Hughesy was really pissed off. Instead of giving him the impression that I was taking his side against the selectors, I said, ‘Don’t be so easy to drop. Make more runs and also make it clear to the selectors, when you’ve been dropped, that you disagree.’
‘They say I’m still young, I can use this time to develop my game.’
‘You want to play for Australia right now, don’t you? Don’t just let them think there’ll be time later. If you’re too accepting about it, they won’t see how hungry you are to play.’
But Hughesy was such a great bloke, even when he had that shit inside him, he wouldn’t express it to teammates or selectors. He cared so much about the team, the next day he was running gloves out to guys who’d been picked in front of him, when he knew he trained twice as hard as them and deserved the position more. That’s the one-of-a-kind bloke he was.
It’s another cricket day, only nobody around our country is playing. People are swarming into St Vincent’s: Hughesy’s extended family, friends from everywhere, Cricket Australia people. Potentially, it’s chaos. My goal is to help Virginia, Greg, Jason and Megan in any way possible. I’m spending small slices of time at Hughesy’s bedside, but for the most part I’m trying to work out what they need, who has to be called, what’s got to be organised. I am answering questions non-stop. But I can’t tell a single person what they want to hear.
By afternoon, there’s mayhem in the hospital. The Hugheses are in a small room, and a few metres down the corridor is a long waiting room heaving with people. The family don’t know what to do, and I’m trying to balance the need to protect Hughesy’s family with the pressing demand for news. Virginia assigns me a job: she wants me to take people, one by one, into Hughesy’s room to see him.
About 30 family members and close friends are allowed to go in. Justin Langer has instantly flown across from Perth to spend hours by Hughesy’s bedside. Nobody is allowed to see him unless I or an immediate family member takes them in, and with the state his family’s in, that means 95 per cent of these visitors are my responsibility. I have to prepare each of them for how he looks. ‘The swelling is major,’ I say. ‘He won’t look like the Hughesy you know.’
But there seem like hundreds of others, milling about, waiting and hoping. They all want to know what will happen next. I repeat that we won’t know anything more until the morning, and tell people they ought to go home. Just as the Hugheses are constantly asking me to make sense of the medical news for them, many friends and teammates outside the room are also looking to me for answers. I don’t have any, not for them and not for myself. The hospital staff are saying to me, ‘The corridors are full, we can’t have this, you’ll have to take them downstairs.’ I say, ‘I’m doing my best here.’
On the Wednesday night, a doctor comes into the waiting room where the family are. ‘We’re going to have one last go at medicating him tonight. We’ll let you know more tomorrow morning.’ I can tell from his tone that it’s not good. No new development has offered us anything to hope for, but we hope all the same. We’re swimming against the tide. Our hope seems to be the only thing going Hughesy’s way now.
I go home and sit on my bed. Three hours later, I wake up, still in my clothes and shoes; I’ve been so tired, I conked out. Within seconds, reality wakes up too. Hell. I shower, change and drive back to the hospital. It’s not going to be a good day.
It’s on this third morning, the Thursday, that the doctors tell Hughesy’s immediate family and me that it’s over. A lot has been done to prepare them, but I will never forget Virginia’s cry. The room is a scene of complete devastation, like a hurricane has hit those poor people. I know what it’s like to come from a tight-knit family, but the Hugheses are something else. Phillip would talk to his dad several times a day, every day, wherever he was in the world. He talked to his mum once a day too. He and Megan were soul mates. Jason was his best friend and his hero. Other cricketers have always laughed and marvelled about how everything Hughesy does is for his family’s benefit.
For 20 minutes after we get the news, I am with them, crying and hugging. It’s so horrible, there are no words for it. Finally, we all go back into the adjoining room to tell his extended family and close friends. We don’t need to say anything. I can see from their faces that they know, that they’ve heard the crying and screaming through the wall.
