Inside Sport first visited Shane Warne back in 1993, our story’s appearance timed to coincide with the Ashes tour of England that year (issue #19, “The Big Break”). At that stage he’d been on the radar for not much more than a summer, but after a sketchy start in the baggy green against the Indians, he’d bagged seven wickets in an innings in the 1992 Boxing Day Test against the might of the West Indies, which had cemented his seat on the plane. We met first in his manager’s office in Sydney, then again on his home turf, at a venue of his choosing: a Toorak hotel, funnily enough, where over numerous drinks he rapped openly and unselfconsciously for hours about his cricket and personal journey to the baggy green, about his issues with authority figures, even his preference for drinks of the colour green (not Gatorade). We were met there after a few hours by his new girlfriend, Simone, whom he introduced proudly. He was endearing, modest, enthusiastic ... Ah, those were the days of athlete access ... So we would claim that we were watching the TV closer than most when he was tossed the ball for his first over in an Ashes Test a few months later. And you know what happens next: the famous Gatting ball is now routinely cited as the greatest delivery in cricket. In the single game that is without doubt our greatest national obsession, Warne would go on to become not just Australia’s greatest wicket-taker and not just the greatest leg spinner the world has every seen, but the greatest bowler the world has ever seen (sorry, Murali). And he would do it in all forms of the game, through all kinds of controversy. He was always the one urging his captain to give him the ball; he could hold down an end; he could bamboozle the best; he could mess with batsmen’s heads; he was the antidote to the soporific line-and-length trundlers, or the push-off-the-pickets pacemen ... He was the one bowler in the world who you just knew could take a wicket with the very next ball. And so often did. He never bowled badly. He was a delight to watch. Warne’s career trajectory thus neatly follows the two decades of this magazine. Which is why, given cricket’s pre-eminent place in our national sporting psyche, Shane Keith Warne also doubles as not just the Best Bowler of the last 20 years, but the Best Player of Any Sport. For freakish ability, for longevity, for panache, for sheer damn competitiveness, for sheer love of sport, Shane Warne, you are simply The Best. – Graem Sims

The only downside to Scott Sattler’s remarkable chasing-down, try-saving tackle on Todd Byrne in the 2003 decider is that the moment will forever dominate most footy fans’ memories of what was the greatest grand final of the last 20 years.

Footy title deciders can be a lot like Christmas – often their build-up proves more exciting than the game itself. Indeed, this encounter’s lead-in was a promoter’s dream: the princes of Sydney’s east vs the paupers of its west; the trendy defending premiers vs the wooden spooners of just two years earlier; the first all-Sydney league grand final since 1996.

Contested at Telstra Stadium back in the era of the night grand final, this match actually delivered on all that hype. There was guts – via the tireless and inspirational efforts of the Panthers’ burrowing Clive Churchill medallist, Luke Priddis. Punishing hits – through the relentless efforts of hardnosed Roosters bookends Adrian Morley, Jason Cayless and Mick Croker. Brilliance with the ball – via the superb skills of both backlines, which back in those days featured established stars Preston Campbell, Luke Rooney and Paul Whatuira for the “underdogs”, and Ryan Cross, Shannon Hegarty and Chris Walker for the “shoe-ins”. All this in 80 minutes of pouring rain, which can reduce the most justifiably-hyped blockbuster to an error-riddled snore-fest.

The match also delivered the purists a story acted out on a highly emotional sporting backdrop. Rarely can the collective hurt of a superstar leaving a club for greener pastures be healed as it was for Penrith fans that night. Their former boy wonder from Cambridge Park, Brad Fittler, tried to orchestrate more heartbreak on their boys in black, six long years after he broke club ranks by staying loyal to the Australian Rugby League when Penrith defected to the Murdoch-owned rebel Super League ... As Panthers fans’ heads finally hit the pillow after two days of celebrating an 18-6 win, all was forgiven – there were no hard feelings towards Freddy anymore. – James Smith

Are we kidding ourselves here? How do you compare captains of different sports, let alone over the last 20 years? Do we just look at their stats on the basis that winning is everything, or do we bring into the picture the style of their leadership and how they influenced the creation of a team culture that best represented the nation?

