They took you away, on a stretcher. Unconscious. Just a moment before the ill-fated cherry sprang to life from the clasp of a Sean Abbott, who was in the dark about the next moment that would weigh on his life forever. As the cherry came into life, it snatched yours. Had Sean known, he would have stopped short, dropped the ball and wouldn’t have looked back again. Phil, you will be laid to rest, ironically, where you blossomed from the little boy who ran along the banana farms of Macksville to the cricketer, the person who you are fondly remembered as.
The clips of you collapsing on wobbly feet right after being struck by the deadly bouncer, makes bile erupt in my throat, deepening the faint pain in my gut. You were alive, Phil, alive and not out on 63, before darkness descended on cricket, in the form of a ball that got the better of you, of Abbott and of cricket.
Why didn’t you duck, Phil, why didn’t you see it coming? Why did that ball have to hit you where it hurt you, and hurt us. Hurt us in a bewildering way, hurt us like we will never be able to recover? Why Phil, why couldn’t you celebrate your 26th?
Do you see how Australia has come together to tell you what you mean? Did you see your soul brother Michael Clarke, break down, unabashedly, in front of the entire world? You passed away, Phil, but those haunting memories will never let Sean Abbott from it’s diabolic clutches. You will rest in peace, Phil, Sean won’t.
Do those countless bouquets move you, wherever you are? They call you a local legend, Phil. They are putting out their bats for you. One little kid playing a local match scored 37 and walked away. He says he finished your unfinished business, Phil. There are handwritten notes, flowers and candle vigils in your honour. I bet though, none of these can even express a fraction of the emotions threatening to rip us apart.
Cricket has come to a grinding halt. The day you left us, I woke up, hoping to read somewhere that you were on a path to recovery. Just a week back, I’d written a story on how unsafe sport is. Was it a premonition, I know not. How I wish I had read that you’ll be terrorising the Indian team, Phil. The lips never stopped praying, the hands, folded in front of the Almighty, to keep you hanging in there. But then, you left us, shattered, battered, bruised. You left us empty. Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi had also expressed his condolences and said that the Australian cricketer will be missed. “Heart-rending funeral in Australia. Phil Hughes, we will miss you. Your game & exuberance won you fans all over! RIP,” the Prime Minister tweeted.
Phil, you’re just not baggy green #408, or any other cricketer who just took and early detour to the gallows of death; you’re our ‘boof’, you’re the one with the boyish smile, the one, who never got intimidated or irritated. Phil, you are and you always will be 63 not out for us.