Poster Boys

First published in Inside Edge, Dec ‘00

I must admit before it becomes painfully obvious; I am neither a huge cricket fan nor an authority on the subject. I never mastered the googly, consistently padded up as a lefty when I was clearly right handed, and always believed that Hector Protector was Fireman Sam’s best mate. But I am an Australian, and therefore lead a very proud and delusional sporting life.

My cricketing glories are few yet noteworthy. Getting my Nan out plum at the Boxing Day family picnic summer 83/84 match was an early trophy. We speak occasionally. Scoring an unprecedented one million not out in the ‘Me vs. the Rest of the World’ (incl. Antarctica) 1986 one-day demonstration match was nothing short of a landmark innings. The figure would have been a much larger if my mum’s pantyhose were a stronger denier and the neighbours didn’t have a Rottweiller.

But perhaps my greatest achievement, and the only one I have a skerrick of evidence for, was my unrivalled collection of 1980s McDonald’s World Series Cup Posters. Even though I would have swapped every one of them for a Luke Skywalker Hoth Fatigues action figure and a packet of UFOs, they still meant a lot to me and occupied prime real estate on my bedroom walls for nearly an entire decade.

Looking back at them today it’s easy to see why some people hate having their photo taken. The embarrassment factor is just more obvious to some. Check out ol’ ploppy pants in the green and gold. Line one, position seven: ‘sulking’. Simon O’Donnell must have been one of those kids who threw constant tanties every time the phrase ‘family photograph’ was uttered. “Aw… I don’t want to have a photo AB, I don’t wanna!”

But photophobia is not just the domain of the grumpy bum. No matter how ‘fresh the threads’, deep down everyone knows that the fashion of today is the punch line of tomorrow, and being at the strikers end is by far the more enjoyable experience. Spare this thought for line two, position two: Greg Matthews. Not only did he get to watch his clothes go out of style with each new poster, he got to watch his hairline recede in slow motion as well. In this specimen, you can just see the penny drop for young sirs Ashley and Martin, as they gazed lovingly into Mr. Matthew’s follicle free forehead. In an age where aerodynamics and sporting success were two completely separate entities and one where David Boon had more hair in his mo than the entire team had in their scalps, Greg was clearly the odd man out. Right place wrong time I say. I mean, you wouldn’t have wanted to get stuck behind Greg Ritchie in a crowded cinema back in ‘85. The only thing louder and more flamboyant than his dense shrubbery of hair was his signature. In a word – ‘boofie’.

But even though the heroes on my walls weren’t exactly male models of anatomical and fashionable perfection, I still looked up to them (and not just because they were blue tacked high above my bed). The imperfections in these players made professional cricket accessible to goofy little kids like me. They didn’t look like lean mean cricket machines… they just looked like our dads. You didn’t need to be perfect. You didn’t need to be a super human. You didn’t even need to be fit to be a cricket legend. All you needed was some pocket money, a lift to the local Maccas, and a very vivid, and wild eight year-old imagination.