No, we’re not kidding. We first compare the sports – and without a shadow of a doubt, the role of a cricket captain towers above the little “c” role in any other sport, on so many different levels. A football captain may lead by inspiration on the paddock, even bring together his teams in breaks in play to raise motivational or occasional tactical points. But their level of influence is limited to these brief intermissions. A cricket captain, on the other hand, commands the entire tactical approach of their team in a kind of excruciating slow motion for days at a time where every one of their countless decisions is scrutinised by opponents, commentators and fans.

Throughout long days in the field they position players in the field, choose bowlers, as well as doing everything else that football captains must do.

And so there are four contenders: Allan Border, Mark Taylor, Steve Waugh and Ricky Ponting. Border was the gruff old-schooler bruised by the lean years of the 1980s who led from the front and would rather see a match grind to a draw than give his opponents even the faintest sniff of victory; Mark Taylor was the gifted tactician and man-manager who was known for the sporting declaration for the greater good of the game; Steve Waugh inherited a team already getting used to winning ways but added a more ruthless edge and psychological harshness to give the team indomitability; Ricky Ponting was the captain by virtue of his mountain of runs and long experience, but was tactically conservative and prone to the odd blunder ...

And the winner is ... by virtue of his fair-mindedness and adventurous play and co-operative upbeat “tis really only a game” attitude which during his five-year tenure turned a whipped outfit into worldbeaters ... Come on down, Captain Tubby Taylor. – Graem Sims

It has to be Harry Kewell, right? The boy star who bravely travelled to England in his teens, making his Premier League debut for Leeds at 18 back in 1996. The third youngest ever to play for Australia, while still only 17 and 7 months (in 1996) – a regular scorer and deft playmaker as he racked up 54 A Internationals, finding the net 16 times, igniting the Socceroos with his fabulous ball skills, lightning speed and reflexes (albeit in his earlier years) and great maturity. A natural leader on the paddock, even though considered a fairly solitary and self-contained figure off it ... Our best player? It’s a no brainer. Except for ... Goalkeeper Mark Schwarzer, who has played in 92 A Internationals, spanning the years 1993 to the present day, making him this country’s most capped player. He currently sits in tenth on the all-time highest number of appearances in the English Premier League, after lengthy stints with Middlesbrough and now Fulham. Twice Australian Footballer of the Year. A giant of the game in more ways than one, who has done more than any other single player to see the Socceroos now justifiably take their place on the world stage. For Schwarzer is the freakish and fearless saver of penalties and other close-range shots, contorting his massive frame to deflect soccer balls off virtually every part of his anatomy. He is the respected authority at the back in organising our defence, the safe-as-houses factor who has saved our Socceroo necks more times than anyone can remember. On durability, consistency, clean sheets and minutes on the paddock, let’s dip our lid to one of the greatest goalkeepers of all time. And thank God he’s an Aussie. – Graem Sims

You wanted it to be Pat Rafter, right? Rafter is the Hugh Jackman of Australian sport – impossible not to love. A net-charging serve-volleyer, world No.1, two US Opens, two gladiatorial Wimbledon finals, four-times voted Best Sportsman.

Lleyton Hewitt, precocious, pugnacious baseliner warrior with a prickly public persona, was in no danger of needing to clear space on the mantle for a sportsmanship gong. He went litigious on the ATP while and his final appearances were spread over three Slam centre courts - Rafter never made the final of the Australian Open. For silverware everywhere, Lleyton lifted 28 trophies from 42 finals, while Rafter won 11 of 25 finals.

