I did not know Phillip Hughes – on a personal level at least – before the tragic circumstances began to unfold.
After news of his passing came crackling over my kitchen radio and hit me like a sledgehammer, it seemed like I had. It was like one of my own had passed on.
Even my wife, who’s not much of a sports follower, kept asking if I was ‘okay’ that morning before setting off for work.
I was more than just disconsolate or sad after hearing that Phillip Hughes was no more. You see, the sport of cricket has a special place in my heart.
More than just a game, it’s also as far as I am concerned, about people – the players and personalities.
In apartheid South Africa, there wasn’t much that sportsmen and women of colour could aspire to. Players could shine at club level and try to get selected to provincial teams of the various federations that were playing sport on the fringes of mainstream society, but due to the divisive policies at the time, that was the extent of it.
Nevertheless our marginalised sporting community were keen followers of the game and always kept abreast of what was happening on the international front.
Much of the information we received from the cricket fields – and the generations before us – were gleaned from newspapers.
There was no television when I was growing up in the 70s and prior to that – until 1976 of course, when the square box made its mark in SA. Even then, very few so-called non-whites could afford TV sets.
My dad a provincial cricketer in his own non-racial federation in the early 1950s through to the 60s, did not have the luxury of receiving top-class coaching. He, a wicketkeeper-batsman often spoke about trying to be like the great Godfrey Evans.
“We used to go to the grounds and watch the touring batsmen play at St George’s Park .. and would carefully watch their foot movements at the crease for example,” he would say.
My dad says he would then go back and copy the stance and the trigger movements (as they now are known) of his heroes in front of an old rusty mirror in their tiny backyard and try and perfect them.
In this regard, he often regaled us about stories of Australia dasher, Keith Miller.
My dad of course had his own homegrown heroes, such as Hugh Tayfield, Jack Cheetham and of course, Graeme Pollock, Peter Pollock and Peter van der Merwe.
When Graeme Pollock was batting for Eastern Province in the 70s against rival provincial teams, most fans would drop just about everything (including rushing off from work) to make a dash to St George’s Park to watch the left-hander deliver another master-class. He would entertain us with sweetly-timed cover-drives hooks, pulls and square cuts.
I as a 10-year old would jump into the back of dad’s old Ford Cortina and hare down to the field with him.
Upon arrival at St George’s, I would sit on the boundary rope (this was still allowed at the time) and admire this bespectacled batsman carving up the opposing attack. I would wonder at the same time why I was forced to sit at the “non-white end” of the ground, while privileged whites sat in comfortable seats in a covered stadium.
It didn’t bother me eventually – all I wanted to see was the batting prowess of Graeme Pollock.
Then in the late 70s and 80s it was the time of West Indies’ invincible run. While playing cricket in our street with a broken bat and an old tennis ball, we would scrap around for the latest news on Clive Lloyd and his band of merry men as they laid assault on just about every cricketing nation.
Again we could not watch them on television but we gobbled up every bit of news we could glean of our “heroes” from tatty old newspapers. They might have been oceans away but we could play imaginary backyard games where we would take on the names of our heroes.
Barely eleven or twelve years of age, we tried imitating the quartet of Andy Roberts, Michael Holding, Joel Garner and Colin Croft during backyard sorties. Others who scrambled to bat first, imagined they were Gordon Greenidge or Des Haynes, or a Larry Gomes.
Or, if you were lucky to shout it out first – Viv Richards! Wicketkeepers behind rusty old rubbish bins wanted to be Rod Marsh.
As we got wiser and scoured the news more, we learnt about the likes of Jeff “Thommo” Thomson, Dennis Lillee and Richard Hadlee. Then there were Dave Gower, Ian Botham, Bob Willis, and Alan Knott.
To us more than just names in newspapers. Great cricketers. Great times. It was very surreal.
Provincialism was also very strong and despite the international sporting isolation we also had our heroes in the Castle Cup.
Kepler Wessels, was one of our heroes in the late 80s sparking a revival of some sorts in “sleepy hollow” Eastern Province, when he arrived from Australia.
Before him there was among them, Vince Van Der Bijl, Mike Procter, Eddie Barlow, Peter Kirsten, Robin Smith, Tich Smith, Pelhalm Henwood, Darryl Bestall, Simon Bezhuidenhout, Chris Wilkins and so on..
Then there was Clive Rice’s Transvaal “mean machine” with the likes of Sylvester Clarke, Alvin Kallicharran, Doug Nielson, Alan Kourie, Neal Radford, Graeme Pollock, Ray Jennings, Jimmy Cook, Kevin McKenzie etc.
TV had arrived and having grown into teenagers, we could watch the Castle Cup unfold right before our eyes. It seemed like a magical world in a pariah state.
Wow! Then there were (dare I say it?) The Rebel Tours of the early 80s. Now 17-years-old we were overawed by the likes of Lawrence Rowe, Faud Bacchus, Collis King, Sylvester Clarke, Franklyn Stephenson, among them, visiting our shores.
Then the Aussies followed. There was Steve Rixon (what a wickie), Rod McCurdy, Carl Rackemann, Kim Hughes, Terry Alderman, Trevor Hohns and others whom I have now forgotten.
Confusing times indeed for minds so young. But we loved the cricket and the battles that lay ahead. Gaham Gooch and his England rebels had come earlier. He of the upright stance and bat off the floor who led England to these shores.
Then of course 1991 when South Africa toured India under Clive Rice, to break South Africa cricket’s two decades of sporting isolation.
Calcutta Gardens right there before our eyes as we stayed glued to TV screens. It was unbelievable stuff indeed.
So cricket has a special place in my heart; I may not have made it big as a player. My lack of perseverance and being from the other side of apartheid’s divide counted against it happening.
Change in South Africa had come too late for some of us, who thought we might have talent to go on to bigger and better things. But still I lived and breathed cricket even during sporting isolation.
Today I still do.
So deep was my appreciation and ‘love’ for the personalities I developed a self-confessed loathing to seeing cricketers retire.
Brian Lara, Steve Waugh, Matthew Hayden, Shane Warne, Ricky Ponting, Michael Vaughn, Nasser Hussain, Aravinda Da Silva, Arjuna Ranatunga, Sachin Tendulkar, Javagal Srinath, Gary Kirsten, Jacques Kallis and Muttiah Muralidaran broke my heart when they rode off into the sunset.
Phillip Hughes’ unfortunate passing put it into perspective for me. There is actually a time to leave the cricket fields for good.
It’s no honour in being a selfish cricket fan – there comes a time when players have to give up the game.
There is a life to live, a family to go home to, and time to do things away from the cricket field.
Hughes was a life cut short; he was denied the prime of his life. It’s difficult to comprehend. Difficult to know the answers.
I saw Phil Hughes score two hundreds against South Africa all those years ago – and I told my cricketing friends to keep an eye on the youngster. He was going places.
I loved watching Phillip Hughes bat; throwing caution to the wind and an attacking style that made the bowler aware he was there.
I did not know Phil Hughes personally, but the day the ball struck the blow that tragically ended his life – a piece of me died with him.
R.I.P. Phillip Hughes. Thanks for the memories. Long will they live on.
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