Lungani Zama

Reminded of life’s fragility – and loss of immense talent

FORMER Aussie ’keeper/batsman Adam Gilchrist summed it up aptly. ‘No, no, no, no’, he tweeted.

Phil Hughes should have been 26 today. It was supposed to be a happy day, when he ought to have been toasting another year, and would have been hopeful of playing a part in the first Test against India at the Gabba.

But, instead, the cricket world is left in weary reflection as his sudden passing this week still sinks in.

That Test, which would have been starting on Thursday, has been postponed, because the day before would be Hughes’s final goodbye.

None of his teammates would be in a space to face a ball, never mind bowl one. Too much, and much too soon.

The jolt felt when Hughes was struck by Sean Abbott’s short ball in a state match was that much more acute because we have ourselves convinced that things like that are not supposed to happen to modern society’s gladiators; they are supposed to shrug off bumps and bruises, and keep enthralling us with their feats of valour and bravado.

When we see incredible feats, such as Odell Beckham’s quite ridiculous, one-handed pluck, in mid-air, tantalisingly close to the touchline, in a recent NFL match, the legend and the lore grows bigger still.

These guys are superhuman. It’s the same in rugby, and football, and any other sport that requires skill and athleticism, and balls.

It takes balls to open the batting, be it in the under 11 C side, or in the cauldron of a packed stadium during a Test match.

Those, like the impish Hughes, who are able to overcome the combination of fear, and nerves and adrenalin, are respected, for they are always at the frontline, repelling the advances of the enemy.

Once an opener sees off the shine from a new ball, and settles in, he can look invincible, as his bat grows ever wider with each stroke, his boots ready to be filled.

At that time, an opener can look invincible, as Hughes likely did when on 63 not out.

But, as the sporting world has been reminded all too often this year, life has a wicked way of reminding us of its fragility.

Hughes was familiar to South Africans, as he announced himself to the cricketing world on these very shores.

After an Australian era characterised by powerful openers like Matthew Hayden, whose giant frame and swagger at the crease was the embodiment of the ‘Baggy Green’ swagger, Hughes was a different kettle of fish.

Slightly built, he appeared like a slightly more manageable foe.

But the 75 he chalked up on debut was a precursor to the pair of centuries he spanked at Kingsmead in the next Test.

He infuriated the locals with his ability to stay leg-side of the ball, and slashed it with authority past point, locating the fence with such regularity that a third man was fixed there on security patrol.

It’s these things that we have to look back on now, because South Australia, and the Australian team, and all of cricket has been robbed of looking forward to Hughes reaching that age when batsmen find their best touch, when the exuberance of youth is tempered with the even hand of experience.

Typically, Hughes was just ‘bloody chuffed’ to be wearing the ‘Baggy Green’ at 20, and his boyish giddiness when reflecting on his pair of hundreds at Kingsmead in 2009 was refreshing, even to begrudging local scribes.

“‘We’ll see a lot more of him over the next decade,” was the general consensus.

Now we won’t because fate had other ideas.

And while we pay our final respects, spare a thought for young Abbott, who is quite rightly distraught at playing an unwitting hand in this tragedy.

He was just doing his job, as bowlers and batsmen routinely do.

Only, what happened this week, was just not cricket. Not as we know it, anyway.

No, no, no, no.