The Wrong ’Un: The Brad Hogg Story

By Brad Hogg and Greg Growden

Memorable, unpredictable and often hilarious, The Wrong ’Un is the inspirational story of a man who will never give the game away.

At 45, George Bradley Hogg – cult hero of the Big Bash League, and in recent years a star of the international T20 circuit – is still in his prime.

From his childhood cricket obsession in rural Western Australia to the day he donned the baggy green, Brad overcame numerous setbacks and bouts of self-doubt. During a seven-year gap between his first and second Test appearances, he turned his hand to a variety of jobs, most famously hitting the streets as a postie. Through persistence and enthusiasm he won his way back into the national team, and was twice part of Australia’s champion World Cup sides. After retiring prematurely in 2008, he returned with a bang in 2011, starring in the BBL and once again being selected for Australia.

For the first time, Brad reveals his remarkable journey – from the bush to the MCG and beyond, and from crippling insecurity to hard-won self-acceptance – all with the self-deprecating humour and honesty for which he is known and loved.

‘Ever ready to take on a challenge, and boundless energy – that's Brad Hogg for me’ —Sachin Tendulkar

‘A raw reflection on his life, and the highs and lows along the way.’ —Canning Times

‘The book takes a look at how Hogg overcame the challenges he faced throughout his life with honesty and a bit of humour.’ —Bunbury Times

• Language: English
• Publisher: Black Inc. Books
• Release date: Oct 31, 2016
• ISBN: 9781925435290

Brad Hogg

George Bradley "Brad" Hogg is an Australian cricketer. He is a left-arm wrist spin bowler, and a lower-order left-handed batsman.

Book preview

GREG GROWDEN was a senior sportswriter for the Sydney Morning Herald for more than three decades. He left the Herald in late 2012 to become the Australian rugby correspondent for the ESPN network and Scrum.com. He is the author of thirteen books, including three cricket titles.

Published by Nero,

an imprint of Schwartz Publishing Pty Ltd

Level 1, 221 Drummond Street

Carlton VIC 3053, Australia

[e-mail]

www.nerobooks.com

Copyright © Greg Growden & Brad Hogg 2016

Greg Growden & Brad Hogg assert their right to be known as the authors of this work.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior consent of the publishers.

National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:

Hogg, Brad, author.

The wrong ’un: the Brad Hogg story / Brad Hogg, Greg Growden.

9781863958783 (paperback)

9781925435290 (ebook)

Hogg, Brad. Cricket players—Australia—Biography.

Cricket—Australia—Biography.

Growden, Greg, author.

796.358092

Cover design by Peter Long

Text design and typesetting by Tristan Main

Front cover photograph by Robert Prezioso/Getty Images

Back cover photograph by Indranil Mukherjee/Getty Images

Dedicated to my parents,

who, after reading this book,

might never speak to me again …

CONTENTS

Preface by Greg Growden

1.   The World’s Biggest Backyard

2.   One More Bucket of Balls

3.   Get Behind the Ball Now, or Piss Off

4.   School Days

5.   Becoming a Man

6.   Don’t Give Up

7.   Wet Behind the Ears … and Up Front

8.   The Spinners’ Union

9.   First Test Jitters

10. The Underdog

Picture Section

11. Return to Sender

12. World Cup Glory

Trouble in Paradise by Greg Growden

13. England and Other Haunts

14. The Country Bumpkin

15. Unlikely Hero

16. The Collapse

17. Back from the Brink

18. Subcontinental Adventures

19. Twenty20 – the Future

20. Red-Hot Scorchers

21. Becoming a Renegade

22. Chasing the Dream

Acknowledgements

PREFACE

by Greg Growden

‘Hoggy, Hoggy, Hoggy …’ The chant reverberates around the WACA ground. As he starts doing windmills with his arms, the volume increases: ‘Hoggy, Hoggy, Hoggy …’ He flexes his muscles and it intensifies: ‘Hoggy, Hoggy, Hoggy …’

When he’s handed the cricket ball and deceives an opponent, or when he runs towards the boundary fence, grinning and winking at the crowd, and especially when he pokes out his tongue, the fans are off and away. They bow, they yell, they laugh, they cheer. They are on his side. It seems to lift him, making him want to provide those supporting him with something else to cheer about.

