Our Don Bradman

The price of fame

Don Bradman and his mother Emily

Australia once had a cricketer so famous that his adult son felt forced to change his surname by deed poll, saying: “I was popped into a metaphorical glass cage to be peered at … I am not a social souvenir”.

The cricketer, Don Bradman, himself found it necessary to travel under the false name “Mr Lindsay” because he “suffered endless interruptions from people who wanted to talk to him”.

In England, Don Bradman was said to have only two rivals for the title of “best known”: the King and Winston Churchill.

But those two had their citadels to hide in.

The best Bradman could do was to build a house in Adelaide fine enough for him to holiday at home with his wife and children: it included not only a billiard room, but also a squash court (Bradman was a state champion squash player).

However, there were also advantages to such great fame: while his teammates practised in England, Bradman lunched with the King, who was a great admirer. When Bradman nearly died of acute appendicitis in the 1930s five official bulletins a day had to be released on his condition.

The King demanded: “I want to know everything.”

Bradman’s fame was such that it spawned a 1930 hit song which was played on pianos and pianolas in homes and halls across Australia: “He’s our Don Bradman, And you ask me is he any good ...”

Then, when he retired in 1948 after 20 years, “the world became,” a journalist wrote, “like a room with the light switched off”.

A LETTER FROM DON

For decades after his cricket career was over, Bradman refused all media interviews.

And I accidentally found out why.

I wrote to him at his Adelaide home in 1981 (when he was 72) asking for an interview. Having heard about his brilliance all my life – but being too young to have seen him bat – I said I thought Australians in the same position as me (under 40) would like to hear from him.

Basically, all we under-40s knew was that he was the great batsman who moved jerkily in black and white film footage in razor blade advertisements on TV. So no doubt others, just like me, could not resist thinking: was Bradman really as prolific as Greg Chappell?

Surely he couldn’t score as quickly as the great West Indian Viv Richards?

In other words, Our Don Bradman was mystery history to the great majority of Australians in 1981.

My letter drew a quick reply with a broad, flowing, fountain pen saying he had already turned down many requests.

But he then gave an insight into why.

“I am just not in the mood to talk about events,” Bradman replied. “And after more than 50 years in the spotlight, am anxious that I can enjoy some of the peace and quiet which has been denied me in all that time.”

Then, as if by way of apology, he added: “Perhaps it is hard for journalists to understand people who try to avoid publicity.”

Stonkered, I decided that Bradman’s cricket contemporaries might shed some light on what made this hero retreat from society.

THE ENIGMA

Australia’s most famous fast bowler, Ray Lindwall, ran his own florist shop in Brisbane. He’d once dropped into The Courier-Mail with a bunch of flowers “for Hugh’s wife” after enjoying a cricket article I’d written – and was surprised to be told I was 21 and not married.

So I decided Ray Lindwall would be a good place to start.

Arranging flowers with those strong fingers that once caressed the six white stitches of a red leather cricket ball just as delicately (to ensure the correct swing), Lindwall didn’t react well to my first question: “Did you ever get similar feelings to Bradman? You know, wanting to isolate yourself away from everybody.”

Lindwall dropped the yellow roses as if stabbed by a thorn: “Gee Hughie, don’t start going around comparing me with him! Bradman’s a legend.”

Having drawn a blank, I decided to investigate what had been written about Bradman since his retirement.

“He’s a very private person, isn’t he?” said the woman researcher at the Queensland State Library after an abortive search for such articles. But she did come up with the surprising information that Bradman had written four books on cricket ending with Farewell to Cricket in 1950.

Here was the real Don Bradman.

I uncovered an enigma: a man famous beyond belief who could be deeply hurt by some slight, annoying criticism; a conservative traditionalist who took on a radical flamboyance only when he reached the batting crease; a close family man … yet a ruthless winner whose abilities were beyond what could be imagined.

A man of whom one contemporary wrote: “He did not mean to be just one of the stars, but the sun itself.”

INCOMPARABLE

To comprehend such fame it is first necessary to appreciate what Bradman achieved on the cricket field.

Each of the five days of a cricket Test Match is divided into three “sessions” of two hours. Very few batsmen in the world have ever scored a century (100 runs) in one session.

