The last few days have been surreal.
By definition, surreal describes something that’s a bizarre mix of elements, often jarring and seemingly nonsensical.
First there was the incident. Phillip Hughes, a much-loved batting run-machine, misses a pull shot and within seconds is lying face down on the ground.
Whether you are watching the video footage, or chillingly, seeing it live at the ground, the sentiment is the same.
“Get up little fella, get up.”
He never does.
It doesn’t make sense.
Batsmen have been hit before, but they always get up. Boxers get hit, their legs turn to jelly, they fall flat on their face, but they get up. Sometimes it is within seconds, maybe minutes, but while mentally and physically scarred, they get up, they live to tell the tale.
“Get up little fella, get up”.
He doesn’t move.
For the next two days our little mate is lying in St Vincent’s Hospital in Sydney.
He is in and out of surgery and being kept alive by brilliant doctors and a life support system.
Surreal, again.
Lying lifeless he still looks so strong. His heart is pumping and his chest rising and falling. Rising and falling.
“Get up little fella, get up.”
Surely, it’s just a matter of time before his wicked and cheeky smile melts our hearts once again. It gets you every time.
That smile. That grin. You can’t help but love him.
From the moment I met him, I knew he was a very special young man. He stayed with us for a few days in Perth. He wanted to do some training. Left-handed openers stick together.
In that short time, two things became apparent.
One, he always got up. You couldn’t keep him down. I was fascinated by his courage, his resolve, his toughness.
I tried everything to break him down. He ran on the beach, he hit balls on the bowling machine, we boxed, he lifted weights. It got to the point where enough was enough. Surely.
Instead, all I got was that grin, and “What’s next Lang, what’s next?” The kid was tough. So tough.
Impressed as I was by this rare young sportsman, it was the second thing that made him so special to me.
A woman’s instinct is strong; sometimes scarily. From the moment my wife Sue met Phillip Hughes, she also fell in love in him. From the day he stayed in our family home, Sue has said he is a special one. We often joked about which one of my daughters he could marry; any father knows there is no greater compliment to give a young man than saying you would be happy for them to marry one of your daughters.
“If we can’t marry him off, maybe we could just adopt him. You have always wanted a son”, Sue would laugh.
All jokes aside, you would be proud having a son like Phil Hughes for so many reasons.
These memories are tattooed into my soul.
He is lying in his hospital bed. I have my hand on his arm and I am begging him to wake up. “Come on little fella, wake up, it’s time to get your dancing shoes on, it’s time for another hundred. You’ve never been broken, you can do it again.”
Outside, the grief is devastating. His parents Greg and Virginia, his brother Jason and sister Megan, are completely heartbroken. Some of the toughest men I have met are crying in the corridor, again surreal.
They’re all saying the same thing. “Come on little fella, get up champ, get up.”
As an ex-player I am in awe of Phil Hughes’s batting ability. At 25 and 360 days he had scored 26 first-class 100s and nine one-day 100s. Statistically this is freakish. You can trust me on that.
There is no doubt he did it in his own way, and because he was a little unorthodox he had his critics, but no one can ever argue with his run-scoring ability. Because of that I would have him in my team any day of the week.
As a coach, I often speak about the “Phil Hughes gene”. When queried, I say I want players who can score runs and get the job done, just like Phil Hughes does. I want players who keep bouncing back when they are knocked down and who are so hungry they will do what it takes to succeed, just like Phil Hughes does. That’s why I want players with the Phil Hughes gene; the same gene that every champion I know has.
They are turning off the machine. This is an impossible situation for any family. I watch as Mum and Dad, brother and sister walk slowly into the intensive care ward for the last time. Surely not. This can’t be happening.
Moments later our little brother, our little mate, our son has passed away.
“C’mon little fella, get up champ, get up.”
For the first time in his life he can’t. But you know what, little fella? It’s OK. Keep sleeping. You have left an indelible mark. That is why the nation mourns for you, little fella. The kid from the country who loved his family, his mates, his cattle and his batting.
Rest In Peace little champ.
http://www.heraldsun.com.au/news/phi...1f0ad8ba4b90f2
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Originally Posted by Syn
