Graham Thorpe was a Catholic. That I didn’t know. As if his poor family do not have enough grief on their plate, they now have to deal with the uncompromising stance of the Catholic Church towards suicide. Intentionally causing one’s death, or suicide, is equally wrong as murder, and, as all of us brought up in the Catholic tradition know, murder is a mortal sin. Those who die in a state of mortal sin, in other words without the saving grace of confession and repentance, are condemned to an “eternal death”. Hell, to you and me. Self-evidently, those who jump or pull the trigger are in no state of grace and are therefore condemned to eternal fire and damnation.
When my sister died of an overdose, my father, a staunch Catholic, was tortured by this notion. In the bad old days – he would have remembered this – suicides were not afforded the funeral rites of the faithful and were buried in unmarked graves. The Church had moved on since then, but still, the shameful stigma of his daughter not dying in a state of grace ate away at his soul. The coroner at the inquest into her death handed down a ‘open verdict’, which sort of let him off the hook; she could now legitimately be granted a Catholic funeral. But I was not so sure. I had my own doubts about the verdict and in any case, I could not reconcile myself to the concept of an ‘all-merciful God’ condemning my sister to eternal damnation. One hopes that the priest taking the service for Graham Thorpe’s funeral took a more enlightened approach.
Southwark Cathedral, the venue of Thorpe’s funeral, was packed with family, friends, colleagues, team-mates, former opponents and the great and the good of Surrey, England and the wider world of cricket. The cathedral lies near the south bank of the River Thames, not far from London Bridge. The area of Southwark was heavily bombed in the War and evidence of bomb damage and shrapnel holes can be seen in the walls of the cathedral to this day. It makes me think of the holes in the psyche of poor Graham Thorpe; apparently, he had been battling his demons for many years.
Since the dreadful news broke, I have been repeatedly asked whether I knew Thorpe. In fact, our paths never crossed but I knew plenty of people who did. One and all were shocked by what had happened. He had an enviable reputation throughout the world of cricket. He was greatly respected and admired by former opponents. He was hugely valued for both his defiant batsmanship and his warm personality by his team-mates. A legion of young cricketers – Joe Root among them, who was, by the way, one of the pall bearers - valued his help and advice as a coach and of course he was surrounded by a coterie of loving friends and devoted family. What could possibly have gone wrong?
His death was a shock to his wife but probably not altogether a surprise. She has gone on record as saying that her husband had suffered from acute depression for years. He had made an attempt on his life two years previously and had been sectioned and placed in intensive care. No explanation was given at the time for his hospitalisation but now his wife has decided it were best to tell the whole story. “He was so unwell in recent times,” she said, “and he really did believe that we would be better off without him, and we are devastated that he acted on that and took his own life…. Mental illness is a real disease and can affect anyone. Despite having a wife and two daughters whom he loved and who loved him, he did not get better.” How sad. How very, very sad.
In my new book, Cricket’s Black Dog (due out next year), I set my eyes to some shocking statistics. English cricketers are almost twice as likely to commit suicide as the average male in this country. Together with farmers, who have the means to end their lives readily to hand – a gun – and dentists, who have to peer into people’s mouths every day of their working lives, more cricketers commit suicide per capita than any other occupation in England. To date 151 former first-class cricketers (now that number has been increased to 152) have taken their lives. But why? Is it the game of cricket that is to blame or are cricketers by their very nature more inclined to depression and thoughts of suicide? Why should cricketers, who spend their days in healthy outdoor pursuit, be more susceptible than anybody else?
Cricket is a game dominated by failure. In no other sport can ignominy be suffered so publicly. A centre-forward can miss an open goal but still score the winner in the 90th minute. A rugby player can drop the ball on the try line but still score a penalty to win the match with the last kick of the game. A golfer can miss the fairway at the last hole but still chip in from the bunker to secure the Claret Jug. A tennis player can serve a double fault at match point but still serve out a winner a few points later. A batsman trudges back to the pavilion with the dreaded 0 already on the scoreboard. There are no second chances for him. Bradman’s Test average was a fraction under 100. Statistically, he should have scored a century every time he went to the wicket. But of course, he didn’t. It is calculated that in fact he failed two times out of three. So, what does that say about all the other cricketers not so blessed? Cricket is a merciless mistress who condemns many of her devotees to a bleakness of mood that is difficult to shrug off and dangerous to let fester.
Could Thorpe’s wife have done more? Could his family have done more? Could his many friends and team-mates have done more? Could the ECB and the PCA have done more?Could the medics have done more? Whenever someone takes his own life, these are the questions that assail everybody, and the answer is never clear. Nobody truly knows what is going on in another person’s mind. Sometimes that person doesn’t know what’s going on in his own mind. Having suffered from depression myself for many years, I liken it to being hit by a rogue wave which sends you into a plunging maelstrom of turbulent water, such that you do not know which way is up, towards air, and which way is down, towards drowning. Sometimes drowning feels like an attractive option.
So, what conclusion do I draw? I am not at all sure there is a conclusion. There is no magic bullet, no groundbreaking medication, no radical treatment, no definitive ‘cure’.Philosophers, scientists, psychiatrists, medical practitioners down the ages have been wrestling with the thorny problem and don’t seem any closer to a real understanding of the mind and why sometimes it strays off-piste. The least that can be said is that Thorpe’s death has raised (once again) public consciousness of the affliction and given us added impetus to keep an eye out for tell-tale signs and to offer what support we can. That is all we can do. But sometimes – tragically – that is not enough.
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