Daveulus, My Opener

A look back at the troubled and triumphant career now in its representative swansong, writes Errol Parker.

It’s not often I find myself at a loose end these days. This being the first article I’ve written for Cricket, Et Al this year speaks volumes to that. Though, it’s more of a lack of original ideas about God’s summer game that has driven me to focus on editing The Betoota Advocate - my ‘sleeze sheet’ as Andrew Bolt once called it.

But at a loose end I was this past month and after reading honestly one of the worst books I’ve ever seen put to print, I needed to Napisan that particular part of my brain that one uses to read and remember. So I re-read ‘Romulus, My Father’ by popular German-Victorian academic Raimond Gaita. The whole time I was thinking, ‘Christ, Romulus is David Warner’. The parallels to me are obvious, stark, and complimentary. To David, that is. Daveulus, My Opener.

I will start by saying that Napisan-ing my brain with classic Australian literature is something I don’t enjoy doing. Most of the time, I try to read something new. Anything except high fantasy. High fantasy is for perverts. This particular book I was reading shall remain nameless because you can tell they tried. I’m not one to knock effort or laugh at someone’s failures when they’ve had a red hot go at writing something that’s better served beside a fireplace. Pages ready and willing to be ripped out and set alight under a nest of kindling. My fireplace book at the moment is Jamie Oliver’s 30 Minute Meals. That lisping shite-bag must be working in fast forward because every recipe in that fucking book takes at least an hour.

The underlying similarities between Warner and Romulus are their resilience, determination, and the ability to overcome adversity. David is rare in that his ability to be resilient and determined followed him off the field and into the middle pages of every dog shit newspaper from Bondi to Bunbury. He has lived a colorful life, so far. Much more than any other opening batsman to come before him. I say that with little confidence. Gideon will probably email me minutes after this is published and tell me about Charles Kellaway and how “he’s the only Australian opener to shoot 15 Germans” then go back to playing career-best Test cricket in the early 20s.

Daveulus forged his own path into the Australian Test Cricket Team, much like Romulus had to create a life for himself after arriving

here from Romania. They both faced early hardships. Romulus didn’t speak much English but found some in the trusting arms of his fellow countrymen, brothers Hora and Mitru. While young Daveulus had been a somewhat famous face of the East Sydney District cricket scene, his career was given the springboard it needed to take him from being the affable park cricketer that steals copper wire from his job sites to international superstar when he was given the call up to the Cricket Australia (CA) Centre of Excellence. While at the Centre of Excellence, he found kindred spirits in the unsinkable Mark Cosgrove and fellow crossbat enjoyer Aaron Finch.

Hora and Mitru weren’t actually that nice to Romulus and they ended up doing him in with some unethical behavior. They also gaslit him repeatedly and made him think he was crazy. If you can remember what happened next, that’s good. Despite all of this, Romulus trudged through the pits of despair and hopelessness, carefully making sure none of the muck poured in over the top of his gumboots. Hora came good in the end, though.

Shortly after arriving at the so-called CA Centre of Excellence, Davulus, Finchy, and Marky C got booted for being ‘unhygienic’. Whatever that means. I think to be a truly great opening batsman, you need to have some sort of ADHD or something to that effect. Kids who can’t sit still, kids that can hyperfocus on things that lead their mind off down the garden path and far, far away from fifth period Geography. I think those three guys, and our Shane, probably had it and they used it well. People of that way can’t clean for shit and enjoy living in a den of their own creation. Rather than booting them for being weird young men who can sleep on a bare mattress with no pillows in a set of mismatching tracksuits, they should’ve nurtured them. I bet Mark Taylor’s garage is messy; messy like an Irishman’s tax return. Trust me, I know. Side note: Mark Cosgrove is two years older than Daveulus and Finchy - and he was a heavy user of hair gel (as was the fashion at the time) so don’t tell me he didn’t lead them astray just a little bit. He had the McDonald’s manager ski jump at the front hair-do back then. Only the baddest c—ts did back then. The thinking man’s mullet.

It would be fair of me to say that Romulus’ life went to shit pretty quickly. Not far into the book and the wheels start to fall off. I won’t go into it because this is a cricket-adjacent project. Long story short, his family busts up and Mitru takes off with his wife, Christine, leaving him and Raimond in some hellhole in regional Victoria trying to work out what to do next. Mitru and Christine end up brown bread and Romulus gets the wobbles big time after that.

You could say the ball-tampering saga is kind of similar. Obviously not a carbon copy but with some heavy shoehorning, you could get the boot on. Daveulus was a child of the game, he’d been playing it since day dot and when you’re that good for that long, the people you share a change room with become some sort of family. Family is family, as petty crims say. When it all came to light that sandpaper was used to tamper with the ball all those years ago in South Africa, Daveulus lost his family. He was yanked from his comfort and dissected under lights. Sure, he might’ve told them it was a good idea but he learned from two of the biggest competitive freaks, Pup and Punter, that winning is life and losing is fucked. So he did what he did. In the scheme of things, it was fuck all, really.

He could’ve chucked it in then and played some hit and giggle in the subcontinent until his eyes failed him. Then what? He takes over from the La Perouse snake man? No, Daveulus kept on. Like Romulus kept on. After some time in the mental doldrums, Romulus came back and dug in. Started a business importing and distributing metal furniture and got Raimond to adulthood. I could honestly go on for hours but I won’t.

We’re here at the end of Daveulus Warner’s great Australian career. A cricketer that should’ve been a lot worse but couldn’t have been much better. Well, maybe without the ban but you know. His influence and impact on the modern game is immense and he’s reshaped what it means to be an opener moving into the future. In the story of Romulus, his legacy is his son, Raimond. In the fable of Daveulus, it is us who is Raimond. For that, I will miss seeing him in the creams and canary yellow.