Hughesy’s funeral is on 3 December, so CA comes up with an alternative plan to make Adelaide the first Test match instead of the second, and shift the Brisbane game afterwards, sandwiching it between the Adelaide match and Christmas. The Boxing Day Test in Melbourne will run as scheduled, but because we will then have played three five-day matches back-to-back, the New Year’s Test in Sydney will be put back by a couple of days. This arrangement gives us only three days to recover from the funeral, get to Adelaide and prepare for the Test match. Individuals are given a no-penalty option if they want to stand aside from the game in Adelaide.
The Test players generally want longer, noting that the Sheffield Shield cricketers are to be given another week to recover. To be asked to perform in the international spotlight, when so many of us were so close to Hughesy, is an enormous demand. Unanimously, we want to play the Adelaide Test match as a tribute to Hughesy and for his family, but the timing has to be right. Eventually an agreement is struck to begin the match on 9 December, six days after the funeral. In retrospect, most of us would agree that it is still too soon. But we feel a responsibility to India and to the Australian cricket public.
By the time this has been agreed, I still haven’t trained since the morning Hughesy was hit. I was doing rehab three times a day until 25 November, but since then I’ve done nothing. In the past nine days, I haven’t run, I haven’t trained, I haven’t done weights. Aside from that one sickening moment at the Hugheses’ house, I haven’t even touched a cricket bat.
My injured hamstring might have been healing during that time, but I have no strength in it. With all the stress and sleeplessness, I doubt even that it’s been healing very well.
At the RSL club in Macksville where everyone has gathered for Hughesy’s wake, Darren Lehmann comes up and says, ‘Mate, you have to play in this Test. You’re captain of this team. This team only has one captain, and it’s you. The boys need you, I need you, and Australian cricket needs you.’
As much as I love Boof, after everything we’ve been through recently I want to resist. He is the messenger for Cricket Australia, and they acknowledge that after my role around Hughesy’s passing and the funeral, people will look to me for leadership on the field. But I can’t help feeling angry about it. A week ago, when all I was asking was for them to trust me, as they had trusted me for the past ten years, they refused. They are not even trusting me now, really. If Boof had asked, Can you be fit to play in five days?, I would say no. On top of the injury in my hamstring, I don’t even know if I have the courage to pick up a bat and face fast bowling. None of us will know that until we do it. But that’s all put to one side at this moment. Cricket Australia has decided it needs me now, and is more or less telling me to play. At the same function, Boof, along with Rod Marsh and Pat Howard, also front my commercial director Jim Kelly and urge him to get me ‘up’ for the game. I do want to play, desperately. But instead of feeling excited about it, my blood is boiling again.
After two more days with Hughesy’s family in Macksville, I travel to Adelaide and my mind turns to getting ready. It feels like I am seized up with rust and disuse. When I get to Adelaide, the first thing I do when I get alone in my hotel room is pick up a bat. I’ve been really worried since Macksville. What if I literally can’t hold it? What if I have the same reaction? In my room, just to see what it feels like, I start some shadow batting. I can do it. It feels all right.
Late that afternoon, I go to Park 25 near the city and face three Australia A bowlers, just to see if I have the courage to play the game that killed my mate. This session isn’t a test of my hamstring, but of whether I am mentally able to bat. When the first short ball comes, I trust my body and it moves. I haven’t lost my muscle memory completely. I can do this. Or my body can.
I do some running, though it isn’t a proper fitness test. The hierarchy aren’t as concerned as they were a few weeks ago about whether I’m fit enough to play in the game. Ironically, this ‘test’ is the very kind of session I wanted before the scheduled First Test, when they ruled me out. But by now, we have all been overwhelmed by events. A new reality has taken over.
All through this, I should be grieving. I should be left to recover at home with Kyly, to absorb things a little, like a normal person. Maybe my subconscious is trying to grieve, and that’s part of what’s producing the waves of stress, anxiety and frustration. But so much is going on, with gathering the team and looking after them, making sure they are emotionally fit to play, that I don’t even have time to breathe.