In mid-1999, Rafter became the first Aussie No.1 since the net-jumping Newk. He was 26, tennis middle-age, and reigned for one week. Hewitt in 2001 became the youngest-ever player, at 20 years nine months, to finish a season as No.1. He ruled for all of 2002, and a total of 80 weeks. In Davis Cup, Hewitt is the most successful Aussie ever, part of winning teams in 1999 and 2003. Ironically, it was not the fiery Hewitt who clinched those two Cup wins, but Mark Philippoussis, the third Aussie top tenner in the last 20 years. When the wiry, 16-year-old Hewitt arrived on the scene, all eyes in Aussie tennis were focused on the Greek demigod at the other end of the court, with his thunderous serve and all-court firepower. Philippoussis was the champion of Aussie tennis fantasy. But he proved a fabulous decoy; Hewitt went on to become the No.1 no one expected. – Suzi Petkovski

Kostya Tszyu’s second-round knockout of Zab Judah on November 2, 2001, was the most important win any Australian boxer had ever earned. It was also easily the most satisfying. This was a fight to unify all major versions of the world light-welterweight title. Judah, the big-mouthed, mollycoddled Golden Child of American boxing, was considered, pound-for-pound, the world’s best. Indisputably a rare talent, he was fast, a damaging puncher, a silky mover, never in danger of defeat. Every win was a work of art. The rising opinion, as he dazzlingly scythed his way through the ranks, was that Judah was a pugilistic prodigy. But the Americans, who had calculatedly mistreated Tszyu in all his previous fights over there – after all, he’d cleaned out the stables of their biggest promoters and networks and taken the title a long way from home – were blind to the otherworldly talents of the Russian-born Aussie, who held two versions of the title.

In the first round they seemed vindicated, as Judah landed a searing uppercut that would’ve finished a lesser fighter. By the end of round two, though, Tszyu was already reducing the rapid Judah’s fighting system to a shambles, until, with a second left in the round, he pounced with one of the most perfectly-executed knockout blows ever seen. It was a textbook finish to a boxing clinic.

From then on, it was pure theatre. Judah went down, but that overweening ego impelled him straight back to his feet. Unfortunately he forgot to pick up his mind and he fell straight back down, but not before momentarily trying to convince the referee that he’d merely tripped over. The ensuing pandemonium was a hilarious, if disconcerting, display of bad sportsmanship. Finally, Tszyu, belts around his waist in centre ring, calmly watched the departure of Judah’s tangle of tantrum tossers and declared Judah’s arrogant pre-fight “winner-takes-all” pronouncement “a boomerang”. A victory for the ages. One for the good guy. – Robert Drane

It has to be Kieren Perkins. His winning swim from lane eight in the 1500m at the Atlanta Olympics was beyond the realms of imagining; a comeback so fantastical, Spielberg would’ve struggled to make it believable.

In the months leading up to the Games, Perkins appeared a spent force. His form was so despicable it prompted rumours he’d been hollowed by a mystery stomach virus. In fact the sickness was all in his mind. Perkins’ self-belief had deserted him. And it all came to the fore in the Olympic heats. With 300m to go he found himself gripped by a horrible fear. The thought of qualifying for the final and finishing last was unconscionable to him; he wouldn’t be able to face his family, his friends, his coach; he envisioned his sponsors fleeing from him; he concluded that if he finished last in that final his life would be all but over. He decided to slow down, to miss the final on purpose, watch the thing from the stands. Somehow his muscle memory overrode proceedings. His splits over the final six laps stayed the same. He touched the wall in 15:21.42, almost 40secs outside his own PB, but enough to get him into a lane eight berth by 0.24secs.

Come the final, of course, he led from the opening lap and powered away from the field on an occult wave of early-race energy. At the halfway mark his form looked to be crumbling, his head jerky, his face red. But he didn’t just hold on, he stretched his lead, pulling away from the field. It was a true comeback, its greatness best measured in the wide-eyed look of disbelief on the face of Daniel Kowalski after he pipped Scotland’s Graeme Smith for silver. – Aaron Scott

You can find two versions on YouTube of Cathy Freeman’s run in the 400 metre final at the 2000 Sydney Olympics. One is accompanied by Bruce McAvaney’s (and Jane Fleming’s) marvellous commentary – you probably don’t need reminding, but why not? Bruce: “Cathy lifting ... Takes the lead ... Looks a winner ... This is a famous victory. A magnificent performance. What a legend. What a champion ... ” Jane: “What a relief.”

