![]() It's not hard to imagine Packer, as the jet closed in on Bradman's turf, muttering to himself: Don't f*** it up Martin tried to cover as much ground as possible, but like so many others left much unsaid and less understood. It was a reverent piece of work, typical of the industry that expanded around Bradman's legend in the 1990s. Bradman had no need to utilise his option of final cut. Martin and his production partner Peter Wynne duly headed to Adelaide, and filmed over two days with Bradman and his wife Jessie the interviews that became the television special Don Bradman, 87 Not Out. I told him that if he doesn't like it, for any reason, then we'll burn the bastard. I promised him, when the show is cut and before we put it on air, he can have a look at it. "It was truly one of the greatest days of my life. ![]() "So Kerry, how was it? Did you enjoy meeting the Don?" Martin asked. A deal was done for the interview to be accompanied by a A$1 million telethon to help finish the Bradman Museum in Bowral. "Each man thought the other hated him," Martin wrote, "because of the war that erupted over Packer's World Series Cricket in the 1970s." But when Packer and a mutual friend, Bob Mansfield, called into Bradman's Holden Street address in Adelaide's Kensington Park, the meeting quickly became, in Mansfield's words to Martin, an "absolute bloody love-in". In his memoir Stories of My Life, Martin explained that despite their enormous influence on the game, Packer and Bradman had never previously met. During a trip to Adelaide, Packer had secured for Martin and Channel Nine what would be the last television interview with Sir Donald Bradman. On the other end was Kerry Packer, Australia's richest man, bearing good tidings for his television network's most bankable personality. One Saturday morning in early 1996, Ray Martin's phone rang.
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