The details were visceral, like the shock of the news. Phillip Hughes suffered a vertebral artery dissection. The impact of the ball on the back of his head had been immense, compressing the vessel and causing it to split. The resulting cerebral haemorrhage was described as catastrophic, a massive bleed in his brain. An operation removed part of his skull to alleviate the pressure. Hope began to fade. Hughes never awoke, having lapsed into unconsciousness soon after the fatal blow. He was pronounced dead 48 hours later, surrounded by family, friends and crying men who play games, much like him. Remember those details the next time sellers of apparel inform you that impossible is nothing, or that the man in the arena is a superhuman. Impossible is something. Impossible is what the sadly human Hughes encountered, in that moment when an alignment of circumstances too random to be repeated began the process that would end his life. Phillip Hughes poses in front of the Australian flag with his tragic death sending tremors across the world . Hughes lost his life three days short of his 26th birthday to leave the cricketing world in a state of shock . The Queen shakes hands with Hughes at Lord's during last year's Ashes series . Those events, the terrible misfortune at every stage, bear revisiting. Hughes’s death required a bouncing ball to be delivered by bowler Sean Abbott, not exceptionally fast, but slightly too slow. It required Hughes to marginally misjudge the pace of that ball, or perhaps for it to stick a fraction longer on the surface than usual, causing him to mistime his shot and play early. It required Hughes to have chosen to hook in answer to Abbott’s delivery, meaning the swing of his bat and his body turned his head around, so that the back, the part unprotected by his helmet, was exposed to impact. And it required the ball to strike him in a defenceless area, with sufficient force to cause a fatal rupture. It was as if bad luck decided to hold a party on the square at the SCG and invite all of its most unruly friends. Hughes lost his life after the back of his head was struck by Sean Abbott's bouncer . Abbott (centre) is consoled by former Australian opener Simon Katich outside Sydney's St Vincent's Hospital . David Warner (left) and Australia captain Michael Clarke arrive at the SCG after news of Hughes' death . Hughes was an opening batsman, those kings of one against 11. He is used to overcoming sport’s probabilities. Yet the odds he faced this week were insurmountable. And that brings the shock; because we are used to seeing our sportsmen as invulnerable. Yes, they lose, that is the nature of the beast; but not like this. They lose Tests, matches, games, races, sets, frames, fixtures, not lives. We revel in their indomitable nature, tell stories of their heroism and defiance, indulge their myths and legends. We pretend, too, that impossible is nothing: but only for them. While cricket mourns, perhaps the most lurid tales will abate; but not for long. Soon enough, we will return to inherited memories of men like Brian Close who, fable informs, liked nothing more than a cricket ball to the noggin. In 1966, England captain for the final Test against the West Indies, he fielded in the silliest of silly point positions in the days before protective helmets. Close was so near to the prolific batsman, Garry Sobers, that even his team-mates feared for his safety. ‘What if you’re hit on the head?’ they asked. ‘He’ll be caught at cover off the rebound,’ Close explained. Probably. Brian Close, who famously shunned a helmet at the crease, is hit on the shoulder by Andy Roberts' bouncer . A bruised Close shows off some battle scars after facing the fabled West Indies attack in 1976 . Like much of sport’s folklore, who knows what was really said, or done? A cricket ball is still a cricket ball, a skull is still a skull, even in sport’s good old days. It is unlikely that Close, more than any man, could have taken savage impact at point-blank range and remained unharmed. It is unlikely he was struck as often as we are led to believe, either. Yet it suits us all to invest, to pretend, to mythologise this world of hard men, playing the game at the limit of endurance, surviving blows that would fell lesser mortals. Hughes is the collateral damage of this delusion; so was Ayrton Senna; so, too, Johnny Owen. But we wouldn’t have it any other way, even now. ‘Should the ball be softer?’ earnest reporters asked the cricket fraternity. They will not find one supporter for more health and safety measures, even in the school game. We have never left the Roman arena in the way we consider many sports, and the ferocious battle between a truly fast bowler and an opening batsman such as Hughes is the essence of cricket. During the Ashes tour last winter, the feral atmosphere subsided, the disappointment palpable, whenever Mitchell Johnson wasn’t bowling. The roar as he ran in, Australia’s own little Colosseum. England could not handle Mitchell Johnson's pace and devastating short ball in the last Ashes series . With the partisan crowd behind him in Australia, Johnson wreaked havoc with England's batsmen . It is the loneliest position in team sport, opening batsman. The ball is at its newest, the bowler at his freshest, his team-mates crowd in, a gang of childish bullies, sharp-tongued and safe in numbers. The batsman is alone. He has a partner at the opposite end, but nobody is paying attention to him. They are all focused on one man. The kicker in rugby has a solitary role so, too, football’s penalty taker. Yet, on the pitch at least, in those moments there is calm. No physical challenge is offered, or expected. By contrast, the batsman is under threat of harm throughout his intense ordeal. He sees the bowler gathering steam on his run, he senses the desire for his downfall from the field, he is aware of the expectancy from all sides, his importance to the victory: and he knows what is coming. ‘Get ready for a broken arm,’ Michael Clarke told James Anderson, as he prepared to face Johnson last winter. Clarke, Australia’s captain, wept for the loss of his friend Hughes. He would have settled for a bulletin about a boring old fractured radius, no doubt, but it was too late for bargains. A distraught Clarke pauses before delivering a statement on behalf of the Hughes family . Clarke indulges in some finger-wagging with James Anderson (right) during the last Ashes series . Were fielders needling Hughes in that manner on the day he faced his final ball? Probably. They didn’t mean harm and wouldn’t have thought anything of it. Sledging will not end with this tragedy. Time will pass and batsmen will start getting told they are going to leave in an ambulance again. It is part of the game; just another obstacle for the superhumans to overcome; another challenge to be faced down. And Clarke is a batsman. Whatever he said to Anderson will have been said to him, too, in various forms. It goes around. There is no openers’ club. I have sat with former England batsmen as they have laughed like drains at footage of one of their number being beaten up by the fastest bowlers on earth. They love it. We all do. Abbott was not intending to hurt Hughes when he unleashed a bouncer that day and if it had struck him with less morbid consequences, men now wiping away tears of sadness might be crying with laughter at the slow-motion replays or cracking wise on social networks. All’s well that ends well. The perils of facing Lillee, Thomson or the Fire In Babylon-era West Indies bowlers are an after-dinner staple for many speakers on the cricket circuit. The death of Hughes rather puts a crimp in that casual fun. It would be a brave man to expect a laugh tonight, retelling the story of Bumble getting hit in the Y-fronts by Jeff Thomson. Suddenly, it is all too real: Hughes makes us realise the shallowness of our presumptions that everything is possible if we simply want it enough. Senna died. So, too, Marc-Vivien Foe. Jeff Thomson (left) and Dennis Lillee regularly left a devastating trail of destruction in their wake . Johnny Owen (left) lost his life seven weeks after his fight with Lupe Pintor in 1980 . Marc-Viven Foe (left) died during 2003's Confederations Cup, while Ayrton Senna lost his life at Monza in 1994 . VIDEO World mourns Hughes after tragic death . There have been four previous deaths in first-class cricket, going back to 1870. The fact we can name individuals suggests there is no widespread problem. Cricket would be greatly safer than do-it-yourself, for instance. Yet deaths in play, as rare as they may be, hit harder than a tumble from the shed roof. Athletes are the fittest of the fit, the best of the best. We use their commitment and dedication to set our standards, to provide our role models. We want our sons and daughters to stand up to bouncers, to ride challenges, to run marathons. We want them to be little rippers like Hughes. Most weeks, he would beat those odds of one against 11. To open the innings for his country, Hughes was plainly very adept at facing up to this unique challenge. He had worked all his life to be there. He thrived on it. His mother and his sister were watching as he prepared to face that last delivery. He didn’t know it was coming, neither did they and neither did we. Still, once the tears subside, the old con will continue. Just do it. Refuse to lose. Impossible is nothing. A hit to the head, it makes no difference. The superhumans can take it. They love it. Did you hear the one about Brian Close? Oh, the stories. One day, we’ll look back again and laugh. Maybe not today.
Hughes's death required a bouncing ball to be delivered by bowler Sean Abbott, not exceptionally fast, but slightly too slow .
It required Hughes to marginally misjudge the pace of that ball, or perhaps for it to stick a fraction longer on the surface than usual, causing him to mistime his shot and play early .
It suits us all to invest, to pretend, to mythologise this world of hard men, playing the game at the limit of endurance, surviving blows that would fell lesser mortals .
Hughes is the collateral damage of this delusion; so was Ayrton Senna; so, too, Johnny Owen. But we wouldn't have it any other way, even now .