When Bradman arrived in England for the first time as a 21-year-old in 1930 at Headingly, Leeds, (even though he had to wait for one batsman to be dismissed) he was 105 at Lunch; 220 at Tea; and 309 not out at Stumps!

Bradman had not only scored a century in the session before Lunch, but he had run up another century in the session before Tea! Then by the end of that day he had scored more than 300 … all in the one day!

No one has done that before or since. The Times said: “It was in fact an innings so glorious that it well might be classed as incomparable.”

At one stage Bradman bounded down the wicket to the ball, but slipped and fell flat. To the astonishment of everyone, as a correspondent reported next day: “nevertheless Bradman managed to late cut the ball for four”.

Bradman in action against an English Test team

He proved such an aggressive batsman on that tour that he was once out “hit wicket” when he smashed his stumps over from behind on the immense follow-through with his bat!

For a Test batsman to average 40 in a series is a job well done. Young Bradman averaged just under 140 an innings for that 1930 series and thus was described as “the greatest athlete or sporting figure in the world”.

Thanking the Australian team at the end of the tour, the King said merely: “It was a great pleasure to have the opportunity to watch Mr Bradman bat.”

The King loved Bradman’s flourishing style

When Bradman arrived home in Australia he was greeted by 10,000 people.

IMPOSSIBLE

Bradman could hit the ball so hard that he once scored a century off three consecutive overs – even though he didn’t face every ball!

Bradman opens up WHACK!

Playing against a team from Lithgow in Australia and batting with a man called Wendell-Bill, The Don scored 100 out of 102 in just three overs. (Before TV advertisements, an over was eight balls not six.)

These were the hits, with Bradman facing:

First over: 6, 6, 4, 2, 4, 4, 6, 1

Second over: 6, 4, 4, 6, 6, 4, 6, 4

Third over: 1, 6, 6, 1, 1, 4, 4, 6

The only two scoring shots by Wendell-Bill were the first and fifth singles in the third over. No time was recorded, but, ever proud of his record, Bradman (who listed these scores in one of his books) said it must have been less than the claimed century record time of 18 minutes. Which would be true.

TEARS IN HIS EYES

In the back of my mind I had always rather fancied that perhaps Bradman struck an era of weak bowlers. But he kept up his 100-plus average over a 20-year Test cricket span despite losing six years to World War II and several bouts of severe illness.

Even in that other tough arena – Australia’s inter-state Sheffield Shield competition – Bradman averaged 110 over two decades.

As if to prove he was just a human being, he 16 times fell for a duck (scoring nought) – seven of them in Test matches. If you were going to get Bradman out at all … it was going to be in the first few balls. Of the six Test ducks where I was able to find which ball he was out on, they were: 1st, 2nd, 1st, 8th, tenth, 2nd.

Even in his 40th year, Bradman was still plundering centuries in Tests in England, and averaged 92. As an English writer wrote: “If Bradman no longer murdered the bowlers, their extinction, if less evident, proved almost as inevitable.”

It was on that 1948 tour that Bradman brought to an end a Test career which had seen him average 101.39 over 20 years … before the most poignant moment in cricket history: Bradman’s final Test innings at The Oval in London.

The entire crowd sang “For he’s a jolly good fellow” and Bradman came to the wicket to a standing ovation. When he reached the centre and took guard to bat for Australia for the final time, the English team – just bowled out for a mere 52, and down 3-0 in the series – unexpectedly stopped play to give Bradman three cheers.

Bradman took off his cap and held it in his hand.

He needed to score just four runs to finish his career with an average of 100 … but was clean bowled second ball and so finished with a Test average of 99.94. Some English cricketers said there were tears in Bradman’s eyes … but Bradman told a lot about himself and his stiff-upper-lip by denying this.

He wasn’t into excuses.

When he played his last match at Lords in London the crowd gathered in front of the pavilion and sang “Auld Lang Syne”. No wonder Bradman became the only Australian knighted for cricket and why his size six cricket boots are the only ones preserved on display at Lords, the home of cricket.

THE “THAT’S BRADMAN!” PROBLEM

Biographer Irving Rosenwater said Bradman suffered the “that’s Bradman!” problem.