Even if my body isn’t better, I tell myself I’m fit enough to play. I do two days of full training with the team, going through the motions as normal, although, in my mind, all the training feels rushed. I now have to think about going out and scoring runs against India. I don’t do much running, but have a lot of treatment from Alex. He is doing so much for me it’s not funny. He looks after me like gold, giving me hands-on massages with stretching and strength work for hours and hours, way above and beyond his normal duties. I can sense that he’s also very nervous about me playing this Test match. My left hamstring is fine – not to run a marathon or sprint 100 metres, but good enough to play a Test match. I’m more worried about my back. I would feel more confident if I had had some time on the MedX in the past two weeks. I’m concerned that, if my back goes, my hamstring will follow. That’s the way it’s been in the past.
Day one is beautiful and sunny. I find that I’m able to control the emotions and let my body take over, do what it knows how to do. We all have Hughesy’s Test number, 408, embroidered on our shirts, and it is painted in white on the outfield in front of the members’ area. Before play, there is a 63-second pause for the 40,000-plus people to applaud him. It’s strange, because the symbolism is heavy but the adrenalin of playing a Test match is taking over, as if cricket has a mind of its own.
When I toss with Virat Kohli, who has replaced the injured M.S. Dhoni as India’s captain for the first two Test matches, I feel normal. I have a lot of respect for Virat and the other Indian players who represented their country by coming to Phillip’s funeral. It’s obvious that we are here to play for Hughesy, but I have also had to look into each of my teammates’ eyes and make sure that they are here to play a Test match for Australia, that they’re not clouded by what’s happened. Their professionalism amazes me and lifts me.
Davey Warner clears the cobwebs in the way only he can: he crashes seven fours, all through the off side, from the first two overs he faces. Eventually, the Indian right-armer Varun Aaron bowls a bouncer, getting that part of the game out of the way. Bouncers are still bowled. Not every ball kills. The crowd cheers, and I take a deep breath.
THE INNINGS
128 versus India, Adelaide, 2014
Chris Rogers is out in the eighth over, and Watto looks good for nearly an hour before nicking to slip. I’m in. I jog onto the field, accustoming my eyes to the bright blue light. It’s all routine. Aaron gives me a bouncer first ball, and I dodge it. As in the nets, my body is doing its thing. I have 26 years of muscle memory to carry me through this.
Fortunately, Davey Warner is batting so well he’s taking the pressure off. By lunch, he’s 77 not out and we are two down for 113. I’m very rusty at first, but find my timing after the resumption. My emotional state is not troubling me – meaning, I feel quite empty in my stomach and clear in my head. There is a numbness about everything. But that’s probably a good mental condition for batting.
I am about 50 when Ishant Sharma bowls a bouncer. I go up onto my back foot and twist away as it whistles by.
NO. Instantly, I feel it, like a metal clamp grappling my lower back. Here we go again. It’s that movement of going onto my back foot and torquing around. My back is in searing pain, and I know what this means, but I’m not saying anything. I’m going to bat on.
A few overs later, when I’m on 60, Ishant bowls another bouncer and I am forced into the same evasive move. The grabbing is the same, but worse. I kneel down and
do some stretches on the turf. I’ve got to push through this. But within seconds, Alex is out there by my side, asking me what it is, though he knows already. He helps me off the field. I’m devastated, as I would be if this happened in any Test match. But in the circumstances, it’s breaking my heart.
I’m taken from the Adelaide Oval to hospital, where I have a number of injections. The relief they bring is also familiar. As soon as the needle goes in, it feels like a crazy itch inside me, between my back and my stomach, has been scratched and relieved. It’s an amazing feeling, so good. Oh, thank you! Straight away, I feel better and get back to the ground. In the dressing room, the boys are concerned but welcoming.
The day has been a good one for us. Smithy has batted through the afternoon, but in the last half hour Mitch Marsh gets out. I say to Alex, ‘I’m batting.’
