Warneygate: The Scandal That Wasn't
by Dominic Pettman

"We wanted to protect the players from their own foolishness and naivete."
ACB Chairman, Alan Crompton

"I'm only human. I'm Australian. I love a punt. I'm not denying that."
Mark Waugh

Australian cricketers are above the law. This home truth should sink in as easily as Tony Greig's key on the first day of an Adelaide pitch-report. After bribery allegations made by certain members of the Australian cricket team against Pakistan rebounded against them, our golden boys - most notably Mark Waugh and Shane Warne - found themselves on an exceedingly sticky wicket. It was described in the papers as the biggest shame in the history of the game, eclipsing the former dark days of Bodyline, South African rebel tours, and Rodney Hogg's haircut. Our golden boy, Shane Warne, was singled out for a string of particularly humiliating editorials, many of them simply assuming that his shady behaviour had forfeited any claim on future captaincy. How quickly we forget! Barely a month had passed since the furore when Warne was holding the reins and calling the shots out in the middle. Granted it was a World Series match, and not a Test, but the speculation surrounding the power vacuum left by a departing Mark Taylor seemed to be suffering from a very fresh case of amnesia.

Big deal, you say. Surely this is just another case of player misconduct, swept under the Astroturf carpet of another day's play. And indeed you would be correct. That brief moment, however, when the hero was cast as the villain, afforded a glimpse into our nation's glazed and uneasy soul. Our favourite son (Kieran Perkins and John Farnham not withstanding) was suddenly slapped on the wrists and sent to his room without any supper. Nike - not one to usually worry about questions of ethics - went into damage-control and considered instantly dropping Warne's incredibly lucrative sponsorship deal.

The entire "saga" (if you can call a nine-day scandal that) seemed to be yet another example of that more international media phenomenon: pretending to be shocked about stuff, especially the private behaviour of public figures. Indeed it seems that the primary role of our journalists is to manufacture a hollow sense of shock, outrage and ultimately naivete in response to the cynical scaffolding on which we actually drape our day to day thoughts. "Read all about it! Bill Clinton exploits the aphrodisiac effects of presidential power" (no!). "Members of the IOC abuse their position to get perks for them and their families (you're kidding?). "Australian cricketers make underhand transactions with subcontinental bookies" (it can't be!!). After reading such headlines it seems that the no-shit-sherlock syndrome hasn't really penetrated the global media yet. But I digress.

As I write this, Shane Warne is the Australian icon. Even if you don't give a shit about cricket, you are still given minute-by-minute progress reports of his shoulder injury, as if the fate of the entire country rested in the torn ligaments of this overgrown schoolkid. A 60 Minutes profile of the golden boy (ironically screened just weeks before the "scandal") showed us an enthusiastic but down-to-earth Aussie bloke still clinging to the adolescent joys of video games and fast cars.

Indeed Warney seemed to be living the WASPy male's great Australian dream: a games room full of arcade machines, a Ferrari, a filing-cabinet full of hero-faxes, and a bland-but-attractive Kmart-catalogue wife in a magnificent kitchen with plenty of cupboard space (mainly because the only thing he eats are pizzas and pies). Material comforts with a no-bullshit agenda. You certainly wouldn't find any airfreight copies of Wallpaper lurking in the spin-king's dunny.

It is his xeno-gastrophobia, however, which most captures the spirit of the Aussie cricketing ethos. Warney's anti-sophisticated palate is representative of the particularly monocultural Thongline which he and his mates choose to tread. Legendary stories of ordering pizzas to Indian restaurants, and crates of Baked Beans to India itself are unfortunately far from apocraphyl. The most passionate moment on 60 Minutes was not his sentimental announcement that he enjoyed fatherhood more than cricket, but the glint in his eye when describing the epiphanic joy accompanying the first bite of a meat pie: "you know when you're at the footy and it's already luke warm and you can just . . . you know . . . demolish it. You can wolf down a couple of them in a few seconds. Aaah, there's nothing better."