There’s another, sans commentary. Just crowd noise. Sorry, Bruce, but it is arguably even more compelling. Anyone there that night can never forget the decibel level in that stadium as she swallowed the leaders inside the last 100 metres. A roar redoubled ... then redoubled again. An arena – an entire nation – united in orgasmic delight (and yes, relief) as our poster girl for the entire Games actually delivered on the “promise” she had first shown in her breakout year of 1994, winning a gold medal for Australia on the track, the sacred heart of Olympic competition.

Australia has enjoyed a truly remarkable rise in Olympic competitiveness this last 20 years: just 14 medals (3 gold) in Seoul in 1988; then 27 (7 gold) in Barcelona; 41 (nine gold) in Atlanta; 58 (16 gold) in Sydney; 49 (17 gold) in Athens; then 46 (14 gold) in Beijing ... that’s 63 gold medals won in the life of Inside Sport. Why choose Cathy’s win, in what has been suggested by some to have been one of the weaker 400m fields assembled at that level, won in a time that wouldn’t have got her on the podium four years earlier? How could it exceed the smashing guitars of the 4x100m men in the pool, Perkins’ golden double (and almost triple) in the 1500m, Hackett’s repeat in the same event (gold, gold, silver), et al?

It wins because those arguments about Freeman’s times don’t wash. Of the top 400m times in history, sure, Freeman’s time in Sydney comes in well down the pecking order (49.11, equal 48th), whereas her silver in Atlanta comes in 14th, with Marie-Jose Perec’s gold in that race the sixth fastest time ever run. The reason Freeman’s win does rate by any measure is due to the muddying of waters and times in the bad old days of the 1980s, before the systematic dope cheating of the Eastern bloc nations was curtailed. World’s fastest 400m? East German Marita Koch in 1985. Second fastest? Jarmila Kratochvilova in 1983. Etcetera. Then Perec’s time in Atlanta. Then a Soviet runner in ’85. Then a Czech in ’83. Then Cathy Freeman in Atlanta. Sure, she was a tad slower in Sydney, but she was running from lane six. In the cool of night, not the dry heat of Atlanta. There can be no doubting Cathy’s class, even up against the most tainted times in history.

Sure, there has been pressure in the pool, and in the field, and everywhere else. But there has never been more pressure on any single Australian athlete in history (let alone the last 20 years) than in our feature event at our home Olympic Games. Resoundingly won. And resoundingly celebrated by all. No doubt about it: for Australians, this was the best Olympic moment ever. – Graem Sims

Wallaby rugby borrows from many sources. There’s fling-it-about flair from France, fast physicality from South Africa, all-rugby nous from New Zealand, and straight-hard-and-at-‘em attitude from ol’ cousin Mungo. And one night in July of 2000 all these things combined like party drugs with nitroglycerin.

There have been several fine Wallaby Tests. David Campese bedevilled the All Blacks at Lansdowne Road in ’91. George Gregan demolished Jeff Wilson in ’94. Toutai Kefu reached out an arm to win John Eales’ last Test on ’01. There were no tries in the World Cup semi-final of ’99 (against South Africa) but it was still a highly compelling contest won by Bernie Larkham’s crazy boot. There are other notables: a dead fourth Bledisloe in Hong Kong, 2010; the entire 2001 Lions tour; Lang Park in ’96; Tests won by goals on the siren. But no game of rugby – Test or Super, club or park, beach or snow – comes close to the glowing golden bullion that lit up Olympic Stadium on July 15, 2000. Twenty-four minutes in it was 24-nil after Pita Alatini, Tana Umaga and Christian Cullen shredded the Wallabies. Larkham then turned on his signature ghost manoeuvres and scythed through the Blacks, feeding running men with perfectly timed spiral passes.

