Alan Border set a quietly courageous example to a generation who grew up watching him bat.
He gave lessons in patience, respect, pragmatism and perseverance. He demonstrated to us that when things are far from ideal, they’re far from hopeless. Someone tagged him ‘Captain Grumpy’, but try batting five hours then going out to field only to see catches grassed. Border wasn’t so much grumpy as duly pissed-off from the early days in his captaincy.
Author Clive James once said, “an experienced practitioner… gets more interested in his craft when the going gets tough.” That is Border between 1984 and ’89. For five years he just got better. The more demanding the mission, the more attentive and intense he made his mind and body.
Not easy, that. If it was, we’d all be black belts in one thing or another. If it was, none of us would ever say or do anything rash under pressure.
Border never threw his wicket away when he reached 100. He put his head down again and reached 184 or 157 not out or 138. He did what had to be done. And for years it almost always needed doing.
An Alan Border ton wasn’t the kind that, say, virtuoso Richie Richardson blazed. Border wasn’t an unmistakable thoroughbred like Martin Crowe, or uncanny like David Gower. He was a master electrician toiling to get the lights back on, a plumber doing urgent repairs.
Which is not to say he wasn’t gifted; a Wisden scribe once claimed Border made 10,000 runs with two shots. Presumably, he meant the cut and cover-drive. But Border had the most productive sweep in the game and one of the better pull shots. A meaty straight drive with the full face was never far away. And he had that baseball clout over midwicket once the danger had passed and he could meet bowlers on even terms. He could hook, too. How many shots is that?
Australians all shapes and tribes loved Border. We felt a kindred spirit in him. Blue-collar, white-collar, no-collar, it didn’t matter. All that did was that he was on our side.
A friend and I once wagged a day of school to watch a Border rescue-mission on TV. Greg Matthews grew in stature batting with Border that day. Matthews had his own nerve and skill and we willed him to his first century, but it was Border continually reassuring us the decision to wag had been correct.
Border’s own peers knew a man worth admiring.
Viv Richards wrote: “When I think of Alan Border, I think of courage.”
When I think of Alan Border, I think of his razor’s edge duels with the consummate Richard Hadlee in the summer of 85-86. Or I see a warp-speed leg-cutter Malcolm Marshall bowled at Adelaide pitching on middle and hitting off, prompting fleeting resignation on the stoic visage. I see an Ambrose yorker at Melbourne in ’88, the best ball I’ve seen. I think of John Bracewell turning one almost a foot. Was it a coincidence that these champions produced exceptional deliveries to Border?
The first time I saw Border bat at the MCG I was ten. It was 1982. He pulled the ball like Babe Ruth with a bee in his bonnet; there was a resonant rifle-crack from his bat, the grubby ball thrashed the signage and the crowd produced a resounding roar.
The last time I saw Border bat was the last Test he played at the MCG. Rain had washed out two days. Scant numbers dotted blustery stands. Border took a couple of nasty hits on the fingers, scratched around in patchy drizzle for maybe ten, then chopped one on. Brian McMillan might’ve been the bowler. There was something curiously apt in the innings and dismissal, as if a player so vigilant for so many seasons was entitled to a loose end.
Vigilant, unassuming, unstinting – the clichés tethered to him are ones many of us would like. ‘Reluctant leader’ is a Border cliché too, but, like the term Captain Grumpy, it misled. There was nothing unwilling about Border when it came to it. Like Julia Gillard, he led by doing the heavy work without complaint from a problematical position.
Think back to the SCG, February 1985, the first of three finals. Australia are 2 for 8. One more blow and it’s over like a Tyson fight. Big Bird Joel Garner, the stalker in the Australian cricket team’s summer-long nightmare, thuds Border’s ribcage. Border doubles up as if shot. My brother and I wince and cringe on the lounge-room carpet. Surely, he’ll have to retire hurt?
The next short ball he faces is a scorcher. It is cracked straight to the ground and to the fence. For a moment we’re quiet. Border pats the deck with the bat like it was nothing. He was really something.
One more thing: he was unique. Every so often, someone said he reminded them of 1950s legend Neil Harvey; for all I know it was a good comparison.
But name one player who ever really reminded you of Border.
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