WHEN Michael Kasprowicz first confided in me that he wasn't all that sure his bowling spot in the Boxing Day Melbourne Test was secure, I did the only thing possible in the circumstances. I drove him straight down to the main oval at Churchie for a two-hour net.
"Give me your best shot", I shouted to Kasper, a blip in the distance as he paced out his long run.
And as he moved fluently to the bowling crease, I provocatively discarded my gloves, protector and pads, unzipped the whites and plopped the plums up and out of the underdaks so they looked like a startled bull frog peering over a log.
"Hit 'em if you can, nancy boy," I jeered, detecting a quickening in his stride. A further taunt as he reached his delivery stride: "Straight drive for six!"
His eyes popped at the ball flew above his outstretched hand, high across the adjoining two ovals and finally coming to rest after shattering a house's picket fence in neighbouring Coorparoo and killing a doberman dozing on the lawn inside.
And so the ordeal began. Almost two hours of nominating the shot before Kasper bowled. Exquisite leg glances, powerful hooks, thunderous cover drives you could eat a meal off. Delicate late cuts dripping with sweetness.
After straight-driving four consecutive mid-pitch bouncers, I threw the bat into a puddle to let it cool off and walked slowly out to where the big man stood, head bowed, his broad shoulders drooped.
Why did I do it? They say that to really help someone who has lost a bit of the faith in themselves, you've got to break them down completely. Like a jerry-built house, you've got to take their confidence apart, brick by brick, to the very foundations. Only then will the rebuilt man be twice as good as he was before.
That rebuilding job could now begin.
Kasper was still catching his breath when we sat down on a nearby bench. "At what I've just seen here," he said with a shake of the head, "even at your age now (47) you could still walk into the Australian side and open the innings with distinction."
True. That two hour net had proved two things: his slump in confidence was more than warranted, and I could have excelled at the highest level of the game if I'd only been given the chance.
During my own career, the sub-standard bowling had bored me, to be perfectly honest. The concrete pitches with their tatty old matting had bored me. The overgrown, weed-filled ovals with the fresh cow pats had bored me. And while I compiled some truly majestic innings for the Gatton College B side despite the overpowering boredom - my ex-college chums still talk about one particularly gritty two-hour knock for a well-nicked seven - I'd always known in my heart of hearts I had the ability to step up to the highest level if the opportunity had even arisen.
If the game's administrators had just seen fit to let me by-pass those messy and time-consuming Brisbane grade and Shield games that lesser players need to reach their full potential, I would have given the likes of Roberts, Holding, Snow, Willis and Hadlee many runs for their money. Certainly couldn't have done any worse than journeymen like McCosker and Laird. But back to the matter at hand.
I accepted Kasper's compliment gracefully.
"Yes, Michael, I have no reason to doubt that if I was picked to open all six innings in the upcoming Tests against the South Africans, I could still produce a captain's knock each and every time." As long as Tubby Taylor remained captain, that is.
"But enough about me. I think I've sorted out your problem." Kasper straightened, then leant forward expectantly.
"But I've got to warn you, it's a big one and it's going to take a lot of time and effort to fix."
Kasper looked hurt, but couldn't wait for the findings.
"It's my outswinger, isn't it? It's just not happening at the moment." He fingered the remnants of the cork ball we'd used for the net. "To be fair, this didn't help. Especially once you'd belted all the red off it."
"To start with, there's nothing wrong with your bowling. It's as good as it's ever been. And you've done nothing wrong to warrant the selectors searching high and low for new blood as they appear to be doing at the moment.
"You came of age with your four for a hundred odd in the first Ashes Test and the bag of seven in the final Test was just about perfect. That would have been a real match winner if the Aussies weren't such horrendous chokers chasing shitty little totals.
"And, true, while you only grabbed six in the three Kiwi Tests for a pretty hefty average, you knocked over the top order and your stats would have been better than anybody's if that barrel of lard Tubby Taylor had given you a shot against the tailenders instead of always throwing the ball to that has-been Reiffel or his NSW teammate and current toyboy Cook.
"Even ol' pruneface himself, Ritchie Benaud, often said you were the pick of the bowlers.
"No, as far as I can see, there's only one thing you've got to do to cement your place in the Australian Test side for years to come.
"You're going to have to move to New South Wales."