Chris Latham, Joe Roff and a young Stirling Mortlock scored tries and at half-time it was 24-all. The teams scored a try each in the second-half; Jeremy Paul’s late one giving the Wallabies a one-point lead and, seemingly, a wonderful victory. But the All Blacks ploughed down field, slung the ball out to the great Jonah Lomu, who out-flanked Larkham to score in the corner. It was the 83rd minute. And every one of the 109,874 spectators knew they’d been witness to an instant classic: jolting collisions; head-back adventure; fearless expression; evenly-matched, world-class rugby teams playing Super Rugby-style for a sheep station. If Twitter had been about, #ABsVsWallabies may have melted the world’s servers. Closely followed by #BestTestEver. – Matt Cleary

Stephen Larkham had the perfect passes, the scything ghost-moves. Tim Horan ran like a speedboat, won two World Cups. George Gregan ran the show and tackled everything. George Smith ruled the breakdown like the hungriest hyena. And David Campese pole-catted about and entertained like a weird cousin at a wedding. But there can be only one. And the one is Big John. John Eales was the nice kid you introduced to your parents on athletics day, the lanky prefect who won the high jump, 1500m and javelin, and still had nerds for mates. As a lock, Eales’ job was to fly into the jaws of death at kick-off, leap for line-out ball and crash into the breakdown with violent intent. He did that and added things locks had never done. He had ridiculous athleticism; a basketball man’s soaring slam-dunk, the electric wiggle of a spawning salmon. His 86 Tests spanned amateur and professional eras. He scored four-point and five-point tries. He kicked goals. He’s the highest point-scoring forward in history. His leadership in the ’99 World Cup final – when he threatened to lead the Wallabies from the field lest the dastardly French cease their squirrel-gripping – allowed his team to concentrate on flogging France. There was a World Cup-saving tackle on Rob Andrew, a Bledisloe-Cup-winning penalty goal, the Tom Richards Trophy for taming the Lions. And always there was ball – possession – garnered like the world’s best Marabou stork. This is Dawn Fraser in footy boots. A legend. – Matt Cleary

This took a lot of consideration. Gary Ablett Sr, at 30, was in the dusk of an astounding career when Inside Sport first hit the stands. But he still had a few years of thrilling magic to come. An amazing creation, touched by the Gods. And 1991 was the year Wayne Carey began a decade of sheer dominance with North Melbourne, culminating in the 1996 and 1999 premierships. There was Lockett, who broke the record for career goals. Probably the all-time great full-forward. Up the other end of the Pantheon Firsts, Silvagni was deemed Fullback of the Century. Then there’s Judd, the ideal midfielder. Buckley, Hird and Voss. You’d have them all playing for your life.

When we considered sheer influence, pure ability to hurt the opposition consistently, the capacity to impose themselves on games just by force of talent, it came down to two: Carey and Judd. The latter still has a good half a decade to go, and by the end of that time he’ll probably challenge anyone for the mantle of GOAT.

But our pick, right now, is The Duck: Wayne Carey. The man for whom Pagan invented a paddock. The man who consistently descended on packs of backs full of ill-intent, and pinched their ball, laughing disdainfully all the while. Yea, even the powers of the great West Coast defensive machine. People can bang on about the number of times he was beaten by Jakovich, whose sole job was to stay the juggernaut, but Carey still won enough, and was rarely beaten when it counted.

Pack marks, long goals, one-touch handling, toughness, small-man mobility in a big body – Carey had it all. Ablett was the game’s id; Carey its ego. Games assumed his personality. He was courageous, superior, powerful and in total control of his many talents. When he went to the centre, or half-back, he racked up 30 possessions a game. As a leader, he took North to seven straight preliminary finals, and three Grannies, for those two wins. Mouthy arrogance probably prevented him winning the Brownlow he was favourite for on four occasions. He may have ended in ignominy due to off-field demeanours, but for a decade, Carey was undisputed King. --Robert Drane