The details were visceral, like the shock of the news. Phillip Hughes suffered a vertebral artery dissection. The impact of the ball on the back of his head had been immense, compressing the vessel and causing it to split. The resulting cerebral haemorrhage was described as catastrophic, a massive bleed in his brain. An operation removed part of his skull to alleviate the pressure. Hope began to fade. Hughes never awoke, having lapsed into unconsciousness soon after the fatal blow. He was pronounced dead 48 hours later, surrounded by family, friends and crying men who play games, much like him. Remember those details the next time sellers of apparel inform you that impossible is nothing, or that the man in the arena is a superhuman. Impossible is something. Impossible is what the sadly human Hughes encountered, in that moment when an alignment of circumstances too random to be repeated began the process that would end his life. Phillip Hughes poses in front of the Australian flag with his tragic death sending tremors across the world . Hughes lost his life three days short of his 26th birthday to leave the cricketing world in a state of shock . The Queen shakes hands with Hughes at Lord's during last year's Ashes series . Those events, the terrible misfortune at every stage, bear revisiting. Hughes’s death required a bouncing ball to be delivered by bowler Sean Abbott, not exceptionally fast, but slightly too slow. It required Hughes to marginally misjudge the pace of that ball, or perhaps for it to stick a fraction longer on the surface than usual, causing him to mistime his shot and play early. It required Hughes to have chosen to hook in answer to Abbott’s delivery, meaning the swing of his bat and his body turned his head around, so that the back, the part unprotected by his helmet, was exposed to impact. And it required the ball to strike him in a defenceless area, with sufficient force to cause a fatal rupture. It was as if bad luck decided to hold a party on the square at the SCG and invite all of its most unruly friends. Hughes lost his life after the back of his head was struck by Sean Abbott's bouncer . Abbott (centre) is consoled by former Australian opener Simon Katich outside Sydney's St Vincent's Hospital . David Warner (left) and Australia captain Michael Clarke arrive at the SCG after news of Hughes' death . Hughes was an opening batsman, those kings of one against 11. He is used to overcoming sport’s probabilities. Yet the odds he faced this week were insurmountable. And that brings the shock; because we are used to seeing our sportsmen as invulnerable. Yes, they lose, that is the nature of the beast; but not like this. They lose Tests, matches, games, races, sets, frames, fixtures, not lives. We revel in their indomitable nature, tell stories of their heroism and defiance, indulge their myths and legends. We pretend, too, that impossible is nothing: but only for them. While cricket mourns, perhaps the most lurid tales will abate; but not for long. Soon enough, we will return to inherited memories of men like Brian Close who, fable informs, liked nothing more than a cricket ball to the noggin. In 1966, England captain for the final Test against the West Indies, he fielded in the silliest of silly point positions in the days before protective helmets. Close was so near to the prolific batsman, Garry Sobers, that even his team-mates feared for his safety. ‘What if you’re hit on the head?’ they asked. ‘He’ll be caught at cover off the rebound,’ Close explained. Probably. Brian Close, who famously shunned a helmet at the crease, is hit on the shoulder by Andy Roberts' bouncer . A bruised Close shows off some battle scars after facing the fabled West Indies attack in 1976 . Like much of sport’s folklore, who knows what was really said, or done? A cricket ball is still a cricket ball, a skull is still a skull, even in sport’s good old days. It is unlikely that Close, more than any man, could have taken savage impact at point-blank range and remained unharmed. It is unlikely he was struck as often as we are led to believe, either. Yet it suits us all to invest, to pretend, to mythologise this world of hard men, playing the game at the limit of endurance, surviving blows that would fell lesser mortals. Hughes is the collateral damage of this delusion; so was Ayrton Senna; so, too, Johnny Owen. But we wouldn’t have it any other way, even now. ‘Should the ball be softer?’ earnest reporters asked the cricket fraternity. They will not find one supporter for more health and safety measures, even in the school game. We have never left the Roman arena in the way we consider many sports, and the ferocious battle between a truly fast bowler and an opening batsman such as Hughes is the essence of cricket. During the Ashes tour last winter, the feral atmosphere subsided, the disappointment palpable, whenever Mitchell Johnson wasn’t bowling. The roar as he ran in, Australia’s own little Colosseum. England could not handle Mitchell Johnson's pace and devastating short ball in the last Ashes series . With the partisan crowd behind him in Australia, Johnson wreaked havoc with England's batsmen . It is the loneliest position in team sport, opening batsman. The ball is at its newest, the bowler at his freshest, his team-mates crowd in, a gang of childish bullies, sharp-tongued and safe in numbers. The batsman is alone. He has a partner at the opposite end, but nobody is paying attention to him. They are all focused on one man. The kicker in rugby has a solitary role so, too, football’s penalty taker. Yet, on the pitch at least, in those moments there is calm. No physical challenge is offered, or expected. By contrast, the batsman is under threat of harm throughout his intense ordeal. He sees the bowler gathering steam on his run, he senses the desire for his downfall from the field, he is aware of the expectancy from all sides, his importance to the victory: and he knows what is coming. ‘Get ready for a broken arm,’ Michael Clarke told James Anderson, as he prepared to face Johnson last winter. Clarke, Australia’s captain, wept for the loss of his friend Hughes. He would have settled for a bulletin about a boring old fractured radius, no doubt, but it was too late for bargains. A distraught Clarke pauses before delivering a statement on behalf of the Hughes family . Clarke indulges in some finger-wagging with James Anderson (right) during the last Ashes series . Were fielders needling Hughes in that manner on the day he faced his final ball? Probably. They didn’t mean harm and wouldn’t have thought anything of it. Sledging will not end with this tragedy. Time will pass and batsmen will start getting told they are going to leave in an ambulance again. It is part of the game; just another obstacle for the superhumans to overcome; another challenge to be faced down. And Clarke is a batsman. Whatever he said to Anderson will have been said to him, too, in various forms. It goes around. There is no openers’ club. I have sat with former England batsmen as they have laughed like drains at footage of one of their number being beaten up by the fastest bowlers on earth. They love it. We all do. Abbott was not intending to hurt Hughes when he unleashed a bouncer that day and if it had struck him with less morbid consequences, men now wiping away tears of sadness might be crying with laughter at the slow-motion replays or cracking wise on social networks. All’s well that ends well. The perils of facing Lillee, Thomson or the Fire In Babylon-era West Indies bowlers are an after-dinner staple for many speakers on the cricket circuit. The death of Hughes rather puts a crimp in that casual fun. It would be a brave man to expect a laugh tonight, retelling the story of Bumble getting hit in the Y-fronts by Jeff Thomson. Suddenly, it is all too real: Hughes makes us realise the shallowness of our presumptions that everything is possible if we simply want it enough. Senna died. So, too, Marc-Vivien Foe. Jeff Thomson (left) and Dennis Lillee regularly left a devastating trail of destruction in their wake . Johnny Owen (left) lost his life seven weeks after his fight with Lupe Pintor in 1980 . Marc-Viven Foe (left) died during 2003's Confederations Cup, while Ayrton Senna lost his life at Monza in 1994 . VIDEO World mourns Hughes after tragic death . There have been four previous deaths in first-class cricket, going back to 1870. The fact we can name individuals suggests there is no widespread problem. Cricket would be greatly safer than do-it-yourself, for instance. Yet deaths in play, as rare as they may be, hit harder than a tumble from the shed roof. Athletes are the fittest of the fit, the best of the best. We use their commitment and dedication to set our standards, to provide our role models. We want our sons and daughters to stand up to bouncers, to ride challenges, to run marathons. We want them to be little rippers like Hughes. Most weeks, he would beat those odds of one against 11. To open the innings for his country, Hughes was plainly very adept at facing up to this unique challenge. He had worked all his life to be there. He thrived on it. His mother and his sister were watching as he prepared to face that last delivery. He didn’t know it was coming, neither did they and neither did we. Still, once the tears subside, the old con will continue. Just do it. Refuse to lose. Impossible is nothing. A hit to the head, it makes no difference. The superhumans can take it. They love it. Did you hear the one about Brian Close? Oh, the stories. One day, we’ll look back again and laugh. Maybe not today.
bear revisiting. Hughes’s death required a bouncing ball to be delivered by bowler Sean Abbott, not exceptionally fast, but slightly too slow. It required Hughes to marginally misjudge the pace of that ball, or perhaps for it to stick a fraction longer on the surface than usual, causing him to mistime his shot and play early. suits us all to invest, to pretend, to mythologise this world of hard men, playing the game at the limit of endurance, surviving blows that would fell lesser mortals. Hughes is the collateral damage of this delusion; so was Ayrton Senna; so, too, Johnny Owen. But we wouldn’t have it any other way, even now. ‘Should the ball be