We are allowed to see him one last time before the life support is turned off. As we go to walk in, Greg sees Ricky Ponting standing in the hallway. He turns to me and says, ‘Can you take Ricky in?’ Punter and I are in there for ten or 15 minutes. We’re both in tears. We’ve been Hughesy’s Test captains, and a lot more than that. In the past few years, when they shared James Henderson as their manager, Hughesy and Punter became very close.
Virginia wants the immediate family and me to be the last people to see him, so after Punter goes out, the five of us go in. I just feel so unbearably sad for Hughesy’s family. He is everything to them.
The hospital is still packed and my main job is still to manage the flow of people. Most, I hope, get their chance to say goodbye. A gathering is hastily organised at the Sydney Cricket Ground Members’ Bar, where a lot of cricket people go. The next morning, I give a press conference where I read a statement:
Words cannot express the loss we all feel as a team right now. To Greg, Virginia, Jason and Megan, we share in the deep pain that you’re feeling.
Apart from when he was home on the farm with his beloved cattle, Hughesy was at his happiest playing cricket for his country with his mates. Our dressing room will never be the same. We loved him, and always will. Things were always put into perspective when Hughesy said, ‘Where else would you rather be, boys, but playing cricket for your country?’
We are going to miss that cheeky grin, and that twinkle in his eye. He epitomised what the baggy green is about and what it means to us all.
The world lost one of its great blokes this week and we are all poorer for it. Our promise to Hughesy’s family is that we will do everything we can to honour his memory.
Last night I asked James Sutherland if Hughesy’s Australian one-day international shirt number, 64, could be retired, to which they agreed. That means so much.
His legacy of trying to improve each and every day will drive us for the rest of our lives. We’d like to thank everyone, both here and overseas, for the touching tributes to Hughesy in recent days.
Our dressing room will never be the same. We loved him, and always will. Rest in peace, Brussy.
The tributes to Hughesy pour in from around the world over the next week, coming from all walks of life, from Queen Elizabeth II to the grassroots campaign to ‘Put out your bats’, where thousands of people put their bats outside their houses in acknowledgement of Hughesy’s passing. For myself, I’m numb and unaware of a lot of it. I have to shove my personal feelings to one side and continue in my role of chief helper to Virginia, Greg, Jason and Megan, as well as prepare for the funeral. The thought of playing cricket again is the furthest thing from anyone’s mind.
Along the way, there are negotiations between the players and Cricket Australia over when to recommence playing. The Indian team is still in the country, making ready for the start of a Test series that now seems immaterial to many of us. When consulted, I am hardline. I think the Australian players need as much time as possible. I also believe that it is for the cricketers as a group to make a decision, and it should be one-in, all-in. I know that CA is under pressure to get the Test series with India started, but that is not our responsibility. All I can say to CA is that too many players are unready to even think about cricket, let alone play again.
Hughesy’s funeral is going to be in Macksville, with a service at the school gymnasium. I want to drive up a few days before, but am in no state to handle the six-hour trip. Kindly, James Packer lends his helicopter to fly me up, and my personal trainer Duncan Kerr comes along.
When we get there, Megan is the only family member in a fit stat
e to organise the funeral, and has taken on that role. She and Phillip had a very special relationship; they were almost like twins. Upon his death, she had been able to guess the code to his phone, all his passwords: they were like two halves of the one brain. I really want her wishes to be respected. Michael Brown, formerly the operations manager of Cricket Australia, was previously in the funeral business and, using all his experience, is fantastic and efficient in getting the hall how Megan wants it. After taking a look at the hall, I have one suggestion: that Hughesy’s Cricket Australia suit be hung up, and his main caps – Australia, South Australia and New South Wales – put on display.
The Hugheses have asked me to make a speech, which I write with the help of two good friends: my commercial director Jim Kelly and Ross Thornton, chairman of my cricket academy. Both are corporate communications specialists who have also worked for senior politicians. I come up with the ideas, and Ross and Jim fine-tune them into a speech. We talk about making it personal, from me to Hughesy, but because of how he passed, playing the game he loved, I want it to be a message to the entire cricket family.