The question gets posed: does half of Greg Norman’s prime equal all of Karrie Webb’s? Then you realise it might be the wrong question: does the Shark’s golfing accomplishments in total measure up to those of his fellow Queenslander? Norman’s record is well-known – it’s Webb’s that somehow gets customarily overlooked. In a professional career that began in 1994, she has won 52 titles with seven major championships, including some that weren’t yet major (Webb won the Women’s British Open twice before it was given major status) and some that are no longer (Canada’s now-defunct du Maurier Classic). Like Norman, Webb has won in every part of the world, and been staunch at home, with four Women’s Australian Opens and seven Ladies Masters titles. Then there’s perhaps her most remarkable achievement, when Webb was inducted into the World Golf Hall of Fame in 2005 at age 30, the youngest person to make the Hall until fellow LPGA Tour star Se Ri Pak two years later. And that’s another significant factor – Webb has stood among giants in an era when women’s golf truly went global. There were rivals such as Korea’s Pak, Mexico’s Lorena Ochoa and, most notably, Swede Annika Sorenstam, who was driven to the heights of her own considerable talent by Webb’s emergence at the turn of the century.

Debate will undoubtedly follow about trying to make comparisons across men’s and women’s golf. No matter – Australia’s future golfing stars will hope to emulate Norman, but they’ll have to do historically well to win like Webb. – Jeff Centenera

No sports broadcaster in this country commands more respect, even reverence, than Richie Benaud. It’s not just his familiar, constant image and the elegant restraint in his words through our cricket seasons: it is his respect for and reading of the game that lends such gravitas and wisdom to his commentary. We feel privileged to hear him. But how would Richie go commentating an Olympic 100 metre final? Or the closing stages of a tight swimming relay? Or an AFL match? Or the proverbial two flies crawling up a wall? Each sport has its subject experts, like Richie, but for sheer versatility – when it is the broadcasting skill that is the required talent rather than specialist “been there” expertise – it is impossible to go past Bruce McAvaney. Other commentators might be funnier, wittier, sharper, more controversial. But there is none better. Certainly none more passionate. And damned accurate. In a story on him published in these pages back in August 1993, we named him Australia’s best commentator – and we see no reason to depart from that judgment 18 years later. McAvaney is still the voice of the Olympics, having called every Games since 1980 in Moscow. With the Games going to the Nine Network at London this year, we will miss him. – Graem Sims

For three quarters, the 2011 finale had all the makings of the best ever: two all-time great sides at the peak of their powers, with only five losses between them for the entire season. Up until three-quarter time, it was a shootout as man after man rose to the occasion for their team. There were high motives. There was freestyle brilliance and grim stoppage play. But then, sometime in the last term, the Magpies relinquished their crown and the grateful Cats took the cream. Still, it was a magnificent occasion.

The 2005 grand final, won by the Sydney Swans, had all that, plus denouement. Despite the denunciations of Aussie rules snobs who apparently have a mortgage on the way the game should be played, this game was a cracker. Both teams had mastered tempo and possession football. Yes, it was at times a grim, grimy affair, but that was part of its charm. It was close all the way. It was pulsatingly intense and the end could not have been scripted better.

Sydney, four points up with only seconds to go, by no means had the win in the bag. The brilliant Eagles were pressing, marshalling their formidable forces, and gunslingers Cousins, Judd, et al were about to squeeze the trigger with the goals in their crosshairs. To this day, we’re not sure where that bush boy named Leo Barry came from, or how he got there, but his feet had barely touched the ground after that fabled soar above the pack to pluck the ball (pictured left) and the game from the Eagles’ grasp, when the siren went. Barry had ensured a place in posterity for himself, his team and coach Paul Roos. A remarkable, rollercoaster 23-year history for a club of exiles, cult figures and rejects had culminated in the ultimate reward. The sequel in 2006, won by the Eagles by a point, was a close second for this award, in our humble opinion. – Robert Drane

Quite often, Andrew Johns’ team-mates had no more of an idea of what way “Joey” was going to turn the game than their opposition had. It was common for would-be decoy runners to suddenly find themselves crossing the stripe with the pill in their hands after it had fired into their gut from a last-second, laser-accurate cut-out pass, or had slithered along the turf after leaving Joey’s boot. Johns’ foresight was unrivalled; he seemed to play a different game – one he’d watched ten seconds before the other players. He was two or three plays ahead of everyone else and spent many a winter’s afternoon frustrated that no one else on the field was keeping up.