Wherever he went, “he endured endless interruptions from people who wanted to talk to him”. Rosenwater said Bradman detested adulation off the field and this had made people claim he was “rude and aloof”.

A letter from Holland to “Mr Somewhere” showing only Bradman’s eyes was swiftly delivered to him at Lords in London

When Bradman visited New York, he did not mention the people or the famous structures such as the Empire State Building, but wrote, “It was a great relief to walk down the street to find nobody interested in obtaining an autograph.”

In his four cricket books Bradman practically ignored his private life; the only reference to his wedding to childhood sweetheart Jessie, was given in cricket terms: “Thus began the best partnership of my life. My wife’s sound judgement and wise counsel have proved invaluable.”

The only non-cricket picture in Farewell to Cricket was his “favourite photo” of Jessie.

FIGHTING THE PRESS

Being so famous meant Bradman was watched closely by the media and thus small incidents became major stories.

After he scored his 300 in one day in Leeds, the media found out that Bradman – a non-drinker, non-smoker, and accomplished pianist – went back to his room and listened to music. Journalists thought he should have had a celebratory pint or three with his teammates … and this became the story.

“Was I expected to parade the streets of Leeds?” asked Bradman in Farewell to Cricket, demonstrating – by his exaggeration of the alternatives – how much the critics had hurt him.

On his first English tour an English paper paid him to write his life story. As one might have expected, other newspapers questioned whether a member of a team should do this. But Bradman saw it his way:

“There was no need for any fuss, but the incident was seized upon,” he wrote, quoting a clipping that stayed in his scrapbook, or his mind, and which sarcastically added to his name those of two other great world figures:

“Don Alexander Napoleon Bradman has hit the controllers to leg. The pompous rules and regulations of the Board of Control have been cut, smashed, and smitten into scrap. Don has done things this tour which no lesser players would have dared to attempt.”

In 1948 Bradman was photographed with his hands in his pockets while out walking with King George VI, and this made newspaper headlines.

Bradman wrote of this that some unstated “subsequent events” – presumably a message from the King – “indicated that at least His Majesty was not displeased”. And he added: “I couldn’t say the same for the press reporter who wanted to know what His Majesty and I had discussed and who received an answer that left him in no doubt that his interview with me was at an end.”

Some team members found Bradman’s success hard to handle ... especially when he was given a car to drive around on tour in England and, after his 300-in-a-day in 1930, a fan presented him with £1,000 – nearly double the entire tour fee for each of the other players. (And don’t forget they travelled by ship and were away for five months.)

Even back home in Australia, Bradman copped criticism once he had achieved tremendous fame.

When he returned from that amazing 1930 tour he flew from Adelaide to Melbourne ahead of the rest of the team. Though this was at the request of his employers, Bradman seemed naïve about what happened next:

“My early arrival was accompanied by a blaze of publicity over which I had no control, and the presentation to me by General Motors of a sports car caused an unfortunate impression. My action in many quarters was misconstrued as an attempt to steal the limelight.”

No doubt, he would have stolen the limelight anyway.

BODYLINE

To try to contain Bradman on the 1932-33 tour of Australia, the English team came up with what was known as “Bodyline” – bowling fast rising deliveries, not at the wickets, but directly at the batsman.

This created a political storm between the governments of both countries, and Bradman was very aware that many outside Australia might see Australia’s reaction to Bodyline as, at best, whinging, and, at worst, cowardice.

The press criticised Bradman for pulling away from these deadly deliveries. But in his books, Bradman was at pains to say that he felt the best way to score was to pull back away from the ball and cut. He was obviously worried people might put the wrong interpretation on this pulling back, writing:

“[Teammate] Jack Fingleton later wrote a book in which he cast very grave reflections on my tactics. It may be well to remind readers that his last three Test innings [in the Bodyline series] yielded 1, 0 and 0, whereupon he was dropped from the team. In the same three I scored 177 at an average of 88.5.”

While it is generally believed that Bradman failed in that Bodyline series, he averaged 56.57 which would be tremendous in any Australian team ever.

But for him it was almost failure.

THE WONDER BOY

An English writer wrote of that series: “The press in Australia never leaves him alone. Either Bradman is a hero, or the reverse. It must be very trying and I’m certain he would be happier if less limelight were thrown on him.”

