Dean Jones: Full face of the bat for cricket and life

Dean Jones in full flow during the 1987 World Cup in India. Picture: Getty Images

Dean Mervyn Jones gave cricket and life the full face. What an example of how you do something, anything and everything being more memorable than what you do. Me and all my ratbag teenage mates knew County bats were the worst, the absolute pits, the manufacturers seemingly forgetting to insert a middle or any form of sweet spot — but we bought three clunky County blades for our club kit simply because DM Jones was flashing one round for Australia.

You could debate what was more impressive about his legendary double-century in the 1986 tied Test against India, the one that made his captain, Allan Border, think, “My God, I’ve killed him”. The fact he batted for eight hours in 40-degree Indian heat, a particularly suffocating form of heat, with 80 per cent humidity, and a severe stench from a dirty canal circling the ground, and the exclusively concrete MA Chidambaram Stadium radiating even more glare and furnace-like heat, to make 210 while consistently vomiting on the field and involuntarily pissing his pants … or the fact he did it with a County. He would have made 300 if he borrowed a Slazenger or one of Allan Border’s Duncan Fearnleys.

Dean Jones bats against India in Madras in 1986.

I called DM Jones once for a quick interview when I was a full-time cricket writer. About an hour later, after a chat he kept rattling along like a run-a-ball hundred, probably sensing I was an overawed young rookie, he asked, “Do you have everything you need for your story?” I thought that was spectacularly kind of him. In the big things — World Cup finals and so forth — and the little things, he seemed willing to give it the full face.

Madras is no more, replaced by Chennai. Jones is no more, replaced by no one. There were classics and calamities in his career. His highlights and bloopers reels would both be worth a look when you raise a glass for a good ’un. Bravo for what he did, and a double bravo for how he did it. The predatory yet debonair batsmanship and fielding was ahead of its time. His was T20 batting and fielding when T20 batting and fielding did not exist. He was a cricketer and individual ahead of his time before he died before time. He would have been a T20 genius if he had the chance to let rip. What a crying shame, as Justin Langer revealed on Friday, that he was about to join Australia’s T20 coaching set-up.

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They reckon when he was a kid at Carlton in Victoria, he used to stand in the nets, in his shorts, and holler, “Bowl to me!” He was like that in adulthood, boyishly enthusiastic. There was no straight drive like a Jones straight drive. That was the fullest of full faces. He turned ones into twos, and twos into threes, revolutionising running between wickets. He knew how to occupy a crease, a dressing room and a bar for the duration. Fifty-nine years of age? What a sprightly knock. He had his stinks, of course. Just this year, he wanted his name removed from Cricket Victoria’s one-day player-of-the-year award. He rescinded the life membership he received alongside Shane Warne, Graham Yallop, Ian Redpath and Sharon Tredrea in 2011. What a shame it came to that. Stories for another day. Perhaps tales to be taken to the grave.

There’s insufficient room on this page to list all of DM Jones’s classics and clangers. Highlights that deserve 1000 words of their own include his Test 216 against a fearsome West Indian pace attack of Malcolm Marshall, Patrick Patterson, Curtly Ambrose and Courtney Walsh at Adelaide Oval in 1989. His superb 1989 Ashes series against England, 566 runs at 70.75, an underrated contribution behind the headline-grabbing acts of Mark Taylor and a young Steve Waugh. His massive contribution to the 1986 World Cup triumph: 314 runs at 44.85 before he was shrewd and quick enough to grab a stump when every Australian player was after one. His twin hundreds against supreme Pakistan speedsters Wasim Akram, Waqar Younis and Imran Khan, plus leg-spinner Mushtaq Ahmed, at Adelaide in 1990. There was a lesser yet still meaningful occasion six years later, straight after his controversial omission from Australia’s World Cup squad. He played against Australia for a World XI at the MCG and made a hundred that said in no uncertain terms, get that up ya. He received an ovation that made the walls shake. If the people and not the panel chose Australian sides, Jones would have played more than 52 Tests.