Incisive running, long bullet-like passes, a pinpoint kicking game, toughness and dogged competitiveness were the hallmarks of countless halves and hookers long before Joey arrived on the scene, but the days and nights in which he was able to show-off all five qualities with such class are uncountable.

Johns bolted ahead of the pack three years after our first edition went to print back in ’94. In a game against Souths, his first 80-minute shift, the Newcastle Knights junior broke the club’s record for most points in a match – 23. He’d go on to score the most points ever for Newcastle, more points in a season than any player in the game’s history, two Golden Boot awards, a record three Dally Ms and the ARL and NSW Team of the Century halfback spots ... Waiting for the league world to catch up to Joey’s individual record will be frustrating. – James Smith

Numbers rarely lie when it comes to quantifying a batsman’s worth and they certainly don’t lie in this case: the best Test batsman of the last two decades is Ricky Ponting. No question. Hold his numbers to the light, examine them from every perspective, and all the facets gleam. He’s scored more runs and more centuries than any other Australian batsman. He’s scored runs on home decks (where he averages 57.52) and he’s scored them on foreign pitches (where his mark stands at 48.1). He’s hit centuries against every Test-playing nation, and he’s hit centuries on every continent. The burden of captaincy rarely dented his effectiveness (he averaged 51.5 as skipper), nor did the wear of the pitch (he averages 61.9 in the first innings and 54.5 in the last). Significantly, his runs have proven crucial to Australian fortunes – his mark in the winning team is 59, in the losing it’s 35.6. When Ponting scores runs, Australia invariably wins Beyond the numbers, however, is the style of Ponting’s batting. He’s a dominator: his runs have invariably been dominant runs. He’s torn bowling attacks to shreds, crushed egos, stared down hairy-chested quicks. His hook and his pull have been statements throughout his career. In recent seasons he’s been lambasted for his refusal to sheath these strokes. The hide of us! Telling the greatest Australian batsman since Bradman to drop his hands in the face of a rising ball is like telling a fish it can’t breathe underwater. – Aaron Scott

What makes one match “the best”? If a Test’s greatness is defined by its historical significance, then we can’t go past the fourth Test of the 1995 Frank Worrell Trophy at the citadel of West Indian cricket, Sabina Park. With the series levelled at one- all, Mark Taylor’s men skewered the Windies on a deck so flat, it had been rolled to a glassy sheen. A double ton to Steve Waugh set up an innings victory and established an Australian cricketing dictatorship that would run for the next 12 years.

If, on the other hand, a Test’s greatness is defined by the pure theatre of the match, then it has to be the second Test of the 2005 Ashes series at Edgbaston. This was a classic, swinging contest dominated throughout by two larger-than-life characters in Shane Warne and Andrew Flintoff, each striking with the ball and parrying with the bat. It was a travesty that neither was involved in the match’s epic denouement, when the shoulder of Michael Kasprowicz’s bat caught a short ball from Steve Harmison, gifting the Poms a two-run victory.

