Fabian Muir
I met
Peter Roebuck
at boarding school when I was nine years old. It was his first summer
in Sydney, having come from England in the off season to teach at
Cranbrook School, where he was also a tutor in the junior boarding
house.
Even then it was clear that Peter was different. Although already
playing for Somerset, this thin, bespectacled Englishman seemed more
bookworm than sportsman.
He would wander the halls with his hands behind his back, admonishing
boys for saying they were "good" rather than "well". When he was meant
to be supervising the students, he could often be found on a nearby
bench, his well-developed nose buried in a tome. In the boarding house, a
hostile world in which a book-burning never seemed far away, this
already marked him as eccentric.
His liking for the unorthodox was further underlined by his instant
friendship with another tutor, Mr Griffiths, a nutty professor with
messy hair, who played the organ like Lon Chaney and crunched on bulbs
of garlic as others do on apples. To this young schoolboy, they were
beacons in an otherwise bleak environment.
One holiday weekend I was the only boy left in the house and Peter was
"master on duty", giving him the dubious distinction of supervising me
for three days. In retrospect I think he used those days to test me.
First we went to a dusty tennis court to play cricket. Subcontinental
conditions, no pads, hard ball. It was a scorching summer's day, the
kind that exists only in a childhood memory. Peter faced my pale
imitations of Dennis Lillee and graciously allowed me to dismiss him
once or twice, but I would never be one of his leatherflingers.
When it was my turn to bat, he showed less mercy. He bowled spin unlike
anything I had seen before, the ball fizzing through the air like a
hornet and skittling me repeatedly. We repeated the exercise in the days
that followed, but my enthusiasm outweighed my talent. I failed the
test.
So he tried another route. Over dinner he asked me how I felt about War and Peace,
a classic question to any nine-year-old. By chance I knew the story,
having taken a fancy to Natasha Rostova after seeing the epic Russian
film version with my father. Peter's eyes lit up with impish enthusiasm
and he began to discuss the novel. He extolled the writing and expressed
his own admiration for the character of Pierre. This makes sense to me
now, for Pierre was also a seeker, slightly out of place everywhere, yet
deeply sympathetic.
This was the way Peter operated. He would search out your strengths and weaknesses, then work on both.
Believing he had identified a strength of mine, he nurtured it in years
to come, first with reading, later with writing. He would visit the
dormitory and pass me "subversive" literature, samizdat-style, to help me on my way. Narziss and Goldmund was one. His standard greeting became, "Hello Fabes, what are you reading at the moment?" I had to have a good answer ready.
I did not understand it then, but in short he was becoming a mentor, a
word mentioned often in the tributes that have flowed since his death.
He was naturally suited to this role, because he came from that breed of
teacher who takes a genuine interest in individuals and thrills in
their development. He cared.
His ability to build a very personal rapport made him born to share
knowledge, be it in the classroom, on the field or in the commentary
box. This is the reason why many readers and listeners felt they knew
him, and this is the reason he went on to maintain contact with many
students once they had completed their schooling. Our own friendship
would last for over 30 years.
Mine was by no means an exceptional case. Peter built long-term
friendships with a great number of former pupils, charting their growth
and proud to think that he might have played a role. He often became
close to their families as well. In reverse, we took equal pleasure
observing Peter's own progress, first as a cricketer, coach and teacher,
later as a writer, commentator and philanthropist.
Having had the benefit of reading the articles since his passing, it
seems a number of professional colleagues found Peter somehow
inaccessible. Many of his students and those he coached would feel
differently. That is not to say they knew him fully, but it is possible
that his guard was lower with people he had known from an early age.
By nature he was shy, but to say he was aloof or reclusive is to
misunderstand the man. In fact the reverse was the case, for Peter's
love for and curiosity about humanity gave him an insatiable appetite
for new people and experience. Far from being withdrawn or, worse,
elitist, he was in his element chatting to strangers. An Antiguan fruit
seller, Mumbai chaiwallah or Sydney taxi driver - he would talk
to anyone. More importantly, he treated them all as equals, honoured
their opinions and feasted on their stories. He loved life's colour and
different cultures, and understood that the big picture is about
ordinary people, not celebrities. His pieces were more likely to contain
a quote from his local Italian than from a player.
It was this humanist approach that so often set Peter's writing apart.
It was this humanist approach that legitimised the decision to read the
newspaper from the back page. Cricket, a dramatic sport that ruthlessly
exposes a player's resolve and frailties, a sport that reveals more
about the human condition than any other, was tailor-made for Peter's
sensibilities.
Fascinated by the triumphs and follies of man, he was always trying to
get beneath the surface and discover the causes. To meet him personally
meant you had to be willing to answer a series of thoughtful, interested
questions, which were sometimes direct but never intrusive. And he
would absorb the answers. Often he would refer to remarks made during
conversations that had taken place years earlier.
For those more accustomed to reading his columns and hearing his
commentary, the skill of Roebuck the listener may come as a surprise.
For it is a skill, an important one, especially in a world where so many
people prefer to talk about themselves. Peter was a two-way street.
It seems he also had his demons. I never saw them. That he had made some
mistakes is established fact. Sometimes he would make veiled references
to the past, which showed that it had burdened, chastened and hurt him,
but otherwise his view was to the future. It is possible that the
charitable work he would go on to perform was in part born of a desire
to wipe the slate clean.