Crowd chants at the cricket are not unusual. What makes this one different is the target. This is hero worship of a different kind.

For many seasons George Bradley Hogg enjoyed a special affinity with the crowd at his home ground, especially when the Perth Scorchers were in town and the WACA became ‘The Furnace’. Well past his 40th birthday, Hogg continued showing up others half his age. He became a cult hero for the masses.

But now it is time for a new challenge. A new market. A new opportunity. The Melbourne Renegades have beckoned him across the continent from Perth, eager for him to become one of their key bowlers in the 2016–17 Big Bash. At Etihad Stadium he’ll meet a new home crowd, and no doubt he will convince them that he’s worth believing in – and chanting for.

Even a supposedly over-the-hill 45-year-old can find new goals on the cricket field. Especially when he doesn’t want to get eased off the big stage, and is convinced he can still contribute.

Hogg is now well into his third decade of professional cricket. He has represented Australia in all forms of the game: he played seven Tests, he took 156 wickets in his 123 one-day internationals at an average of 26.84, and he was involved in two successful World Cup campaigns, not to mention two Twenty20 World Cups. He also won two Big Bash titles with the Scorchers. Yet he is far from finished, and plans to continue playing top-level cricket until the age of 50.

Hogg plays for the sheer joy of the game. He has loved cricket since he was a toddler, following his ‘Bradman of the Bush’ dad around. He’s proved that retirement doesn’t have to be permanent. He got a second chance and reinvented himself, and he continues to thrive in Twenty20 cricket leagues around the world.

As for Hogg’s ever-present tongue – well, it has a life of its own. It’s been like that since he was a kid. When he pokes it out it just means he’s concentrating, but he’s been teased about it plenty along the way. Maybe that crazy tongue is one of the reasons the crowd relate to him.

He’s a player who loves making the fans’ experience of the game enjoyable. Hang around after a Big Bash game, and you’ll see Hogg out on the ground signing autographs until there are no more requests. He’s been a cricket fan all his life too, and he doesn’t want to disappoint anyone.

However, it wasn’t that long ago – just a few years – that he had nothing to cheer about. And no one was cheering for him. Hogg had stopped believing in himself, and lost his way. That’s one of the reasons he is now sharing his story: in the hope that he’ll inspire you to keep believing in your dreams too.

Hogg’s Test captain, Ricky Ponting, once wrote: ‘I can’t stress how important blokes like Hoggy are to the psyche of a cricket team on tour. Sometimes, their off-field selflessness and good humour can be just as important for a team’s progress as a hundred made on the park.’ When he learned of Ponting’s tribute, tears welled in his eyes. His granddad always said that being a good team man was worth more than a load of trophies for individual performances.

This is the story of a boy from the bush, a cricketer who stumbled over some big hurdles and went through some tough times. But it’s also the tale of a passionate man who stuck at it and achieved what he set out to do: play for Australia and wear the baggy green.

   1.   

THE WORLD’S BIGGEST BACKYARD

‘Sue had enormous determination and a will to do well in anything she tried. Couple that with Greg, who is definitely the same … No wonder we had such a product in Bradley.’

Colin Macnamara, Brad’s first cricket coach

My first cricket recollection is sitting on our old green couch watching the 1975–76 Test series on our black-and-white TV, and getting really upset that the West Indies were giving Australia such a hard time. I was four years old. I’d developed a taste for cricket as a toddler, wandering around the country grounds where Dad played, but that Perth Test match took my interest to another level.

My other memory from that time is of the Australian opening bats getting pummelled by the West Indian pace attack. I kept thinking to myself, How tough are these Australian batsmen? It didn’t matter whether they were winning or losing; I was intrigued by the tactics of the match and the approach of the players.

I could not have wished for a more extreme match to introduce me to Test cricket. The First Test, on a wet wicket in Brisbane, had been dominated by Greg Chappell’s Australian team, but in Perth that was reversed. The West Indian batsmen relished the pace and bounce of the WACA pitch, and fearlessly took on the exceptional Australian bowling attack.