Both of these Tests could easily lay claim to the best of the last two decades. But we reckon there was an even better one: the second Test of the 2001 Border-Gavaskar Trophy at the concrete crucible of Calcutta’s Eden Gardens. This Test had everything. On one side stood a great Australian team looking to conquer the last frontier of a series victory on the parched strips of India. On the other stood an Indian team full of great players united behind a captain determined to needle the Australians at every turn. After two days the Indians looked punch drunk, knocked senseless by the bat of Steve Waugh and the line of Glenn McGrath. Then they rose. VVS Laxman and Rahul Dravid (pictured left) stroked 461 of the most elegant runs the game has ever witnessed, before Harbhajan Singh ripped the visitors out 171 runs short of their target. An epic match that saw great cricketers performing great feats on one of the greatest stages of world cricket. – Aaron Scott

Few dates in Australian sporting history are etched in our memories like November 16, 2005, when Australia met Uruguay at Sydney’s Olympic Stadium for the match that would decide the final berth at the 2006 World Cup in Germany. No fan will ever forget the penalty shootout that decided the game, John Aloisi slotting the final kick that sent the nation into a frenzy as the realisation hit that after decades of disappointment, we were finally going to our first World Cup in 32 years ... A huge moment. But our best Socceroo match in the last 20 years? Not quite: that would come in our first match at the tournament the next year, at Kaiserslautern. No home ground advantage here. And the added pressure of the eyes of the entire world on our guys as we met Japan. Yes, we would go on to heroically draw with Croatia in another high quality match. Yes, we would come within a whisker of downing eventual champions Italy in the round of 16. Yes, we have beaten a stellar England line-up 3-1 on their own turf in 2003, and even this year we beat Germany in Germany ... but friendlies don’t count here. No, our best performance came with the most heat on us – down one-nil after a controversial Japan goal 20 minutes into the first half (Schwarzer clearly taken out), then our Socceroos running themselves ragged, throwing themselves forward in waves, with ample opportunities created and narrowly thwarted, our frustrations growing, until ... In the second half, coach Guus Hiddink brings on Tim Cahill and Aloisi. With just six minutes to go on the clock, yet another piercing cross creates a goalmouth skirmish, and Cahill is on hand to finally poke the loose ball into the net. One-all. What happens next is the stuff of football dreams. Five minutes later, Cahill receives the ball a few yards outside the box, steadies, props, then slots a perfectly drilled shot inside the left post (pictured). Two-one. Three minutes later, Aloisi receives the ball 30 metres from goal and charges at the defenders, controlling tightly off both feet, beating them and nailing the shot from inside the box that would shatter Japanese hearts. Three exhilarating, quality goals in the last eight minutes the reward for a complete performance against fine opponents – and the world now knows that Australian football has arrived on the world stage. – Graem Sims

There have been 20 years of gobsmackers across many types of motor sport ... Mark Webber winning his first grand prix after a drive-through penalty; the mayhem of that wet Bathurst 1000 in ’07 won by Craig Lowndes/Jamie Whincup; Marcos Ambrose’s emotional breakthrough NASCAR win this year at Watkins Glen; and some routine rousing brilliance and bravery from Mick Doohan and Casey Stoner in MotoGP. For stirring, heart-in-the mouth racing, with ever-present danger, motorcycles are impossible to beat. Aussie Troy Bayliss’ (pictured right) sole win in MotoGP is memorable more for the enormity of the challenge than the closeness of the contest. Bayliss had gone winless in three unsatisfactory seasons and been dumped by Ducati in MotoGP before returning to his World Superbike Championship happy hunting ground, where he collected his second of three WSC crowns in 2006.

As a reward Ducati offered Bayliss a wildcard entry into the final MotoGP race of 2006 at Valencia. The event was billed as the heavyweight title-decider between Valentino Rossi and Nicky Hayden; no one rated the then 37-year-old Aussie wildcard.

Expectations were not high, as he’d been away from a MotoGP Ducati for more than two years, and in any case had never won in that class. There was also the pervading presence of Signore Machiavelli inside the Ducati pit garage. After qualifying a surprise second, Bayliss fired off the line, hit the front into turn one and tenaciously led a drama-filled GP until the flag, outshining the title protagonists Rossi, who fell, and soon-to-be ’06 world champion Hayden. At the finish, Bayliss jumped off his bike and declared that he wouldn’t race a MotoGP bike again. And he didn’t.

Winning in MotoGP is the hardest task in two-wheeled motor sport. To accomplish this as a stop-gap rider was very special. – Peter McKay