broke into an ungainly jig around the crease, smiling nervously, eyes wide open, after a searing bouncer narrowly missed the grille of his helmet, we sensed the mood of the battle had changed. Suddenly, we were in the driver's seat. The roles had been reversed. We liked our new position of authority.
Much like the invincible Windies team of the 1980s, the Australian team went on to dominate world cricket for a decade. In the middle of this run, in 2001-02, South Africa arrived in Australia with lofty ambitions to dethrone us and started their campaign by attempting to unsettle us with taunts that our squad was too old and lacked the necessary drive to stay at the top. Granted, our average age hovered around 30, but to me that simply meant we were battle-hardened and rich in experience. We remained eager for a challenge. I always found the age issue in high-level cricket to be a puzzling one, because it often takes seven to ten years of international exposure for a player to be totally at ease with his game and the pressures that accompany elite sport. Just when that man feels like he belongs, the critics campaign for change. It often defies logic. Our three leading bowlers - Warne, McGrath and Jason Gillespie - had all been around for a few years, but to suggest they were slackening off at all was so far from reality, and while we respected the South Africans we were keen not just to put them in their place but to have them leave Australia with some mental scarring for future battles.
In my mind, the ideal way to do this was to target the leader of their pack. This is often the captain, for he is the pulse of the team. The attitude and character of the unit are a reflection of his values.
The West Indies made a habit of attacking the opposing skipper. On this occasion, however, South Africa had a young tearaway quick who had a reputation for throwing his weight around with some high-quality hostile bowling. He'd bowled with purpose against us in three one-day internationals in South Africa in April 2000 and impressed with his pace and fi re when we batted first in the opening Test in Adelaide.
Blond-headed Nantie Hayward enjoyed dishing out the short stuff; I was keen to see if he was up for a dose of his own medicine.
As luck would have it, or perhaps fate, Hayward arrived at the crease at the end of South Africa's first innings to be greeted by our third pace bowler, the quickest of them all, Brett Lee, who was bowling about 150 kmph and breathing fire.
My instructions to Brett were simple: 'Give him a couple of Short ones to see if he likes it.' Not wanting to displease his captain, Brett's first bouncer was perfectly executed, and it certainly gained Hayward's attention.
The second was just as fiery, and it had the No. 11 backpedalling away to square-leg to ensure his wellbeing. I now had two options as captain. Should I instruct Brett to bowl at the stumps and take an easy wicket, or should I inflict further mental interrogation on their bowling spearhead by requesting a bit more 'chin music'?
I knew the whole South African team would be watching, as they were getting ready to come out and field at the fall of the innings' final wicket. To me, this was a golden opportunity to confirm our status as the dominant team in this series and issue a clear statement of intent, so I told Brett to direct the next bumper a couple of feet outside the batsman's leg stump.
The result was almost comical, as Hayward, fearing for his safety, retreated off the mown pitch and ended up metres away on the adjoining strip. The point had been made. Through the grille of his helmet, I saw a man totally rattled, unable or unwilling to take a few deep breaths and regain focus, so he could help his team get its first-innings total reasonably close to ours.
While it was a little disconcerting to see an international cricketer unable to stand his ground, the duel for the No. 1 title can often hinge on moments such as these. Hayward should have followed the example set by McGrath, a genuine tailender who never once backed away. Our man would rather have taken a blow to the body than give in to his obvious lack of natural talent with a bat in hand.
Hayward only bowled in one more innings in the series, taking 2-109 in our ten-wicket victory in Melbourne and not playing in Sydney. He hardly appeared in Test cricket again. We won all three Tests by big margins and then went to South Africa and won decisively on their turf.
I know these wins didn't happen just because of what we did on that afternoon in Adelaide, but perhaps the wounds we opened and the subsequent scarring did take a long time to heal.
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