The day is uncomfortably hot and humid for everyone sitting in the hall. My emotions are close to the brink all the way through. Megan, Hughesy’s cousin Nino Ramunno, and his cattle-breeding partner Corey Ireland make wonderful tributes, which I hear through the beating of my pulse in my head.
Finally, when my time comes, I’m not worried about how my tribute will come across generally. All I care about is giving Virginia, Greg, Jason and Megan something that they can hold on to – if not today, then at some point in the future.
I am deeply honoured to have been asked by Phillip’s family to speak today. I am humbled to be in the presence of you, his family, his friends, and his community. He was so proud of Macksville, and it’s easy to see why today. Taken from the game, his family and loved ones at the age of just 25, he left a mark on our game that needs no embellishment. I don’t know about you, but I keep looking for him. I know it’s crazy, but I expect any minute to take a call from him or to see his face pop around the corner. Is that what they call the spirit? If so, then his is still with me, and I hope it never leaves.
I walked to the middle of the SCG on Thursday night. Those same blades of grass beneath my feet, where he and I and so many of his mates here today have built partnerships and taken chances and lived out the dreams we painted in our heads as boys. The same stands where the crowds rose to their feet to cheer him on, and that same fence he sent the ball to time and time again. And it’s now, forever, the place where he fell.
I stood there at the wicket, I kneeled down and touched the grass. I swear he was with me. Picking me up on my feet to check if I was okay. Telling me we just needed to dig in and get through to tea, telling me off for that loose shot I played, chatting about what movie we might watch that night and then passing on a useless fact about cows. And I could see him swagger back to the other end, grin at the bowler, and call me through for a run with such a booming voice a bloke in the car park could hear it. The heart of a man who lived his life for this wonderful game we play, and whose spirit enriched not just our sport, but all of our lives. Is this what indigenous Australians believe about a person’s spirit being connected with the land upon which they walk? If so, I know they are right about the SCG. His spirit has touched it, and it will forever be sacred ground for me. I can feel his spirit there, and I can see how it has touched so many people around the world.
The tributes to him from cricket lovers have kept me going. The photos, the words, the prayers, and the sense of communion in this loss from people across the globe have shown me his spirit is in action. It has sustained me and overwhelmed me in equal measure. And the love of my band of baggy green and gold brothers and sisters has held me upright when I thought I could not proceed. His spirit has brought us closer together – something I know must be him at work because it’s so consistent with how he played and lived. He always wanted to bring people together, and he always wanted to celebrate his love for the game and its people.
Is this what we call the spirit of cricket? From a little girl in Karachi holding a candlelight tribute to masters of the game like Tendulkar, Warne and Lara showing their grief to the world, the spirit of cricket binds us all together. We feel it in the thrill of a cover drive, or the taking of a screamer at gully, whether by a 12-year-old boy in Worcester or by Brendon McCullum in Dubai. It’s in the brilliant hundred and the five-wicket haul, just as significant to the players in a Western Suburbs club game as it is in a Test. The bonds that led to cricketers from around the world putting their bats out, that saw people who didn’t know Phillip lay flowers at the gates of Lord’s, and that brought every cricketing nation on Earth to make its own heartfelt tribute. The bonds that saw players old and new rush to his bedside, from wherever they heard the news, to say their prayers and farewells.
This is what makes our game the greatest game in the world. Phillip’s spirit, which is now part of our game forever, will always act as a custodian of the sport we all love. We must listen to it. We must cherish it. We must learn from it. We must just dig in and get through to tea. And we must play on.
So rest in peace, my little brother. I’ll see you out in the middle.
