First published in 2017

If you were an Australian child of the 1980s you thought anything was possible. In your limited view of the world Australia played a starring role.

We could win the America’s Cup. We could make Crocodile Dundee. INXS, Men at Work and others made dents on US charts. Pat Cash was scaling grandstands at Wimbledon. A before-the-choke-became-a-joke Greg Norman swaggered around golf courses. Our girl Elle was on the cover of Sports Illustrated. Millionaire tycoons in white shoes were throwing cash around – before they crashed and fled to Spain (see Christopher Skase) – and in Bob Hawke we had a prime minster we all liked who could down a yard-glass. All the while we did it with a Mick Dundee “That’s not a knife…” insouciant charm. Hell, Paul Hogan even co-hosted the Oscars.

By 1988’s Bicentenary celebration year the fervour and pride went into overdrive, as flags and boxing kangaroos covered the nation and kids were taught a questionable and whitewashed version of Australian history. It all added up to a kid thinking that Australia was impervious to anything the world threw at it. Then the West Indies showed up.

Cricket was wallpaper for me up until 1988/89 when the sport came alive. A combination of a cricket bat appearing during lunchtime at school and Scanlens Cricket Cards on shop counters set the scene, and when the Windies arrived the world shook for me.

When confronted by the West Indies, the cocky, upstart, laugh-in-the-face of danger Australia that I thought I knew suddenly had all the poise and assuredness of the pimply, voice-still-breaking teenager on his first shift at the checkout counter.

The 1980s West Indies were gods and they looked mighty cool on those cricket cards – still the best sporting cards ever made, the cheesiness of the captions a highlight. And as the 1988/89 summer rolled around they had a new weapon on board: Curtly Ambrose.

Momentum was gathering as Australia beat West Indies in consecutives one-dayers – punctuated by a tense first World Series Cup final victory that I listened to in bed while biting my nails. I was heartbroken when the series was lost due to some unfair rain rules.

There was the feeling of living through the struggle and almost triumphing that I was relating to. The switch back to five-day cricket sealed the love affair, as Allan Border somehow took 11 wickets at the SCG and we had ourselves a Test win. The tour finished with a draw at Adelaide but the previously anaemic Australians now looked strong and confident and had begun to boss the world bosses. Dean Jones, who couldn’t make a run in November and December, hit a double-century and Merv swatted a six from the last ball of a session to bring up his fifty. Off the back of the 1988 Olympics I’d taken up athletics on a Saturday morning but I rushed home that day to watch Merv and Deano. Athletics was gone – summer was cricket now.

This was a rebirth of Australian cricket that was consummated by the 1989 Ashes win that followed. Australia would only lose one home series for another 20 years. Sport is most fun when the underdog rises, and it was the summer of struggle in 1988/89 that made the lasting impact.