RIP PHILLIP HUGHES
It was 27 November 2014, when not one willow was lifted and thousands of eyes drooped, in deep grief. Philip Hughes, 25, was a precocious talent from whom Australian cricket expected big things, but he turned out to be an event within himself. An event which modified the way we look at cricket. It used to be a sport, now it is a sport which claimed an innocent life.
That is perhaps why, sitting miles away from Michael Clarke’s press conference, I could feel the same grief, when he read out the official statement. Hughes was a sportsman coming of age, with a heavy bag of expectations and a heavier set of promises he had to keep. His family would’ve spent countless nights watching him perfect his country-baked technique, which included compulsive slicing through point and slashing to cover, as well as stepping away to provide room for tennis-style drives down the ground. In short, he was supposed to be cricket’s ideal project—a charming lad from the farms who was worth many winning moments, with the potential to inspire cricket lovers across the world.
But the moment of loss can only be attempted to be compensated by the act of greatness. New Zealand’s silent tribute was worth every bit of respect. Brendon Mccullum smashed one of the fastest tons the next day, but there was no display of celebration, and whatever was worth remembering, was dedicated to Hughes. Moreover, of all the 1,135 deliveries bowled by New Zealand, none was a bouncer. Talk about the spirit of the game.
Sometimes we play stupid games in life, but perhaps it is these moments which make life worth living. A common unexpected grief, and coming together to battle it out. The show must go on, and it will in a much better form. Thanks to Philip Hughes.