In 1994, the popular beat combo outfit Oasis released an album called Definitely Maybe. The snarling, rasping aggression of the music gripped a large number of 20 and 30-something men. Band leader Noel Gallagher had a penchant for writing catchy tunes, which he showed in songs like Rock ‘n Roll Star, Shakermaker, Supersonic and Cigarettes and Alcohol. Oh, and Live Forever. Gallagher’s lyrics were meaningless gobbledegook but somehow it didn’t matter. And who didn’t want to live forever?
As a youngster, I was convinced I would, not because of any religious belief, but because I just would. It never occurred to me that if I was going to live forever then how come my maternal grandfather died three years before I was born? Then as I got older, people did start to die. Our next door neighbour, both my grandmothers, famous people, people my mum knew, people I knew. Hang on. How am I going to live forever?
Well into my 20s, I had it figured it out. I wasn’t going to live forever, but I would still live to be old, avoiding along the way those ghastly illnesses and conditions that seemed to be happening to everyone else. Later on, my mum died, followed by her husband, my stepfather, and later still my dad. I was the last man standing in my family, at least the oldest.
Something else struck me in the intervening years: people younger than me were dying. My dreams of immortality faded and died. And it didn’t happen just now and then. It seemed to happen all the time. Today is happened again.
I spent the first half of my life in Brislington, or Briz as locals call it. Less than a mile from my house was Imperial cricket club where a flash young Australian was making his name in the local game. Not that I knew anything about it at the time. I learned much later that Shane Warne not only played for the club but more than once slept in the clubhouse. He also drank in the local pubs, including my local The Kings Arms. For all I know, he may have been in the pub at the same time I was. Imagine the stories I could have told had I met him?
By the time I learned about his background just down the road for me, Shane Warne was a cricketing superstar, taking over 700 wickets and helping his beloved Australia to defeat England. His bleached blonde hair, his earrings, his natural charisma and above all his sporting genius endeared him to millions. I admit that when I watched him bowl against England, I didn’t even mind when he skittled our batsmen, such was his great ability. He made spin bowling cool. Without him, cricket today would have been a procession of medium pace trundlers, a bit like county cricket, really. And now he has left us.
Only this morning, I read his touching tweet about the death of fellow Aussie cricket legend Rod Marsh, who died yesterday. It was such a shock when I got a message from a close friend telling me Warne had died. Woah. He’s only 52. He’s much younger than I am. But it was true.
My immediate thought was to re-evaluate my life, to live it in the best and most productive way possible. Today Shane Warne, tomorrow? I know that feeling will pass when the shock subsides but the one feeling that won’t disappear is this: life is not a trial run and this is the only one you get.
Shane Warne packed a lot into his 52 years, far more than I have into my many more. But 52 years. Is that all? It makes you think, doesn’t it? We’re all going to die one day even though we want to live forever. When I was young, the days always seemed to last longer. Now they pass like a heartbeat, as do weeks, months, years.
All I know is I have to get on with what time I have left, however long that is. Because you never know what’s round the corner, do you?