19
FEAR
This new helmet. I pick it up and heft it in my hands, and it feels strange. I’m all in favour of altering the rules about what helmets we wear, considering the reasons, but it’s almost impossible for me, at this stage of my career, to cope with such a dramatic change. It’s significantly heavier than the helmets I’ve played my whole career in. The grille sits closer to the peak than the old helmet, to stop balls getting through. It’s got optional neck protectors that chafe at my collar and block my movement. My brain agrees with the changes, but my gut says differently . . . I can’t stop feeling it when I’m batting.
Every time I look at it, it reminds me of Hughesy.
His death has taken a toll on all of us. Not until I’m in England in 2015, trying to contribute something to our Ashes effort, do I gain a full understanding of the toll it’s taking on me.
Since Hughesy, I have a fear of dying that I never had before. And the helmet is reminding me of that fear every time I look at it.
Throughout my whole career, I’ve only ever worn two helmet models: first an Albion one, and a Masuri for the last ten years. Since Hughesy’s death, there have been moves to mandate a new helmet, one that is more resistant to impact and bolstered by extra padding over the ears and around the neck. In Australia, it’s been voluntary so far. During the 2015 World Cup, I’ve been sticking with my old helmet. I wear the new Masuri model in the nets, to try to get used to it, but stick with my old one for matches. Comfort is everything to me, and given my obsessiveness, so is keeping the same gear. My comfort is my obsessiveness. I like what I like. I have always worn the same batting pads throughout my career. It’s the same with my gloves. The specifications of my gear are all quite old-fashioned. I’ve stuck with a skinny-handled bat, a white bat grip, white boots, the same sweatbands, a long-sleeved shirt. Even when I changed sponsors from Slazenger, I asked Spartan to manufacture pads with identical insides. In fact, one of the reasons I chose Spartan as my gear sponsor in 2012 was that Kunal Sharma, the founder and owner of the company, gave me the chance to design all of my own gear myself – the shape and weight of my bat, what gloves and pads I was most comfortable with – which, with my personality, was a dream come true, and eventually the passionate Kunal became a friend as well, in part because he recognised how obsessive I am about the tiniest things. My security has been in retaining the same gear.
And now, when I’m 34 years old, I have to change my helmet.
When we arrive in the UK for the 2015 Ashes tour, it is made clear to us that we have to change our helmets to the new reinforced model. Out of respect for the other players, I don’t make a big deal of fighting the change. But alone, lying awake at night, I’m thinking, Why? Why are we having
to change helmets? It’s because you can die in this game. Because Hughesy died. I’m not comfortable with these ear pads, I don’t like the weight, but I have to wear it because I can die.
On this tour, my batting has died.
Nothing has been quite right since Hughesy. I can see that now. I’ve gone through good moments at times, even such career highs as winning the World Cup and winning a Test match at Lord’s. But throughout it all, there was something not quite right with me, and I couldn’t put my finger on it.
Maybe it was too obvious. Or too frightening to face.
I never grieved. One minute I was at war with Cricket Australia, with the selectors and the high-performance manager, and the next minute the world came to an end. But then Hughesy’s funeral was behind us, CA was anxious to get the Test series with India going, and the world started spinning again. Yet it was all upside-down. The anger had taken a break, but it didn’t go away. The annoyance that had been building up inside me had been put on pause for a couple of weeks, but then it turned back on and, if anything, it got worse.
The black cloud is always lurking. During the preparation for Hughesy’s funeral, and the service itself, I can distract myself by trying my best to help his family. Outside the Hugheses’ house, some bats are lined up on the verandah in tribute. When I pick one up, I suffer a bad reaction, like I am physically sick and nervous at the same time. This is a cricket bat, the piece of equipment that has been my first love and an extension of my body since my Pop first cut out that fence paling when I was a tiny child. And now it is sending me into a spin, like it is triggering a rebellion from deep inside me. I am sickened and shocked by the feeling. I put the bat down again. It’s too early.
As soon as the funeral is over, and I look up and think about cricket again, the blackness returns. In discussions with Cricket Australia, the Test team is adamant about postponing the Brisbane Test match, scheduled to start on 4 December.
My Story Page 27