THE cricketing world is mourning Australia's best-known son, Sir Donald Bradman, who died on February 25. No Australian in any sphere has been more widely known or continuously celebrated as Bradman.
In every arena where cricket is played, watched and loved, Bradman's name and that of W.G. Grace stand beside each other at the head of the game's pantheon. "It is a demonstrable fact," wrote Michael Parkinson, "that no single athlete has either so domin ated or changed a sport as Bradman did." Bernard Hollowood was even briefer: "Bradman was like W.G. Grace, but without the fallibility."
For Australians with any sense of their own history, the Don's influence extends far beyond the realm of cricket. Long after his playing career had come to an end, his name has remained the central symbol and familiar cipher for a young nation's best dre ams about itself.
DONALD George Bradman was born at Cootamundra on August 27, 1908, the year in which Dr. Grace made his final first-class appearance. He was only two when the family moved to Bowral, and it was in school and district competitions that his uncanny ability began to emerge. Quick natural reflexes and terrific ball sense were sharpened by solo games the boy devised to amuse himself.
Bill O'Reilly, who Bradman would later identify as the greatest bowler he ever faced, played for nearby Wingello, and first encountered the Bowral boy in 1925. He left a whimsical portrait of "a diminutive figure", approaching "the wicket with... the dif fident gait of a stop-gap performer... His pads seemed to reach right up to his navel. Still, he shaped up as though he knew what the game was all about..."
By that Saturday evening the Bowral boy was undefeated on 234. Within a year he was called to Sydney for trials conducted by the State selectors. He celebrated his St George first grade debut in late 1926 with a century in even time. In December 1927 he travelled to Adelaide for his first Sheffield Shield game.
The most celebrated of first-class careers began with a boundary off Clarrie Grimmett, and proceeded without fuss to a century. All the fanfare that day was reserved for Bill Ponsford, who was busy setting a new world record of 437 in Melbourne. At the A delaide Oval, umpire George Hele was as impressed by the 19-year-old's self-confidence as by his ability. This cheerful and absolute self-belief would soon be shared by millions. The confidence as much as the uncanny skill would break bowlers' hearts for decades to come.
Within a year he was playing his first Test match. By early 1930 he had broken Ponsford's record and made certain his place in the touring side for England. By the end of that northern summer, in one unbelievable bound, he had also made certain a unique place in cricketing history.
He began the tour with a double century, and in the year he became the first tourist to score 1,000 runs before the end of May. In Test matches alone he scored 974 runs, at an average of just under 140. At Lord's, a chanceless 254 left his critics gropin g for words. "The most murderous onslaught I have ever known in a Test match," wrote Neville Cardus years later.
Then came a memorable July day in Leeds, when the youngster marched into history and Yorkshire hearts. The eager, lithe figure stepped confidently into the Headingley sunshine, to face a strong England attack already buoyed by an early Australian scalp. When stumps were drawn that evening, his score stood at 309 not out. It was an innings so glorious, reported The Times, London, the next day, under the headline 'Bradman Versus England'.
The 14-year-old Leonard Hutton was one of 20,000 who watched in wonder. When he later broke the Don's record, he was to spend almost twice as long at the crease, and thus highlight an aspect of Bradman's batting so easily lost in a maze of statistics. He almost invariably scored quickly, and the sense of anticipation, the attractive cricket thus created, began to draw huge crowds to any game in which he played.
It was not just that he broke almost every existing record, nor that he made his runs so swiftly and attractively. His rise coincided with the onset of the Depression, and for many whose lives were hopeless in the 1930s the young genius offered near-cert ain hope each time he strode to the crease. His first-class career shows a century (often doubled or even trebled) every second match.
Sheffield Shield crowds swelled to unheard-of levels. A New South Wales-Victoria game of the 1930s would attract 7,000 people if Bradman were not playing, 35,000 if he was. By 1936-37, when he had moved to Adelaide, 84 per cent of Sydney's Shield revenue for the season came from the South Australian game, when Bradman was back in town. Little wonder that his first class career coincided with what became known simply as the Bradman era.
RADIO was coming into its own, and along with the popular press ensured that Australia's first superstar received the maximum exposure. Bradmania became a national epidemic, with the mixed results that always ensue. The young man himself, though assured and canny in his handling of so public a life, soon wearied of adulation and 24-hour exposure. A lifetime on media terms was not part of his ambition.