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It was an unusual experience to arrive at Roebuck's front door - always
wide open - and peer down the corridor. His clear voice would penetrate
the gloom, after which his physical form would slowly materialise in the
shadows like the Tardis. I quipped about this once and his response was
typically elliptic: "Only moths need bright light" |
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Upon reflection, perhaps something could have been read into his Bondi
home, which he kept in a state of almost complete darkness. It was an
unusual experience to arrive at his front door - always wide open - and
peer down the corridor while announcing one's arrival. His clear voice
would penetrate the gloom, after which his physical form would slowly
materialise in the shadows like the Tardis. I quipped about this once
and his response was typically elliptic: "Only moths need bright light."
Certainly the good he achieved far outweighed any indiscretions, but the
modesty of the man meant that the broader public was unaware of much of
it. Only now are people learning of the hundreds of underprivileged
children who received an education through his unstinting efforts,
frequently at his own expense.
This was a natural extension of his first instinct, which was always to
help. Often he would do so without even asking if help were needed. He
began by helping privileged children in Sydney, but moved on to the far
more meaningful task of youths from Zimbabwe and India.
I asked him not so long ago whether he missed having had a family. "What
do you mean?" he retorted. "I have the best family a man could want,
look here." He then, glowing with pride, fetched photos of a number of
his "sons" in South Africa.
For, of itself, cricket had become too small for him. Not meaningless,
just small. Around 2007 we were sitting in his backyard and he said
that, having become pre-eminent in his field, he had nothing left to
achieve in cricket and that "my priority now is helping these kids,
that's how I can really change something". If he enjoyed charting the
progress of his former pupils, then charting that of the former teacher
was much more rewarding.
Another word that has been recurring since his passing is "complex". It
is a dangerous pastime to analyse people who are no longer able to
present their own view, but it is no doubt true that he combined many
qualities that appeared to be at odds with one another. Sensitive yet
tough; a maverick yet a stickler for tradition; humble yet intensely
proud; a great success, but with no interest in wealth; a man of
coruscating intelligence, but given to faints of unexpected vagueness;
an introvert with the courage to bare his opinions before millions. He
was, one might say, the Morrissey of cricket writing.
In many ways he was born out of his time. Nineteenth-century England
might have suited him better, where he would have dined with Sir Richard
Burton or been an envoy to the Khan of Samarkand.
Perhaps the key element of the "Roebuck conundrum" was that of a private
and retiring individual becoming a public figure. Had he been able to
choose, he quite likely would have eschewed the limelight, but it
inevitably came with the territory. More usefully, it gave him access to
certain people and opportunities to pursue his humanitarian goals.
Never did the limelight's glare find him more spectacularly than when he
called for Ricky Ponting's sacking in 2008. We had dinner several weeks
after the article appeared and it was noticeable that a number people
stared as he entered the restaurant. "I've crossed the Rubicon," he
said. "People now know who I am. That was never my intention." I asked
what his intention had been. "To say what I thought at that moment." In
other words, to do what he always did, often as a lone voice, come hell
or high water.
Peter was at times criticised for supposed inconsistency in his
articles, writing one thing one week, then something rather different
down the line. He also softened on Ponting. What this really showed,
however, was his willingness to reconsider his initial opinion, reshape
it and even admit a mistake. The same exacting standards he imposed on
others he imposed twofold on himself. This was honesty not hypocrisy, a
strength not a weakness.
Why was he a mystery to many who knew him? Perhaps experience of how the
English media can handle public figures had made him build his walls a
little higher, even in Australia. But there was a gate in those walls,
which had only to be lightly pushed. Those who passed through it found
themselves in a quite extraordinary garden, which revealed something new
with each visit. On the 13th I wept as I was forced to accept that I
had seen that garden for the last time.
I could weep again now when I think of all the lines left unwritten.
Instinctively the eyes of readers will search for his column and the
ears of listeners will strain for his voice - the twitches of a phantom
limb. Or more accurately, the gap he leaves will hurt like a pulled
tooth.
An evening with Peter was always stimulating. The wine was usually cheap
but the debate was champagne.
His mind was incisive, his humour
oblique; his idea of a good joke was to ask Prime Minister John Howard
on air whether he did yoga.
More often than not, our discussions did not concern cricket, rather
literature, travel or politics. Sometimes we talked about relationships
and the beauty of Russian girls. I know of at least one woman whom Peter
loved and lost.
We also discussed death on numerous occasions. He was not preoccupied
with it, but he was intrigued by cricketers who fall into a hole and
contemplate suicide upon conclusion of their playing careers. Not for
him, however. He believed that the simple solution lay in finding a
worthwhile and satisfying alternative, something he had surely managed
for himself in several fields.
He did not rule out life after death. He considered this presumptuous,
for there was too much unexplained in a miraculous universe, where
everything seemed possible. At our last meeting this year, he had no
intention of discovering the answer anytime soon, declaring, "Death is
about confronting your own mortality, but I don't have this problem
because my starting point is that I'm immortal!"
Tragic events have proven otherwise, with draining suddenness. Truly
immortal, however, are his words, which cannot be wrenched away from us
so brutally and will remain as a permanent gift to all.
Fabian Muir is an Australian writer now based in Berlin
© ESPN EMEA Ltd.