Opening batsman Roy Fredericks was in a particularly courageous mood. He was not deterred by Jeff Thomson bowling the fastest ball then recorded – 99.68 miles per hour – and he bobbed, weaved, hooked, cut and drove his way to one of the best Test centuries scored at the WACA ground. Decades later, Fredericks’ exceptional innings is still discussed. It’s one of the few times the formidable Australian bowling attack of that era was tamed.

It was clear what Fredericks’ intentions were. The second ball he faced was a bouncer from Dennis Lillee, and it ended up in the crowd. The Australian bowlers also played into his hands. As Chappell later said, they were trying to knock his block off and bowled too short, and Fredericks responded with cavalier batting. He scored his 169 runs off 145 balls, with 27 boundaries and a six.

Clive Lloyd was also on song, and the Windies finished with 585 in their only innings at bat. Then Andy Roberts took seven second-innings wickets, and the Perth Test was over and done with well before lunch on the fourth day.

Even though Australia went on to win the next three Test matches and dominate the series, the Perth debacle stuck in my memory for a long time. These big men from an unknown place seemed fearsome, mysterious. Seeing the power of the West Indian batting, and then the aggressive Roberts dismissing the top seven Australian batsmen – Rick McCosker, Alan Turner, the Chappell brothers, Ian Redpath, Rod Marsh and Gary Gilmour – left an indelible mark on me.

After watching that West Indies Test each day, I turned off the television, headed out to a concrete path in our backyard and pretended that I was playing the innings that would save Australia. I was the Australian captain, going out there to sort out my teammates and get on top of that Windies attack. I played all the shots and commentated everything to myself. I wanted nothing more than to emulate my heroes.

*

To get to our place, you head two hours south of Perth, 150 kilometres or so along the Albany Highway. The rich green of the coast disappears when you leave the suburbs and head out over the hills, and after a stretch of bitumen that meanders through forest, large sprawling properties appear, dotted with tall gum trees.

It’s a landscape of wheat and sheep, as well as flat plains, hills and dust. The heat is dry, the sun high and the light bright. There’s often a glare. You can easily imagine a swagman wandering down these tracks. Somewhere on the horizon you will always see swirling dust from tractors, harvesters or utes, either preparing the ground, reaping a crop or just getting to the next job. Almost everything has a brown, burnt tinge – and if it doesn’t, it soon will, especially if it’s a bold summer. Bushfires are common. The land is parched, and the smallest spark can lead to blackened paddocks and threatened homesteads.

The smell of the area is a mixture of soil, red dust, sweat, oily wool, and eucalyptus. It is a gritty, earthy mix, even a little sweet when harvesting is completed and paddocks are just stubble. As the locals say, that smell never gets out of the back of your nostrils.

The land here is fertile, but everyone still does it hard, especially when there’s no rain. They earn every cent; there are no handouts out this way. With the uncertainty of the weather, they depend on endless paddocks devoted to different crops and large harvests to keep them going, diversifying with several hundred head of sheep when wool and meat prices are on the up. There is always something to do. If you’re not willing to work long hours, you don’t make it. Only the persistent remain – families like the Hoggs and the Halls.

Here, in the middle of the wheat belt, the names of the towns are often matter-of-fact, like Williams and Darkan, but a few sing: Quindanning, Dumbernine, Narrogin. Some have signs showing you exactly where these towns are; some have a small collection of shops, usually a variety store and a petrol station. These towns are neat and serve their purpose, but soon disappear in the rear-vision mirror.

Some, like Tarwonga, which is just a speck on the side of the main Albany Highway, don’t even have a sign. If you didn’t know it was there you would drive right past it, not realising you had just passed a venue where Test cricketers have made an appearance. You have to know exactly where to veer off the main road and head down a track. Once you pass some stunted trees, the track opens up majestically to show off a paddock, an oval, well-kept tennis courts, some swings, a neat and tidy toilet block and an impressive galvanised-iron community hall, which booms and rattles during a storm.

The Hoggs and the Halls have been out this way for a long time. We are deeply entrenched, deeply proud locals of the Williams–Narrogin–Tarwonga region. We know all these tracks: every wide open road, and every sneaky shortcut.