All this suggests that Warney is a kinder, gentler version of the anglo-grotesque touched on earlier. His refusal of otherness sounds uncannily similar to a fish-n-chip lady who was outraged by the Chinese restaurants encroaching on her business. I'm not suggesting that Warne is racist, just that his patriotic palate would make the architects of the White Australia policy swallow with satisfaction. There's nothing more white bread, she'll-be-right, Tooheys-or-two than the Australian cricket team, no sireee . . . Bob. Indeed, if Prime Ministers cut from such different cloth as Hawke and Howard both dribble on their ties in the presence of our team, then you've got further evidence that the MCG is truly the shrine at which Australia worships itself. Note the way the boys in Bay 13 literally bow towards their heroes in a pseudo-parody of devoted reverence. Defined simultaneously towards and against England, the Ashes are the cinders from which the nation's phoenix first rose. But I digress again.

When Ricky Ponting gets into a scuff at a nightclub, he gets crucified in the press and suspended for three games. When Shane Warne and Mark Waugh mislead the public and the Australian Cricket Board after doing something which attacks the very heart of that sacrosanct sphere of art known as "cricket," they get a wet-lettuce fine. A very light sentence, in the scheme of things. There is something fishy going on here, and I think it connects to that great Australian asset: naivete.

As I mentioned earlier, the newsgathering media manufactures its audience, not only in the sense meant by Noam Chomsky, but for the simple reason that if we don't feel moral outrage, we won't buy the paper to find out if justice is being served. If we assume every political figure is lying then we don't really need to read the news to confirm it. As a consequence, Rupert and his cronies have to insist that we pretend to be shocked out of our cynical, non-paper buying malaise. It is therefore all an elaborate ad for the media itself (which Marshall McLuhan could have told us several decades ago).

Moreover, this process needs figures like Shane Warne and Bill Clinton to "get caught" so that there is somebody spectacular enough to generate this ersatz surprise and disappointment. "Well if they are behaving badly, then who are we to trust?" is the question we are supposed to be asking ourselves and our neighbours (preferably leaning over a wooden fence). By publicly apologizing and enduring the humiliations of exposure and repentance, the Warnes and Pontings of the world become a kind of symbolic safety-valve for the nation's sins - harmlessly evaporated through the temporarily heady fumes of printer's ink. They were simply being naïve, we reassure ourselves. They know better now. And with the same amount of skill which goes into his famous flipper delivery, Warne spins out of trouble before you can say "vice captain on the tour of the West Indies."
Which is not to say I haven't played the naivete card myself . . .

* * * * *

It was a perfect day for cricket. A day/night limited overs match at the SCG between Australia and New Zealand. We had already staked our claim on the hill with a blanket and basic picnic hamper, including one complete watermelon, blissfully unaware that today's rowdy crowd would provoke sporting authorities to cover the famous Sydney hill with a concrete stand and plastic seats in order to curb the inevitable carnivalia.

The day started gently enough; the only inconvenience being the hoards of fans who ran down the hill over our picnic in order to suddenly about-face and watch the replays on the electronic scoreboard behind our heads. Luckily this only happened at the fall of a wicket, and we soon learned to lift our drinks and clutch our valuables before the stampede reached us.

As the shadows lengthened and the scoreboard ticked over, the yobbos began to emerge from the innocuous crowd like noxious mushrooms, setting themselves apart from the others in stark relief. If you are a veteran of cricket matches you can spot these types early on and move an appropriate distance away before the trouble begins (so long as you don't have reserved seating). This is also a valuable skill for public transport. Some subtle signal in the eyes can often give away any latent obnoxiousness, waiting to blossom under the administration of alcohol. Either that, or the way they say, "any you cunts take my seat and I'll fucking deck ya." This is also a bad sign.

One of these charming characters - located about ten rows infront of us - felt the need to stand up every three overs, pull down his shorts and brown-eye the thousands of spectators behind him. While this provoked some stifled titters the first time, along with a few good-natured taunts, it soon became a tired trick after the sixteenth encore. The abuse which followed inevitably garnered the double finger, and I decided this guy had to go down. Unfortunately all my violent instincts are directed inward towards my fermenting stomach ulcer, from a combination of superegoistic politeness (being brought up by hippies) and instinctual animal self-preservation (being an ectomorph with not so much as a white belt in origami). So basically I sat there and stewed, fuming at the way this clown was distracting from a perfectly decent game of cricket.

