Sport is Life: Now Sport is Death

Somehow I’ve always considered myself as being relatively rational in the face of death. I realise it is inevitable and that it must be prepared for, both spiritually and ironically, physically. So I don’t know why the news of Phil Hughes’ death shook me so much this morning. Why it almost produced tears, and why I’m still struggling to come to terms with it.

My friend Shehan Karunatilaka, in a memorable passage from the ‘Chinaman’ wrote that ‘unlike life. sport matters’. And it does. Which is why such a tragic end to a talented, hard working batsman who was only 25, is so difficult to deal with.

I was preparing to blog today about the Sri Lankan victory in an exciting match against England yesterday.But really, that all ceases, immediately, to matter.

Hughes was struck by a bouncer, at the SCG, while trying to hook. He was through the shot too quickly and was hit on the back of the head, where helmets offer little protection. According to the doctors he was hit flush on an artery which carries blood to the brain. The 90kmph missile naturally exploded that artery which caused a massive brain hemorrhage from which he never regained consciousness. The enduring image would be of Hughes putting his hands to his knees and then collapsing in front of the wicket he had defended for 63 runs, and the cost of his life. As one, his opponents ran to him, distraught. The bowler – Sean Abbott – for no fault of his own, is possibly feeling the worst he’s ever felt in his young life.

What strikes me most is the random incomprehensibility of it all. Why stuff like this happens to Phil Hughes who’s just playing cricket, and the druglord thugs that inhabit Colombo live cushy lives. It baffles me. It defeats me.

What if Abbott, at the top of his mark, chose to bowl a yorker instead of a bouncer? What if Hughes, on 63, chose to sway away from it instead of hooking? What if the captain had moved a fielder making the shot more risky? Did Abbott bowl it slower than his previous bouncers? Was Hughes trying to prove the point that he was over his perceived short ball weakness? Did all these variables combine to conspire in him losing not his wicket, but his life?

How big is an artery? A quarter of a centimetre perhaps, half a centimetre at most. How did the cricket ball hone in on that one artery which will ensure the most damage be caused to Hughes’ brain? It gets described as a ‘freak’ accident, but really, is that the best we, and all the Gods we collectively pray to, can do? Dismiss it is a sad, tragic, freak accident? What did Hughes do, to deserve to die playing the game he loved, and what did Sean Abbott do to have this on his hands – to be a morbid pub trivia question in later years? It’s just not fucking fair.

And that’s what has me so saddened, that while we think of plans and careers and houses and cars, and all of that crap – which are far less pleasing than cricket – we could be all be dead in an instant. The last thing Hughes felt was probably the thud to the back of his head. On the skull that could have protected him, but for the smallest area which fate chose for him to be exposed. For a guy working hard to get back into the Australian side, a guy who had said how much he enjoyed being prepared just in case he got a chance to play, that must be a terrible memory to go out on. The same brain that told him to hook the ball, was the same one that engulfed itself a second later.

What could he do? He was working hard. He was batting well on 63. He was trying to impress the selectors and might even have got a call given Clarke’s dodgy hamstring. He plays a shot, and he dies. What. The. Fuck. Where is the justice? I’m shattered most by how little control Hughes had over the incident. Shattered by how this manifests the stark reality that none of us really control our lives. I’ve heard of situations where friends have died in car crashes, random people have passed away in ‘tragic circumstances’, people have died taking risks, or doing something they weren’t supposed to do. But here, Hughes’ death is staggering because he was doing exactly what he was supposed to be doing, he was doing it well, and he had taken all the reasonable precautions. What more was the poor bastard supposed to do? Which is why the futility of it all, and the entire lack of agency in we ahave over lives, is profoundly saddening. Accepting that is hard.

It’s not like Hughes needed to drink less, or eat less cake and devilled pork. It’s not like he didn’t have his seat belt on. It’s not like he was crossing a freeway or swimming with a sting ray. Steve Irwin’s death was tragic, but not nearly as unfair as this.

And that is why I’m so sad. Because we’ll never understand the cosmic laws of fairness that apply. I’m sad also because a sport that brings so much joy can also bring one moment of complete disaster which wipes away everything it has built up. Sport, sometimes is a lot like life. More so that we’d imagine. Just ask Michael Schumacer who survived 7 world championships but was out done by ski slope.

When the World Cup comes around we’ll all be in a frenzy and supporting our various teams and being high and low based on whether we’ve won or lost. Philip Hughes’ tragic death will be almost forgotten in those moments. And while momentary lapses are okay, we should really be constantly appreciating the beauty and frailty of sport, and life. Flocking to each other in difficulty like Hughes’ opponents did with him, albeit to no avail.

This is not entertainment. This is not some soap opera or choreographed wrestling. This is life. Philip Hughes suddenly made sport become very real.