My mum is a Hall, and her family ran the local newspaper for decades. My great-grandfather – Ernest Sydney Hall – was a tough character. Born in the New South Wales country town of Molong, he was expected to join his family’s butchery, but during the recession of 1902 he became angry about the terrible working conditions of the day and headed west to the wheat area, in the hope of a better future. His taste for newsprint came from a short stint as editor of the Trangie Times in western New South Wales; less than a year later, in 1905, he was on the other side of the country starting up a local paper named the Narrogin Observer.

It wasn’t long before Syd Hall was one of the town’s prominent figures, and a community leader. In a small town trying to establish itself, he understood how powerful the position of newspaper editor could be in swaying opinions and pushing agendas. He wanted to make sure Narrogin became a vital hub for the surrounding countryside, which was dotted with pioneers cultivating the land.

Syd Hall wasn’t always hospitable to those he thought were fools, or those who did not have the best interests of the town at heart. Many years after he died, his own newspaper did a feature about its founder, and focused on my great-grandfather’s stubborn nature. He was described as ‘a fearless and obstinate man of principle’ who ‘was not easy to like’. The Observer observed that ‘although the flaws in his nature limited his achievements, he was always endeavouring to make life better and to get the best out of others’.

His public life was busy, to say the least. He was a justice of the peace, served on many local court cases, was town mayor during the Great Depression and a councillor for many years, was involved in starting up the Narrogin Cooperative Butter Company and ensured that the St John’s Ambulance service was located in Narrogin. He was also a competent golfer.

He didn’t hold back in his paper’s editorials, and was often critical of the local council. He pushed hard for the local school of agriculture to be properly funded, and he was among those who demanded that the new railway pass through Narrogin. He resigned from council in 1920, and advised that his successor should ‘do nothing, say nothing, but agree spontaneously with what everyone else says. If he does this he will prove a howling success.’

Syd was just as angry when a town committee struggled to get anything organised during the Second World War, a time when there were even fears of a Japanese invasion of the area. He couldn’t stand anyone who procrastinated. He complained in an Observer editorial: ‘If the Japanese were coming over the cemetery hill, the Mayor would probably call a public meeting in order to decide what should be done. It is an even money bet that someone would suggest wiring Perth for instructions.’

Syd Hall had four sons – Norman, Ray, Clarrie and Vernon – and they followed him into the newspaper game. They were forthright like their father, and playing sport was very much part of their lives. Vern was my mum Sue’s father, my grandfather. He was a capable pilot, flying for the RAAF during the Second World War. He originally enlisted as a gunner, and so had a life expectancy of just six months, but on his third day – lucky for our family – he was reassigned and became a highly regarded flying instructor. After the war he was poached by MMA Airlines, which was later bought out by Ansett, to be a pilot, but family duties beckoned him back to Western Australia and the Narrogin Observer.

Granddad loved his sport. He was twice a state hardcourt tennis champion, and a tough footballer who didn’t take any prisoners. In one final he was asked to play at full back on the opposition’s star full forward, and after the player got a few early touches and had one goal to his name, Granddad gave him the full Leigh Matthews treatment and didn’t require any deodorant after the game.

What a treasure trove of trophies, medals and glittering goodies was to be found in Granddad’s back shed. I’d always sneak in there and marvel at the life he had led before he was my granddad and the old man I knew. But Granddad didn’t like to display his trophies. He instilled in me the belief that they didn’t indicate the true value of a person; it was what your teammates thought that mattered most.

Thirty kilometres west of Narrogin, the Hoggs made the area around Williams their domain. They were from sturdy country stock, and proud to be farmers. For generations they relied on sheep, wheat and a variety of other crops to pay the bills and keep the banks at bay. The Hoggs owned vast properties in the Williams region, and they were known as good, honest farmers who got through the tough times and made the most of the lush periods.

My great-grandfather, George Brown Hogg, had two sons, George Bruce and Barry. Barry took over the main farm, and he bought Bruce another property. Bruce was my grandfather, and he had three sons – George Gregory, Kennedy and Peter – and a daughter, Mary; my two uncles went onto the main farm, while Granddad helped my father, Greg, buy another farm, about twenty minutes out of town. Farming was in Dad’s blood and he ran sheep as well as growing barley and oats. He later bought a second farm to grow wheat.