The final straw came when a harmless looking bloke walked past the fat yobbo carrying a cardboard tray bearing four plastic schooners. The arsehole not only grabbed one of the beers and drank it in one frothy gulp, but also decided that pushing the fellow over would not only prove Newton's law of gravity, but make the gods laugh. He was right on the first account, but suddenly everyone on the hill started pelting him with cans, chicken bones, and whatever minor missiles they could find. At the sight of such senselessness behaviour my vision began to go red, as if all the blood rushed to my head, bursting many vessels on the way, and was now pouring through the cornea-wall and into the pupil itself. The only hurlable object handy was the watermelon, so I lifted it up onto my shoulder and shoved it into the air as hard as my pipe-cleaner arms would allow. Pure loathing must have helped propel the giant melon into the air, as its trajectory traced an impressive arc over the people's heads. The world switched into slow-motion as I watched the fruity-shotput-of-doom curve down to wreak vengeance on the wicked. Unfortunately my aim was slightly out, and the guy who had just been pushed over looked up to the sky in order to identity the shadow which was bearing down on him. Confused, covered in beer, and awkwardly trying to stand up, the watermelon struck his face and exploded in a supernova of sticky sweet juice and sticky sweet blood. The yobbo lifted his arms in triumph, as if he himself had delivered the deathblow. My red vision drained to yellow. My hear sank, and I stared at my feet as his friends helped him to the ambulance in order to treat a suspected broken nose . . .

. . . but I am really sorry. It was the wrong thing to do and I realize that now. I was caught up in the moment and made a big mistake. Call it naivete.

* * * * *

Shane Warne is emblematic of a certain type of Aussie masculine attitude: a little older and perhaps even a little wiser. Like a batsmen who is dropped on 14 and goes on to make a century, Warne is making the most of his lucky escape from the cricketing hall of shame, and seems to have resolved to make a better example for his fellow countrymen. Witness his very public vow to quit smoking, sponsored by nicorette gum, and the inspiration for thousands of life-size cardboard cutouts of Shane daring fellow addicts to do the same.

But what other sport would allow one of their first-class players to smoke in the first place, except for maybe darts? Cricket's drug problem is not steroids, but alcohol and tobacco, as many Qantas cabin crews could no doubt attest. One wonders what the alleged "fitness test" involves that it could allow such suspicious athletic specimens as David Boon, Merv Hughes and indeed Warney on a two-pie day. The much publicized walk-out by the latter at a press conference called to unveil his Madame Taussauds mannequin illustrates the extent to which the ocker Aussie bloke is beginning to feel the pressure which has been oppressing models and housewifes the world over for at least a century. When asked if he would rather have the same waistline as his wax model doppelganger, Warne spat the dummy and left. Suddenly being in shape was a touchy issue for every guy who had ever identified with our cricketing pantheon.

Australian cricket brings out some of the most ugly aspects of our competitive nature, on both a personal and national level. Racism is rampant on the field, and sledging has become so relentless that microphones have sometimes been removed from the stumps. As I have shown, I myself am not immune to the bestial violence which this most civilized of pursuits can drag from the bowels like a swallowed rusty fishhook. We boo, and heckle, and abuse, and spit during other country's national anthems. We cheat, we lie, we try to make gain upon gain. And when we get caught we cry ignorance, naivete, and watch lawyer-drafted apologies placate the baying dogs in both the press bay and the grandstands. Off the field there is no third umpire.

Yet beneath all this corporate-sponsored ugliness glimmers a flake of guilt-edged hope for the complacent Aussie male. It seems that the Tommos and Lillies have been relegated to a more macho era, along with Jack Thompsons, wild brumbies, shag carpets and orchid-eared women. The furious pace bowler of the 1970s and 80s has been replaced by the slower, more nuanced approach of the leg-spinner. Even the kind who who at least appear to have some investment in self-improvement. There are no doubt many - perhaps even myself included - who see no real progress in the evolution between a generic gold chain on a hairy fast-bowler's chest, and a silver Nike ear-ring in a pudgy spinner's ear. But I venture that the women of our nation have been spending much of the 1990s breathing a collective sigh of joy and relief at the new emphasis on technique, and the attendant demise of "the great Australian quickie."