Lessons Learned From A Good Man

In Pymble yesterday, in an old sandstone church, we sang Jerusalem and listened to stories of great man whose purpose in life was to enact a set of morals, beliefs, standards that he learnt as a boy and then taught his own when it was their turn. He wasn't famous. His death attracted no headlines and his life could be considered ordinary but it was in the midst of the every day things that he spread a tireless humility which touched everyone he knew or met with sunshine. He was Dave Tilbury, a bloke I played cricket with more than twenty years ago.

In London yesterday, four grubby little men further tarnished a game they came to with privilege, for no other reason than their ability gave them opportunity. Raised in the poverty of Pakistan, three of them reached the pinnacle of achievement in playing cricket for their country and in doing so, were subjected to hero worship and movie star status. The fourth, the grubbiest of all, has proven that there is indeed no honour among thieves and has squealed piggishly as the truth was stuck into him and the heat of evidence applied in the court. He has blamed everyone but himself for engineering a deceit that at its least defrauds the cricket public but at its worst, smears the game with the excrement that is papered over with the yankee dollar.

My mate Dave had none of the ability or opportunity as Amir and Asif. Like them he took the new ball as his weapon of choice but apart from a hand full of 1st grade games in Armidale, he was a servant of the lower grades. He once took 9-52 in 2nds but his greater highlight was winning a second grade premiership when the deciding catch was skied and as he sat underneath, he had pause to remember many similar catches which he had helped to the turf. Even the skipper covered his eyes, secure in experiences of watching Dave under the high ball. Of course, he held it. Guys like Dave always do. They don't let their mates down.

Much can be said in defence of Amir and Aisf, both young players at the very start of their career in Test cricket and both outstanding cricketers. They had their heads turned by their captain, no less. Its hard for our western cultures to fully understand the society and culture of Pakistan. This is a society which can ignore the worst murderer in human history, outside of Adolf Hitler, living beside in the suburbs and not think the neighbourhood is going to hell. This is a place which has had ten political assassinations in the last twenty years. Their people live either in poverty or opulence and the gap between is huge. Everyone is corrupt. So what? What was the point of taking the game to the colonies if you didn't teach them that there is more to it than the playing of it? Being good at cricket isn't the sole reason for playing. All four of these men have happily put the filthy lucre in their pocket and it was only the process of getting caught which caused any remorse and then only from the youngsters. No punishment can be harsh enough for Salmon Butt and especially the grimy Mazhar Majeed.

Dave Tilbury was one of those blokes everybody liked. As a club mate said of him when the news of his death came through, "he was one of the good guys". You could have any length of conversation with him and walk away realising you hadn't found out a thing about him because he was always asking questions about you; always affirming you with that big toothy smile and sparkling eyes and that big, rough skinned hand clapped on your shoulder. Life cracked him a few blows, including a hearing loss so severe that he needed to see your face to converse but he just coped without complaint or misgivings. He was a lawyer by trade but for much of his life he ran a small farm on his weekends. Didn't matter whether you were a lost lamb bleating for mother or a little old lady worried about a will, Dave gave you every bit of his best work. Red hair and fair skin made his melanoma almost inevitable but then, so was the fight he put up to survive. Through all the degradation that comes with the physical collapse of a cancerous body, his focus was still on others, particularly his family and his friends, making them feel comfortable in his presence, redefining grinning and bearing and always with that trademark dry sense of humour.

Dave loved rugby and stayed alive, against doctor's orders, to see his last World Cup. Dave loved cricket and we played together just eight years ago in an over 40's tournament. He was already fighting cancer when he came back to Armidale a year ago for a reunion of a club that is no longer but means so much to all of us. We cherish its achievements and the mates we laughed with in that different past. We spoke a few months ago: him asking how I was and about my kids. I should have rung more often but somehow he'd probably say "oh that's alright Lango".

Given the chance, he'd probably defend those bastards in London, believing everyone deserves a chance. He told me once when I was railing against the world at yet another thing I couldn't change, that you can't change the world but you can change yourself: advice I should have at least considered much sooner.

Today, I don't care much for those four blokes in London, I just know we need more men like Dave Tildbury, not less.