The Hoggs were a family steeped in tradition, and one was that the eldest son of each generation was named George. To differentiate them, they were known by their second names. My father was named George Gregory Hogg and was known as Greg. That’s why my name is George Bradley Hogg. Although I’m mostly known as Brad, some of my closest friends still call me George.

*

The Hoggs were also exceptional sportspeople, and Dad was the district’s gun cricketer, admired by his teammates for his skills and feared by every opponent due to his rare ability to score century after century. Numerous country towns boast a ‘Bradman of the Bush’ and Williams’s was my dad. He was a revered figure, because the health of a country town so often revolves around its cricket and football teams.

Rural life can be very lonely, and to overcome that isolation – and the relentless hard work – those living in the bush do whatever they can to create a sense of community spirit. Around Williams and Narrogin, the diversions were Australian Rules football in the winter and cricket in the summer. A lot of blokes played both, swapping their itchy woollen jumpers for cricket whites when the days grew longer. For many, Saturday was the day when they didn’t have to worry about work for a few hours. Playing and watching sport gave us an outlet for the stress that could build up – it helped everyone to stay sane.

The farmers would down tools on a Saturday afternoon and head to town or the local ground. But nothing comes easy in the bush, and sporting grounds didn’t magically appear. More often than not, the locals built their field themselves. Somehow the local farmers and townsfolk would find the time and energy for endless working bees. They’d clear a paddock, get the weeds in order, put a concrete pitch in the middle, erect goal posts at each end and hammer together a basic shed somewhere along the boundary to provide shade. Some communities built dressing rooms; otherwise, fast-growing trees were planted to provide some privacy. Toilets and barbeque pits were essential, as was somewhere cool to put the esky. For a bit of variety, tennis courts were usually built nearby.

As well as being the district’s star cricketer, playing for the Tarwonga team, Dad was an excellent footy player in the winter for Williams. As his brothers say, Greg was ahead of his time: he understood the importance of handball and fast teamwork to outmanoeuvre opponents. He was a modernist in a traditional setting.

On the cricket field, he was known as a left-hander with enormous powers of concentration with the willow, which made him near impossible to dismiss, at least before he had made three figures. He was also a wily bowler, mixing it up with pace, seam or spin as required. If a wicketkeeper was needed he could take over the gloves as well.

Country Week is one of West Australian cricket’s great sporting traditions. Since 1907, country teams have travelled to Perth, usually in January, to play a week-long tournament. From there, the WA Country team is selected. This is the big opportunity for the boys from the bush to discover whether they have the temperament and the skill to go any further. It’s also a chance for regions to earn some bragging rights, and those from the lesser-known areas, such as Williams, could show they weren’t intimidated by those from the bigger country towns, such as Geraldton, Bunbury, Albany and Kalgoorlie.

Not surprisingly, Dad made the WA Country XI on numerous occasions, and he played against several international touring teams. Many people thought he had the ability to play for Western Australia. In fact, I’ve been told quite regularly over the years by those who played with him that he was a far better cricketer than me. But Dad loved being a farmer, and decided against going to the big smoke to pursue a cricketing career.

Determination runs in our family, and I got mine from both sides. Before they got together, Dad had been keen on Sue Hall for a while. When he finally secured his first date, he went to pick her up at her family home in Narrogin, and Granddad answered the door. He told Dad, ‘You can come back in two years if you’re still interested.’ So Dad went back in two years, and some time later they got married.

Like Dad, Mum was a standout in whatever sport she took up. She went to Perth to study teaching and was posted back to Narrogin after she qualified. It wasn’t long before Dad came knocking, and Sue Hall became a farmer’s wife. Many thought that if she had opted for the city life, she could easily have represented Western Australia, and maybe even Australia, in hockey. Even in the days leading up to my birth, Mum was still playing in representative hockey matches. It was from her that I inherited my relentless energy – we both have a complete inability to sit still.

Mum was also a high-quality softball and tennis player, and a capable golfer. She has now made the lawn bowling green her domain, recently coming close to winning the WA singles title.