This put me in mind of what my pastrycook father Fred warned me about newspapers: “They write ’em up; then they write ’em down.”

His biographers said Bradman was subject to much petty criticism.

A.G. Moyes said in his book that in 1938 he heard a man remark: “here comes the wonder boy”. Moyes felt the press probably aggravated the situation because “superlatives were overdone and failures explained away, which was unnecessary”.

He said pressmen who could not interview Bradman when they tried, felt frustrated. “Bradman the civilian came into disfavour because Bradman the cricketer was determined that his private life should be private to himself, his family, and chosen friends.”

Part of the problem was that after he retired, Bradman was made a Selector of the Australian Test team, which almost always involves controversy: each of the six states wants their best players chosen.

In fact, I was one such critic.

I wrote to Bradman as a teenager, bitterly complaining that he had selected a young untried New South Wales batsman instead of my hero, Queenslander Ken “Slasher” Mackay for the 1957 cricket tour of South Africa. Luckily, someone dropped out, and Slasher went on the tour after all … and averaged a Bradmanesque 125 in the Test series!

Bradman wrote in his book that he was unhappy to cop this sort of criticism because occasionally he had been outvoted 2 to 1 on the selection panel for the inclusion of a player. Yet, because he was Bradman, he was the one who suffered public censure for omissions.

It was almost as if Bradman kept a diary of the sins of the press against him … including when one Australian paper in the early 1930s recorded his death.

It must have been a slow news day in Cooktown in Far North Queensland, because The Cooktown Independent reported: “DON BRADMAN DEAD. Australia today mourns the loss of the greatest batsman the world has ever seen. During the progress of the Test match in Brisbane [against South Africa] Bradman was attacked with dysentery to which he succumbed on Saturday.”

When Bradman was testing himself out after World War II to see if he would be up to resuming his Test career after six years, a journalist wrote of his first innings: “I have today seen the ghost of a great cricketer – and – ghosts seldom come back to life.”

Bradman kept this reference, and replied in his book: “I knew the pitfalls ahead better than any journalist and I was the one taking the risks. Encouragement was what I needed, not doubts.”

ON THE DEFENSIVE

At times Bradman’s defence of his batting, for a world champion, bordered on the paranoid.

Almost as an apology for setting a new world record score (452 not out) he went to the trouble of listing the times for each 50 “to clearly demonstrate I was attacking the bowling throughout and not playing defensively for selfish reasons”.

And he added: “It will be seen that the slowest 50 for that whole innings occupied 58 minutes, a scoring rate which would be sufficient to satisfy the most exacting.”

But Bradman was mostly unduly modest about his batting achievements. He wrote that in making that 452 not out: “I managed to obtain the world record … circumstances assisted me.” And of his 300-in-a-day: “whilst admitting that my form was excellent…”

No doubt this stemmed from his awareness that the critics were always awaiting a chance to prove a champion boastful.

THE BIG MYSTERY

So, what was Bradman’s secret?

It wasn’t anything physical. Nothing about Bradman looked impressive: he was not an obvious athlete.

In his book on how to play cricket Bradman talked of “my comparatively short stature”. He said he was 5 foot 8 inches … interestingly the same height as the only man to win two Grand Slams in tennis history, Australia’s Rod Laver in the 1960s.

Some wondered how Bradman performed so well when he “lacked style and grace”.

To which Bradman replied: “Style! I know nothing about style — all I’m after is runs … I’m trying to find out all the time what is in the bowler’s mind as he delivers the ball.”

To become a champion, you have to start early. In the 1950s, a young Margaret Smith/Court hit a tennis ball against a wall with a paling off the fence – and went on to win more Grand Slam tennis titles than any man or woman ever.

As a boy, Bradman shut the laundry doors and spent hours belting a golf ball against a corrugated-iron water-tank with just a cricket stump. (Don’t try this at home!)

And every afternoon after school, his mother Emily (nee Whatman) — who in the 1890s had played inter-colonial cricket — bowled her left-arm seamers to young Donald.

Perhaps Mum was the secret, as she so often is.

Next week, my hero: Ken “Slasher” Mackay