THE HON ANDREW HASTIE MP
FEDERAL MEMBER FOR CANNING

SPEECH
ADDRESS TO THE SCOTS COLLEGE PREPARATORY SCHOOL SPEECH NIGHT, SYDNEY TOWN HALL

 

MONDAY 8 DECEMBER 2025

Check against delivery

The moment is clear in my mind.

I dropped my cricket bat.

Tore off my pads and gloves, and walked off and plonked myself down on the boundary far away from the crowd.

It was an overcast summer morning at Centennial Park, and it wasn’t a good start for the Scots Prep 1st XI Cricket team.

I can’t remember which school we were playing, but they were glad to take my wicket, and they let me know it as I walked off the pitch.

As I sat down on the grass, I cried.

I felt humiliated, and I indulged in self-pity.

Things weren’t meant to happen like this.

The week leading up to this moment had been a good one.

I’d batted well in the nets at cricket training, and was given a shot up the batting order.

For most of the season, I’d been playing at the tail at number 10 & 11, and hadn’t had a bat for a while.

I wasn’t a bowler, so Saturday cricket was pretty dull, a lot of time fielding. 

But my batting performance at training had caught the eye of our assistant coach.

That was Jamie Hall, an English county cricketer, working for Scots Prep. 

Mr Hall took me aside—he gave me some encouragement—and made sure I moved up the order to number 3 for the weekend.

I was first drop!

That felt great—I’d been noticed, and I was almost certain to get a bat on Saturday.

My moment of glory arrived much sooner than expected.

We lost one of our opening batsmen, and I was called to the pitch.

Walking out, I felt nervous. 

I took the crease and looked around.

One of the boys fielding gave me a cheeky grin.

Perhaps he sensed my nerves. It wasn’t a good omen.

In came the bowler, at speed.

The red shiny ball left his hand and sailed towards me.

I froze.

I didn’t even play a shot.

All I heard was the crash of my wicket and the eruption of cheers, as the umpire lifted his finger to make sure I got the message.

I was out.

Clean bowled.

A golden duck.

Off I walked, my dream shattered.

That’s how I ended up in a teary huff, sitting alone, as I pondered what had gone wrong.

Now—almost 32 years after that cricketing failure—I am honoured to join you as we honour those boys who have achieved success in 2025.

It’s right that we publicly acknowledge those who have excelled in their studies and extra-curricular activities.

Hard work and excellence need to be recognised, and this event shows that we value achievement.

Well done to all the prize recipients tonight.

Keep striving to excel, in all that you do.

But tonight, I want to encourage those boys who’ve had a rough moment this year.

I want to encourage…

The boy who went for a golden duck.

Or who dropped the ball in a crucial moment of a rugby match.

I want to encourage…

The boy who struggled with his studies.

Or who missed out on a prize tonight.

I want to encourage…

The boy who feels overlooked, or undervalued.

I know what it feels like to fail, and the good news is that you will be stronger for it.

Our character is forged through fire, and sometimes that’s the only way to grow.

To walk through the fire and come out stronger.

As I think over my life, the best lessons have been painful ones.

Where I have tasted failure or defeat or disappointment.

I think back to 2011, when I was training to be an elite soldier in the Special Air Service Regiment.

The Special Air Service Regiment—or the SAS—is Australia’s special missions unit.

One of the special missions they have is hostage rescue.

If terrorists take Australians hostage, the SAS gets sent to rescue them.

That means they have to be crack shots.

Experts with rifles, submachine guns and pistols.

We are trained to rescue hostages on planes, ships, buses, and in buildings.

Those are tight spaces, so the SAS has to be extremely accurate when shooting.

You have to shoot the bad guys, and save the hostages.

No mistakes, or its mission failure.

That’s not easy when you’re wearing body armour, helmet, moving at speed, in chaos.

For some reason, I couldn’t pass the pistol test on course.

What was the test?

We had to turn on the move, draw our pistol, and hit an A4 piece of paper at 15 metres, in full combat gear and gas mask, under physical stress.

Hitting 8/10 shots was the bare minimum. Or you failed.

And rightly so, people’s lives depend upon our accuracy.

I kept getting 6 or 7 out of 10, and the harder I tried, the worse I got.

And I failed.

The SAS has high standards, and I got scrubbed from the course.

I had to wait a full year to do it again.

My twelve mates all finished and qualified.

And it hurt as I watched my mates get their SAS badge and beret from the late Prince Phillip a few months later.

But my failure made me work hard.

I had one of the older soldiers—one of the best pistol shots in the SAS—coach me.

Over the next year, I drilled and drilled and drilled.

And then I drilled some more.

That pistol became part of me.

I was quick on the draw and a crack shot.

I knew I could be the first man through any door and that I could take down a terrorist with pinpoint accuracy if the Australian people needed me to do so.

I passed the course in 2012, and got my SAS badge and beret on a quiet afternoon.

There wasn’t a member of the Royal family there to give it to me.

But it didn’t matter. My wife, Ruth, was there. 

She was my greatest encouragement during that period of failure and disappointment.

There is something to that.

When we trip up, it’s our parents and teachers who help us to get back up.

It’s our families, friends and community who support us.

And that brings me back to my central point: failure builds our character.

And that’s why Scots Prep is such an important part of my story.

I failed quite a few times at Scots Prep.

I had plenty of timeouts for bad behaviour. I was a bit naughty at times.

I wasn’t the best student. I should’ve worked harder.

You can ask Mr Tanner, who taught me in Year 5. That was a great year!

But for all that, my clearest memories are of how Scots Prep grew me as a boy.

I was taught to treat others with respect and dignity, because we are all made in God’s image.

I was taught tiny acts of gratitude like tipping my school cap at the drivers who stopped as we crossed Victoria Road in the mornings.

I was taught service over self by giving my seat to the elderly or to women or to children public transport.

I was taught to stand up for those who can’t defend themselves.

I was taught to reconcile after a fight, because forgiveness and restoration is at the heart of the Christian gospel.

I had plenty of scraps over my eight years, and I needed to hear that gospel message regularly.

Because no one is perfect. Everyone makes mistakes.

That’s why Scots taught these values.

I was being prepared for life, not just academic achievement.

So, my cricketing coach—Mr Wood—didn’t leave me to wallow in self-pity that morning.

I got some tough love.

I was told to dry my eyes, and then he put me in a difficult fielding position, where I took a screamer of a catch later that day.

He restored my confidence. That’s what a good teacher does.

So, boys, I encourage you to embrace risk. To do hard things. To have a go.

If you fail, persevere. Work harder. And try again.

You will be better and stronger for it.

That is, after all, the challenge of the Scots motto:

to be worthy of those who have gone before you.

All we ask is that you do your best and never give up.

I know you’ll rise to the challenge.

Thank you.

[ENDS]