He freaks. ‘If you bat here and do your back again, you mightn’t be able to play another game. Ever.’
I don’t care about my career. I’m totally driven by my emotions. My only goal is to make a hundred for my little brother. If that means the end of my career, I’m willing to sacrifice that. Like every other decision in the game, my thinking is driven by a spill-over of adrenalin from the previous ten days.
Nathan Lyon goes in as a night-watchman, but is quickly out. I repeat to Alex that I want to bat. He repeats, ‘I don’t want you to.’
Hadds goes out to the middle, and is dismissed on the second ball of the last over of the day. I would definitely insist on batting now, but stumps have been drawn. Alex says, ‘Sleep on it, and let’s see in the morning.’
Every medical decision I make is in consultation with Alex. I tell him the absolute truth the whole time. He is one person I can trust entirely, and I’m not going to break that now.
I sleep in my back brace and have a reasonable night’s rest, but when I wake up early the next morning, I feel pain and discomfort. I can’t touch my toes, but am sure I can get through some more batting.
Ahead of the team, I travel to the oval and go to the nets while it’s still quiet. I hit ten balls for Alex and Peter Brukner. They need to be satisfied that I can move my feet and evade short balls, even more than whether I can hit shots through the field. It’s about safety as much as the ability to bat.
By the time the boys arrive, I’m preparing to resume the innings with Smithy, who is 72 not out overnight. We are six down for 354, so while it’s a healthy position it’s still 100 to 150 runs short of where we want to be on this pitch. I only want to help.
When we walk out for the first ball, the crowd might be cheering, but the world feels silent around me. I don’t feel anything, physically or emotionally. I am completely numb. I’m not nervous, not happy or unhappy. Obviously I care about what is happening, but my emotions are not there, like they’ve been burnt out of me.
But I am free and alone. That may sound strange, given that I’m in front of 45,000 people here and millions more on television. But I’m in my bubble. Ever since I can remember, playing cricket has been my day off. Increasingly so, since I’ve been Australian captain. With the circus of my life and my commitments, playing cricket is my meditation. Nobody can contact me here. I don’t have any other things to do. All the shit that has been going on before and after Hughesy’s passing, whatever is going on in my life, it can’t touch me while I am playing cricket.
I go into the middle with a clear goal. My mind is entirely focused on improving our team’s position and making a hundred for Hughesy. Nothing can get between me and that goal. Every ball seems very simple, only asking me one question: this is where I am, so hit me or leave me. I can sense that my body is stiff and uncomfortable, especially down my lower back into my hamstrings, but I don’t feel any pain.
It’s an overcast day, unusual for Adelaide in summer, and after about ten overs we have to go off for a rain delay. Smithy is on 98 and I’m 85. He says to me, ‘I’m going to walk over to the 408 sign when I make my hundred. Do you want to come with me?’
I decline. Making a hundred will be Smithy’s moment, and he deserves to celebrate it in his own way. I let him know that he can do what he wants.
First ball after the resumption, Smithy tucks it away for two and we hug. He runs off to the 408 sign and raises his bat and helmet to thank Hughesy up in the sky. There seem to be a lot of numerical coincidences around. The next run I score takes our innings total to 408. The crowd get on their feet and give Hughesy a standing ovation. He was only living in Adelaide for his last couple of years, but he loved the place and the feeling was mutual.
We’re off again for rain, but in due course I get my hundredth run. My celebrations are very low-key. I know Hughesy’s family are watching, and I know that they know I’m doing this for him. It doesn’t need to be any more demonstrative than that. Like I say, when I’m in the middle today I feel very quiet and very numb. It’s not like any other innings.
And it’s the last hundred I will make for Australia.
Maybe there’s a part of me – maybe it’s the spirit of Hughesy inside me – but something in my heart knows that this is the end. Of what? Not of my career. But it’s the end of something. I get to 128 and am out just before stumps. We make the declaration overnight at seven for 517, and the next morning I’m able to take the field. I can’t do the constant crouching necessary to stand in a catching position, but manage to get through the day fielding at mid-on and mid-off. On such a good batting wicket, we have to work very hard for every dismissal, and I am at the centre of the decision-making, even though there is still that part of me that is elsewhere.
