The outpouring of emotion since Phillip John Hughes’ abrupt passing has been nothing short of incredible.
The term ‘cricket family’ has really been a phrase coined as a cliché in times gone. But following his untimely death, that term has solidified to something much more poignant than just a catch cry.
I am slightly too young to remember Sir Don Bradman’s passing in 2001 with any great memory, but I doubt that matters, because the past few days have been extraordinary.
Messages of support, love, sadness and remembrance have been running all Australians’ lives, which has now extended around the world.
The hashtag #putyourbatsout has given the world, so touched by what has transpired, to do something. Because cricket is a universal voice. It is a way of life in this country, not simply a need as it is in others.
This tragedy has affected all cricket lovers, all part of that insular family. It is why people who have never met, spoken or been at a game with Phil Hughes or to watch what he loved doing (and was darn good at it), have all felt the need to place their cricket bats out the front of their homes as a sign of respect. Because when one bleeds, we all bleed.
We intimately know those we have not met inside the cricket family, because we have all at some stage played the game, and all love it. We can relate. That is why this horrible and freak accident has shook a nation to its very core. It is just too close to our metaphorical homes.
It resonates with us.
Just last night, the A-League match between Melbourne and Adelaide stopped at 63 minutes, Hughes’ score when tragedy struck, and the crowd applauded for a whole minute in an amazing gesture.
It didn’t stop at our borders. Our fellow Anzacs across the ditch wept in their huddle before yesterday’s play against Pakistan. They all wrote ‘P.H.’ below their New Zealand crest on their shirts, and the Pakistani players joined the Kiwis in lining their bats along their dressing rooms in another incredible show of support.
Then, when a wicket fell, the Kiwis didn’t celebrate. Nothing. Just eerie silence. Their somber mood reflected the cricket world, mourning the loss of one of its own.
Elite sportsmen are our real time superheroes, capable of things us mere mortals cannot. Watching them can makes us feel immune to the world’s dark places, an escape, an alternative playground, where battles are fought, but everyone comes back, ready to fight another day.
Sadly, Phillip John Hughes will not.
It is worth noting that this is all so shocking because it is just cricket. This great, wonderful game has taken a life. You simply don’t expect someone to die playing cricket, certainly not someone of Hughes’ calibre. It is not a blood shed sport.
Yes, there is risk attached, of course, but it is not American football, or boxing. It is cricket, the gentleman’s game. An incredibly safe one. Physical contact is not the primary aim, and the game is safe. There have been thousands upon thousands of cricket matches, and never has someone died from a head injury in a professional game. Helmets will keep advancing, and rightfully so, as should the laws of the game.
The bouncer is an integral part of the sport, but maybe the days of setting an umbrella field and peppering tailenders obviously ill-equipped to handle to missile coming toward them are over, as Law 42.6 (i) still exists, and umpires have to be more wary of intimidating bowling than before.
However, you would hate to see such sights as Mitchell Johnson’s aggression and pace last year at the Gabba, or Morne Morkel’s bruising spell to Michael Clarke in Cape Town earlier this year, to be lost to the game. A balance must be found.
However, that is an argument for another day. Now we grieve, remember, weep and celebrate – whatever way you feel best to cope, you do. Having lost my own father just earlier this month, I can begin to feel the pain of what those closest to Hughes are feeling. We must also extend our warmest condolences to Sean Abbott. A young man just doing his job, as Hughes was, he should be sheltered and given all the support needed.
A horrible accident that has rocked our great game to it’s deepest roots.
Rest in peace Phillip John Hughes.
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