On the day I was born, my parents’ country sporting demands were not neglected. After visiting Mum in Narrogin Hospital on the morning of 6 February 1971 to celebrate my birth, Dad said goodbye, ran out to his ute in the car park and sped the 45 kilometres back to Tarwonga. That afternoon he scored 104 against the team from Williams.

Having a squealing kid didn’t stop my parents from taking part in the local Saturday activities. As soon as I could be put in a bassinet, I was placed on the passenger seat of the ute and would go with Dad to the cricket. He would set me up near the boundary, and ask players from both teams to calm me down if I started crying, especially if he was out in the middle.

Experiencing all this from the earliest age meant that cricket and footy were in my blood. I was attracted to the community spirit and how much fun everyone seemed to have. When I was old enough to hold anything substantial, a tennis ball was placed in my hands. Soon after that it was a cricket bat, and then a footy. By the time I was two, I had learnt how to throw a ball. My first Christmas Day memory, when I was three, is of a set of cricket stumps and a bat waiting for me under the tree. I sprinted outside, demanding someone throw a ball for me.

That demand was pretty much a constant for the next 40 years or so. Someone, somewhere was always being asked to throw a ball for me. And Tarwonga was the best place for me to develop my skills – it was the world’s biggest backyard.

*

Backyard cricket has been the foundation for so many Australian Test cricketers. It is where they learned their skills, worked on their concentration and developed their tricks. In the backyard they discovered that cricket can even be a solitary pursuit.

The young Geoff Marsh opted for a bowling machine, whereas Adam Gilchrist was helped by family members who laid down Astroturf and set up cricket nets for his practice sessions. Don Bradman, of course, used a tank stand and a golf ball to hone his skills. Bill O’Reilly bowled at a gatepost, while Glenn McGrath’s target was a 44-gallon drum.

The Chappell brothers just targeted each other, with their backyard battles seemingly more brutal than many of the Tests they were later involved in. Famously, Trevor once chased his elder brother Greg down the street with a tomahawk after one backyard cricket clash.

Unlike the Chappells, I never had any problems with space as my backyard was endless. It stretched as far as the eye could see, in every direction. And I had no brothers to get in the way – well, not until I was 13, anyway.

On our 1200-acre farm, 20 kilometres south-west of Williams, a basic fibro house had been built on a small hill. This was a smart move because it meant the house caught any breeze from any direction, which helped to cool it down during the hot and dry summer months. It was a no-frills country homestead, but what I loved most about it was the concrete path that went from the front door, through the yard, to the wire mesh fence and gate, which led to a small machinery shed. This path became my first cricket pitch.

One of our most important links to the wider world was the small black-and-white television set that sat in the corner of the lounge room. I think the only station we could get was the ABC, so I would watch The Wombles during the winter and the cricket in the summer. It was on this TV that I got my first glimpse of serious representative cricket.

Outside, I lived out my dreams on the red concrete path, playing my own Test matches. It never bothered me that most of the time I had no one to play with. I adapted. I would bowl up and down on that path, and throw the ball against the brick foundation wall so it bounced back to me and I could bat. I would try to hit through gaps in the backyard. If I was bowling, I’d deliver the ball and chase the rebound, and then throw the ball back towards the stumps as if I was trying to run someone out.

Mum tells the story that she once found me sitting upright on the porch bench, my cricket bat perched neatly across my lap. She asked me what I was doing.

‘Just waiting for my turn to bat,’ I replied.

Country life for me was all about the outdoors. I was hardly ever inside. Summer meant bouncing up and down that red path, diving this way and that, testing the rabbit-proof fence with tennis balls as I practised my square cut, off drive, late cut and hook shot.

When the days got shorter, I’d play football in a different patch of the property. There was one area between several trees that was the perfect size for a football ground, so I put up some goalposts at each end and would run around this ground for hours, playing in a one-man game. I’d throw the ball in, make out I was a ruckman tapping it down, and then I’d chase the loose ball, handpass it to imaginary teammates, take all the big kicks for goal. I don’t really remember wanting anyone else to play with – I was happy in my own little world.

My parents were eager to prod me along, and I took every possible opportunity to