I manage to bat again in the second innings, but the back is grabbing and I don’t last long. I just want to win this match and get into rehab again. India are chasing a big target, but we are going to have to work and work on a pitch that is showing no sign of deteriorating. We’re into the last day, the 44th over of the second innings, when Virat Kohli pushes a ball from Nathan Lyon to my right-hand side at mid-wicket. I take a few steps and reach out to field it and throw it, and – pop. There is no mistaking a hamstring when it goes, but this is unfamiliar. I did my left hamstring in Perth and again in Zimbabwe two months ago, the same hamstring I’ve strained about six times in the last two years. Not once have I done my right. But I’ve done it now. Scans will show I’ve ripped it off the bone. I don’t need a diagnosis. It feels like this has been waiting to happen.
For the second time in the match, I’ve embarrassed myself. I was embarrassed to do my back and retire hurt while batting, and now I’m embarrassed to be walking off on the fifth day with a torn hamstring. I have finished every game I have started. Today, I’ve let my teammates down. I’ve let my country down.
Later in the afternoon we win the game, thanks to some fantastic spin bowling from Lyono, who takes seven wickets, and great support from all the bowlers and fielders. As I’m watching from the dressing room, I’m happy, of course, but I don’t get the exhilaration I always get from winning a Test match. There is something strange happening inside me. I can’t say I don’t care, but that’s what it feels like – or what it doesn’t feel like. It’s not a specific feeling, but an absence of feeling. I’m watching everything from the outside. Usually I am the most bubbly person in the room in these circumstances, but the numbness has fully set in. In the press conference, I admit that this could be the end of my career. It just comes out. I feel nothing. I’m not going to stop. Far from it, I’m going to put every bit of my being into getting back into this series, or if not, into the one-day series with India, or if not that, the World Cup and the Ashes. That’s my aim.
But I can’t deny it. Something that has always been in me is not in me any more.
Nine months later, that something has not come back. The England tour is turning into a personal and team disaster. We don’t make enough runs in the First Test in Cardiff, we bounce back to square the series at Lord’s, but then we suffer horrendous first-day collapses in Birmingham and Nottingham. Throughout, I barely contrib
ute a run. I admit publicly that the team is carrying me, something that makes me sick in the guts, but it’s true, it’s staring us all in the face. I would like to say I can’t understand why my batting is off, but that wouldn’t be true either. I can understand it all too well.
Between that Adelaide Test match last December and now, I have clawed my way towards my old reality: the pre-Hughesy normality. Through December and January, I threw all my focus into getting myself up for a massive occasion, a World Cup at home. I was privileged to be part of Australia’s team that won the World Cup in 2007, in the West Indies. The last time the cup was staged in Australia, though, I was ten years old. My body is giving up on me, but I can’t live without this challenge to get myself up for. Shoving all the trauma of Hughesy and getting injured to one side, I force myself into the old tunnel vision, so that all I can see ahead of me is the World Cup and then the Ashes.
After the Adelaide Test match against India, I hold a number of conversations with Alex Kountouris, Peter Brukner and my surgeon. I go into hospital for an operation to repair my right hamstring, and, lying on the couch at home, I watch every ball of the Border–Gavaskar Trophy series, which our boys seal 2–0 with a win in the Second Test in Brisbane. In the final two matches, on dead-flat wickets in Melbourne and Sydney, I see signs that the boys are buggered, especially the bowlers. The lifeless pitches have something to do with it, but I have a feeling that the emotional let-down is catching up with several of them.
My summer is all about rehab. In consultation with Alex and the doctors, I believe I can be fit for the World Cup in 12 weeks. I train a minimum of three times a day. I’ve never trained so hard in my life. From the day I get out of hospital, I am straight into it, repeating certain exercises 15 times a day.
My Story Page 28