Clangers?

His run-out after being bowled by a Walsh no-ball in the West Indies in 1991. Unaware of the umpire’s call, he started trudging off despite Border screaming at him, get back! Carl Hooper threw down his middle stump, no credit to Hooper there. Having hit the ball into his pad against India at the MCG in 1991, about to be caught because the ball was jammed between his pad and leg, he flicked it away with his hand. No credit to Jones there, he should have been given out, handled ball. Almost comical was the aftermath to him getting Ambrose to remove his sweatbands during an SCG ODI in 1993. DM Jones always full of bluff and bluster and brilliance and a bit of cheeky bullshit, but this was a red rag to the wrong bull. Ambrose would recall, “I thought it a strange request! I told myself, I’m going to rough him up. I got five wickets and Australia lost.” Jones would later say, “His next three deliveries were the fastest you’ll ever see in your life.” Grinning broadly, he said: “OK, I might have made a mistake.”

Highlights? Let’s go with these

1. The Madras 210. Five-hundred-and-two minutes. 27 fours. Two sixes. Umpteen vomits. Involuntarily and repeatedly pissing his pants. No memory of anything past 120. He had prepared for the Indian series by paying his own way to pick the brains of Ian Chappell in Sydney. How to play the spinners? Chappell gave him a thousand beers and one basic tip. Use your feet, was the guts of it. A month into the India tour, Jones was unsure of his selection. It was him or Mike Veletta for Madras. A 50/50 call. Captain Allan Border had barely said a word to Jones for the entire tour. Then he called Jones to his room and said, “I want you to bat No 3 here. I like the way you play.”

These were the days before anyone knew about hydration. Jones drank tea and coffee before his innings. No water. Puked. Peed. Not out on 202 at tea, he said he couldn’t continue. Border and coach Bob Simpson goaded him. Stop being such a sook! Want us to send out someone who’s tough enough for it? A Queenslander? He found eight more runs, lost his wicket, and was taken to hospital. When Greg Matthews took the final wicket, Jones ran off the field saying, “I think we’ve won it!” Someone else said, “No, I think it’s a draw!” Jones replied, “How can it be a draw? We got them out twice!” It was a tie.

At the intervals during his innings, DM Jones need to be undressed and then re-kitted by his teammates. He could barely walk. They’d take off his shoes, gloves, pads and clothes for him. Sit him in an ice bath. He collapsed before the ambulance came. That’s when Border thought to himself, “My God, I’ve killed him.”

2. DM Jones batted three for Australia. They’re golden words. How good was he? He batted three for Australia. He annihilated New Zealand legend Richard Hadlee with a 91-ball innings of 102 not out in an ODI in Auckland.

Dean Jones with friend and rival, New Zealand’s Richard Hadlee. Picture: Twitter

Jones would recall: “For the first time, I actually got him. I ran into the Kiwi rooms and was going to give him the biggest gobful — but he was putting his hand into the Esky and said “Deano, would you like a beer? We’ve been mates ever since. I love him.” Last year, Hadlee gave Jones a gift that carried the words, “To the best Australian batsman I bowled to’’.

3. This was a beauty: his 145 from 136 balls in an ODI against England at the Gabba in 1990. The glory days of ODIs. The canary yellow. The packed houses. The hero worship. The meaningful tournaments now lost to cluttered schedules and corporate greed. Richie, Bill, Tony and Chappelli in the commentary box. DM Jones in a gold cap and then a white floppy hat. He was using Kookaburra bats by then. Wise move! White zinc on his bottom lip. Chewing gum. Banners in his name. Brutal power yet somehow, he was debonair. One six over the sight screen was the fullest of full faces. Another six soared onto the Gabba dog track and a sun-soaked, delirious, roaring Brisbane crowd went berserk for DM Jones while one word from Richie summed him up: “Magnificent.”