His success also meant resentment from various quarters. The crowds came only to see him bat, the opposition longed to get him out, and his team-mates wanted at least some of the strike. So there were bound to be tensions. A few players voiced their comp laints, but they were dealing with a tidal wave. On one trip the wry Arthur Mailey refused to introduce an awed fellow passenger to Bradman. "Why not?" asked the star-struck man. "No one introduced you to me," replied Mailey, catching nicely the frustrat ions produced by Bradman's fame.
The most infamous and public confrontation sparked by his phenomenal ability was, of course, the Bodyline series of 1932-33. The tactics and attitudes of the patrician English captain, Douglas Jardine, were designed specifically to contain Bradman and wi n the Ashes. But everything is relative, and it is often forgotten that an improvising Bradman still topped the Australian averages and eclipsed the English stars Sutcliffe and Hammond, who had no bodyline bowling to face.
Also forgotten in the maze of batting statistics are his other skills. As a young man he was without peer in the outfield, 'none more thrilling in chase and pick-up and deadly return', wrote Cardus. Denzil Batchelor recalled one memorable run-out: "The f lying Bradman took the ball inches from the fence in his fingertips and, apparently straightening while still airborne, without putting foot to ground, broke the far wicket with his throw-in."
More significant for Australian cricket in the long term was his captaincy. Appointed vice-captain under Woodfull for the 1934 Ashes tour, he took over as captain for the 1936-37 series at home. As with each fresh challenge, Bradman was single-minded in his application to the new job. In time his sure hand, shrewd judgment, and will to win were to make him one of the most successful of all captains, though in fairness it should always be remembered he had Bradman to bat for him.
It was in adversity that his personal qualities emerged most clearly. In the final 'timeless' Test at the Oval in 1938, the Australians fielded through a mammoth English innings which sealed their defeat by an innings and 579 runs. "I do not think I have ever admired anything on the cricket field so much as his leadership during those heartbreaking days," wrote H.S. Altham. "His own fielding was an inspiration in itself, and... it was, one felt, his courage and gaiety that alone sustained his side."
It was feared - Bradman himself was confident - that he would not return to the first-class game after the War. But he did, and capped his career leading a new generation of players on that final, triumphant tour of England in 1948. This trip saw the ful lest flowering of his abilities beyond the bat. He was a canny tactician and selector, a captain-encourager and an ambassador in a round of social functions that was endless simply because it was Bradman's last tour.
THE vacuum on his retirement was inevitable. "Suddenly cricket was like a room with the light switched off," wrote Ray Robinson. However, the legend, so firmly entrenched in the Australian psyche, continued to grow. It was as if each new generation absor bed the lore effortlessly, and could picture the neat, still figure awaiting the bowler. No tap-tap of bat on pitch, no nervous shuffle of the feet. Quietness complete, but the quiet of a tiger ready to spring.
In less public but no less effective ways his light continued after 1948. Effectively selector from 1936-37 until 1971, with only a brief break, he was, said Richie Benaud, "easily the best selector I came across in the game anywhere in the world". He al so served two terms as incisive chairman of the Australian Board of Control.
He contributed untold wisdom and assistance at every level of the game, notably in various capacities in his adopted South Australia. As player, as selector and as administrator, he pressed for lively, positive, entertaining cricket, for the declaration above the safe draw, a stirring result above stolid mediocrity.
As a writer he made fine contributions to cricket literature. He took up golf, and by 1951 had reduced his handicap to scratch. And all this time the amateur cricketer had had to make a living. As journalist, stock-broker, director and board member, he p ursued a life beyond cricket from the year he left school.
From the time of his marriage to childhood sweetheart Jessie Menzies ("my best critic and my best friend"), he kept his personal life largely shielded from the public eye. The herculean effort this involved for a man of Bradman's profile was a measure no t just of his determination, but also his instinctive distrust of the sensational element in journalism.
Maintaining a life out of the public glare was one hardship among many. Sir Donald himself nearly died on the 1934 tour of England, after an emergency appendix operation and the threat of full-blown peritonitis. As he prepared to take over the captaincy in 1936, the Bradmans lost their first-born child - a day-old son. Their two surviving children, John and Shirley, had to transcend serious or chronic conditions. Lieutenant D.G. Bradman was invalided out of the Army in 1941 with fibrositis, and for a ti me it seemed he would not play much of anything again.
Through all of this Sir Donald had to deal with the consequences of fame, virtually undiminished by his retirement from public view. He had to steer as sane a course as possible through the massive industry which grew around his name. Privately, he dealt with hundreds of requests, letters and enquiries every week of his life.
By arrangement with The Canberra TimesCOMMents
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