I’M standing at a pedestrian crossing in Cape Town, an Australian cricket team tour member in a squad led by Michael Clarke and Ricky Ponting, waiting for the red man to give the green man a turn.

It was like being in the desert and I felt like the only person in the world. Then across the other side, appeared, from a walking track, Clarke and his then girlfriend Lara Bingle.

There we were, eight lanes apart, no cars nor other humans in sight.

They couldn’t miss me. I could have been crawling along the ground in full camo and they would have seen me.

As we got closer, I began to take my headphones out so I could say “g’day”. Maybe even stop at the half way point for a chat on the 10 metres of mulch-covered land between the two highways. We would have been safe.

What happened next makes me glad I possess a sense of humour that thrives on socially awkward encounters, because Michael and Lara walked straight past me without any tip of the cap, no smile, zero acknowledgment. I think they may have turned around when I burst out laughing, but I can’t be sure.

If you’ve heard the saying “inside the professional sporting bubble” and thought to yourself, “nah, there’s no such thing,” I am here to tell you differently, thanks to experience in the strange realm of leadership cricket style.

There is not one thing about professional cricket that is comparable to work in the real world. The pay is inflated, you accrue leave at a rate faster than Marion Jones after a drink of the special kool-aid, and this grants you five months holiday a year. You will also access the local links at least three times per week.

Brett Geeves at training with the Australian team in Durban in March 2009. Source: News Limited

There are few, if any, policies, guidelines, behavioural codes or punishments for displaying the coping mechanisms of a spoiled five year old who hasn’t learnt to share; unless of course you aren’t performing, or injured, then you can’t sneeze down wind of the coach without getting a written warning.

How many physical altercations have you seen in your workplace that haven’t resulted in someone being sacked on the spot, or at the very least, within the week? Sure, Simon Katich got sacked, but it was much further down the road and on the back of a Michael Clarke powerplay to put an end to the feud that had featured a grabbing of the throat and a lifting off the ground and a pooping of the pants. Problem solved.

But is it any wonder there is so much angst being reported about the leadership era of Clarke?

In many regards, it’s not his fault. I’m tipping he holds no formal qualifications in leadership or management or HR.

Cricket coaches and players are not capable of implementing appropriate communication processes to ensure harmony among men. They just aren’t experts in this field. They are too reliant on how it was done when they played, or the values ingrained in them as kids, or selfish excesses of power and ego that we are seeing monetised at the optimal Christmas book selling time.

It seems that some level of appropriate HR process would have done wonders for not just Clarke and his broken relationships, but also those players, like myself, who seemed to pop in and out very briefly.

Michael Clarke (L) with then-captain Ricky Ponting in 2009. Source: AFP

I’ve heard countless horror stories of big mad quicks and straight-backed batters calling home from tours in tears, such was the lack of induction – or onboarding - from new teammates, coaching staff and the CA travelling posse. This is crucial. Not just for the sake of team harmony; but because it is the right thing to do as a human being.

My own experience as a travelling member of the South African Test tour of 2009 is a great example of how the real world and the way we communicate, mentor and harness the strengths and weaknesses of those colleagues that make up our workplace compares unfavourably to the bubble of professional cricket.

The call to inform me that I was on a plane to South Africa was one of the biggest thrills of my cricket career. The fact it came at the expense of the internal tendon that joined to Doug Bollinger’s rib cage was irrelevant.

The flight over was long - 17 hours in transit. The entire trip I couldn’t stop thinking about arriving in Johannesburg and witnessing the raw beauty of the landscape.

What would be waiting for me? My mind raced. A media throng with a resultant press conference? Maybe a limo? At the very least, I was convinced there would be a person carrying a white piece of cardboard with my name on it.

You can imagine my surprise when I came off the flight and there was no one awaiting my arrival. No media. No press conference. And most importantly, no member of the Cricket Australia posse to give me a lift back to the ground where Australia had just won the first Test.

No one. No morning tea. No introductory email. No coffee. No cake.

Brett Geeves in action for Tasmania in 2009. Picture: Gregg Porteous. Source: News Limited

After an hour of waiting, I collected my cricket bag, my suitcase, my laptop bag and trudged over to change the $100 note I had so I could get a cab to the ground. I am not a well-travelled man, so had no idea that catching a cab in Joburg, the crime capital of the world, while carrying two enormous bags and a laptop bag was a reasonably dangerous assignment.

The giveaway was the open admission from the driver that I had just made him a target for both abduction and death. And myself a valuable commodity for ransom. I took all my Cricket Australia clothing off immediately as the drivers sweating and shaking increased.

As we approached the ground to within about 500 metres, I was informed that I would be taken no closer and was asked to exit the vehicle. I did so, as I could see the ground and streams of people departing as the game had finished. A safe place.

As I made my way through the main gate, I was collared by a large security guard carrying a machine gun.

“Where are you going?”. I replied some bumbled mess about replacing Doug Bollinger and that I had a CA bag with my name on it and I was part of the squad. He didn’t buy it and denied me access to the ground.

From there, I walked around to another gate where a smaller gentleman, also carrying a machine gun, took the time to escort me to the players change rooms. What a relief. I was now safe and would no doubt be welcomed into the celebration with a large “HOORAY, GEEVA IS HERE!!”.

As I open the door, I can see the quizzical looks from a number of players as I sheepishly say hello and then hear the words I’ll never forget.

“What are you doing here!!??”

No morning tea. No introductory email. No coffee. No cake.

Worse was yet to come.

I was fortunate enough to have been selected to stay on as part of the ODI squad. It may have been because all the quicks had been sent home post the Test tour, but I am clinging to the fact that I had earnt it.

Having sat out the first two one-dayers, I was brought in for the third in Cape Town. Sadly, in the run chase I walked across my stumps whilst batting and had my sandshoe caved in by the Morkel who isn’t even the good one. The result was a broken foot and I was sent home.

Finding out you’ve got a broken foot and being handed your flight details for the next morning is an extremely flattening experience.

You would think that there would be a process in place to ensure the mental wellbeing of players in this situation is catered for. The real world would provide an exit interview. Some coffee. A cake. A card with nice words in it. Maybe even some balloons. The CEO, the manager or one of his assistants would certainly touch base to wish you well.

Not in the bubble of cricket.

I had Nathan Hauritz sit with me in my room for a stint and the team masseuse – Christian Binder, who I had developed a great relationship with – dropped by also.

The next morning, I hobbled my way down stairs with all my gear and waited in the foyer for the team physio to get me to the airport. As I waited, I watched the coach, the captain and a member of team management having breakfast with Brett Lee, who was not a playing member of the squad.

I thought about going over to say goodbye, but by that stage, I had experienced enough to know that I wasn’t exactly a valued member of the squad and a quiet exit would be a fitting way of departing the HR nightmare that was my tour of South Africa.